“Oh yes,” murmured Mrs. Prescott, “we must still have the army, of course.”

“The fighting’s not in the army,” said Katie, to herself rather than to her friend.

The older woman sighed.  “I’m afraid I don’t understand you, Katie.”  After a pause she added, sadly:  “Something seems happening in the world that is driving older people and younger people apart.”

Katie turned to her affectionately.  “Oh, no.”

But more affectionately than convincingly.  Mrs. Prescott looked at her wistfully:  so strong, so buoyant, so fearless and so fine; she felt an impulse to keep her, though for what—­from what—­she would not have been able to say.

“Katie dear,” she said gently, “I get a glimpse of what you mean in there still being things to fight for.  You mean new ideas; new things.  I know you’re stirred by something.  I feel your enthusiasm; it shines from your face.  Enthusiasm is a splendid thing in the young, Katie.  In any of us.  New things there always are to fight for, of course.  But, dear Katie—­the old things?  Those beautiful old things which the generations have left us?  Things fought for, tested, mellowed by our fathers and mothers, and their fathers and mothers?  Aren’t they a little too precious, too hardly won, too freighted with memories to be lightly cast aside?”

Katie looked at her friend’s face, itself so incontestably the gift of the generations.  It made vivid her own mother’s face, and that her own struggle.  “I don’t think,” she said tremulously, “that you are justified in saying they are ‘lightly’ cast aside.”

They were silent, looking off at the land which was breaking through the mists, responding in their different ways to the different things it was saying to them.

“It seems to me,” Mrs. Prescott began uncertainly, “that it is not for women—­particularly women to whom they have come as directly as to you and me—­to cast them off at all.  We seem to be in strange days.  Days of change.  To me, Katie, it seems that the work for the women—­our women—­is in preserving those things, dear things left to us, holding them safe and unharmed through the destroying days of change.”

She had grown more sure of herself in speaking.

The last came staunchly.

“It seems,” she added, “that it would be enough for us to do.  And the thing for which we are best fitted.”

Katie was silent; she could not bear to say to her friend—­her mother’s friend—­that it did not seem to her enough to do, or the thing for which she was best fitted.

She was the less drawn to the idea because of a face she could see down in the steerage:  face of an immigrant girl who was also turning eager face, not to the land for which her forefathers had fought, but to that which would be the land of her descendants.

She had seen her there before, face set toward the land into which she was venturing.  She had become interested in her.  She seemed so eager.  And thinking back to the things seen in her search for Ann, other things she had been reading of late, a fear for that girl—­pity for her—­more than that, sense of responsibility about her grew big in Katie.