Would
Edith ever be like that, a mere custodian of the past? If she did, he
thought, she would be false to the very traditions she tried to preserve.
For her forefathers had never been mere guardians of things gone by. Always
they had been pioneers. That house had not been old to them, but a
thrilling new adventure. Their old homes they had left behind, far down in
the valleys to the east. And even those valley homes had been new to the
rugged men come over the sea. Would Edith ever understand? Would she see
that for herself the new must emerge from her children, from the ideas,
desires and plans already teeming in their minds? Would she show keen
interest, sympathy? Would she be able to keep her hold?
In the seat behind her mother, Betsy was sitting with Bruce in her lap,
looking over a picture book. Quietly Roger watched the girl.
"What are you going to be?" he asked. "A woman's college president, a
surgeon or a senator? And what will your mother think of you then?"
They changed cars, and on a train made up of antiquated coaches they wound
through a side valley, down which rushing and tumbling came the river that
bore Roger's name. He went into the smoking car, and presently George
joined him there. George did not yet smoke, (with his elders), but he had
bought a package of gum and he was chewing absorbedly. Plainly the lad was
excited over the great existence which he saw opening close ahead.
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