V.

Just before I came home to America in the Spring of 1919, I went to
Essex for a week-end in one of those splendid old estates which are the
pride of England.

It was not my first visit, but I was awed anew by the immensity of the
place, its culture and wealth which seemed to have existed always, its
aged power and pride. Whole lives had been woven into its window
curtains and priceless rugs; centuries of art lived in the great
tapestries; successive generations of great artists had painted the
ancestors of the present owner.

All three sons of that house went into the war. One never returned from
Egypt, another is buried in Flanders. Only the youngest returned.

At first glance the smooth life seemed unchanged in the proud old house.
But before sundown of my first day there, I knew that life had put its
acid test to the shield and proved it pure gold.

War taxes had fallen heavily on the estate and it was to be leased to an
American. Until then, the castle was a home to less fortunate buddies
of the owner's sons.

But these were not the tests I mean, neither these nor the courage and
the poise of that family in the face of their terrible loss, nor their
effort to make every one happy and comfortable.