But it was Fulton who had captured her imagination, with his little ship, and Pere Marquette with his cross, the peace-loving Quaker who had conquered; adventurer, pioneer, priest and prophet—builders all of the structure of the new world.
She wondered what future generations would add to this glorious company. Would the Anglo-Saxon give way to the Semite? Would the Huguenot yield to the Slav? And would these newcomers hold high the banner of national idealism? What would they give? And what would they take away?
There were groups of sightseers gathered about the great room—a guide placing them here and there on the marble blocks. The trick was to put someone behind a mottled pillar far away, and let him speak. Owing to some strange acoustic quality the sound would be telephoned to the person who stood on the whispering stone.
Years ago Jane had listened while a voice had come echoing across the hollow spaces of the great Hall, “My country—right or wrong—my country——”
Another ghost! The ghost of a boy, patriotic, passionately devoted to the great old gods. “Of course they were only men, Jane. Human. Faulty. But they blazed a path of freedom for those who followed....”
When Frederick came, he found her standing before the prim statue of Frances Willard.
“Tired, sweetheart?”
“No.”
“I stayed longer than I expected.”
“It didn’t seem long. I have had plenty of company.”