A common purpose shared by a whole nation, if that purpose is one of sacrifice, idealism, and helpfulness, is a wonderful thing. Think what a common purpose shared by many nations--a purpose with an ideal and helpfulness and a sacrifice of self--would be. This is what the war should have left--and even though, I admit, it is not obvious, I cannot help believing that that common purpose remains--remains anyhow in the hearts of those who suffered and in the hearts of those who care. I cannot speak for the women of Europe, but I think I can speak for the women of England, and I say that they, through suffering, have determined that so far as within them lies, there is no sacrifice too great to make for the cause of peace. I have seen the women of England when they were determined. I have seen them tried and not found wanting. I can tell you it was a glorious sight. You may read diaries of the war which tell of dinner parties and plenty in London; but that no more represents the women of England than a night dancing-club in New York or a red-light district in some city here represents the women of America. I will tell you what the spirit of English women was and is: The Bishop of Exeter, Lord Robert Cecil’s brother, had two splendid boys killed in the first three years of the war. The last year of the war 2,000 American Submarine Chaser sailors were stationed in Plymouth, which is in the Bishop’s diocese. His wife, Lady Florence, did everything she could to make these American boys less lonely. She had as many as she could for Christmas, and hardly ever was her house without some of them. About January, 1918, just before one of the fiercest battles, she said to her sister: “I don’t believe I could go on if Jack (her last son) was taken.” The next morning a wire came saying Jack was killed. This was on a Monday. On Thursday, Lady Florence had planned an afternoon party for your sons--those gallant submarine chasers. When she arrived at Plymouth, and I saw her white, stricken face, I begged her not to have the boys--they would just remind her of Jack as he had been. She looked at me with eyes I can never forget and said: “But, Nancy, they too are far away from home, and we must do all we can.” The party went off and the boys, never guessing her sorrow, were charmed as usual with the Bishop and his wife’s cheerful kindness. That night I walked around to the American Y. M. C. A., and in talking to some of the boys told them of Lady Florence’s sorrow. One boy, with tears in his eyes, broke out: “Oh, why did you let her do it?” Then he said: “If ever any one speaks ill to me of England, I don’t feel that I could keep from killing them.” That, friends, was the spirit of the women of England. Suffering only made them kinder and braver, and that’s why I love and admire England.