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 tem continued. Its decay would only mean its transformation. Landripp himself—the spirit that came and went—could not even have been hurt. The machinery through which it worked was shattered. Anthony could not even feel sorry for him. He was angry with him that he had not been more careful of the machinery.

Landripp had been the first person with whom he had ever discussed religion. As a young man he had once or twice ventured the theme. But the result had only reminded him of his childish experiments in the same direction. At once, most people shrivelled up as if he had suggested an indelicate topic, not to be countenanced in polite society. Especially were his inquiries discouraged by the clergy of all denominations. At the first mention of the subject they had always shown signs of distress—had always given to him the impression that they were seeking to guard a trade secret. Landripp had opened his mind to the conception of a religion he could understand and accept. God all-powerful and glorious; the great omnipotent Being who had made and ordered all things! What could man do for such? As well might the clay ask how it could show its gratitude to the potter. To praise God, to adore Him, to fall down before Him, to worship Him, what use could that


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 be to Him? That the creatures He had made should be everlastingly grovelling before Him, proclaiming their own nothingness and His magnificence: it was to imagine God on a par with an Oriental despot. To obey Him? He had no need of our obedience. All things had been ordered. Our obedience or disobedience could make no difference to Him. It had been foreseen—fore-ordained from the beginning. Even forgetting this—persuading ourselves that some measure of freewill had been conferred upon us, it was only for our own benefit. Obey and be rewarded, disobey and be punished. We were but creatures of His breath, our souls the puppets of His will. What was left to man but to endure? Even his endurance bestowed upon him for that purpose. It was death not life that God—if such were God—had breathed into man's nostrils.

But God the champion, the saviour of man. God the tireless lover of man, seeking to woo him into ever nobler ways. God the great dreamer, who out of death and chaos in the beginning had seen love; who beyond life's hate and strife still saw the far-off hope, and called to men to follow Him. God the dear comrade, the everlasting friend, God the helper, the King. If one could find Him?

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 Landripp had left his daughter a few thousands; and she had decided to open a school again at Bruton Square, in the rooms that her father had used for his offices. Inheriting his conscientiousness she had entered a training college to qualify herself as a teacher. Towards the end, quite a friendship had existed between Mrs. Strong'nth'arm and the Landripps. With leisure and freedom from everlasting worry her native peasant wit had blossomed forth and grown; and Landripp had found her a wise talker. She had become too feeble for the long walk up to The Abbey, but was frightened of the carriage with its prancing horses. So often Eleanor would send little John down to spend the afternoon with her. Old Mrs. Newt was dead; and, save for a little maid, she was alone in the house. She made no claim with regard to the two younger children. It was only about John she was jealous.

One day she took the child to see the house in Platt's Lane where his father had been born. Old Witlock had finished his tinkering. His half-witted son Matthew lived there by himself. No one else ever entered it. Matthew cooked his own meals and kept it scrupulously clean. Most of the twenty-four hours he spent in the workshop. His skill and honesty brought him more jobs than he


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 needed, but he preferred to remain single-handed. The workshop door was never closed. All day, summer and winter, so long as Matthew was there working it remained wide open. At night Matthew slept there in a corner sheltered from the wind, and then it would be kept half-closed but so that any one who wished could enter. He would never answer questions as to this odd whim of his, and his neighbours had ceased thinking about it. They took a great fancy to one another, Matthew and the child. Old Mrs. Strong'nth'arm would sometimes leave him there, and his father would call for him on the way home. He had taken for his own the stool on which wandering Peter had many years ago carved the King of the Gnomes. And there he would sit by the hour swinging his little legs, discussing things in general with Matthew while he worked. At the child's request Anthony had bought the house and workshop so that Matthew might never fear being turned out.

There grew up in the child a strange liking for this dismal quarter, or rather three-quarters of the town of Millsborough that lay around Platt's Lane. Often, when his father called for him of an afternoon at Bruton Square he would plead for a walk in their direction before going home. He liked the moorland, too, with its bird life and its little creep-


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 ing things in brake and cover that crouched so still while one passed by. There he would shout and scamper; and when he was tired his father would carry him on his shoulder. But in the long sad streets he was less talkative.

One day, walking through them, Anthony told him how, long ago, before the mean streets came, there had been green fields and flowers with a little river winding its way among the rocks and through deep woods.

"What made the streets come?" the child asked.

Riches had been discovered under the earth, so Anthony explained to him. Before this great discovery the people of the valley had lived in little cottages—just peasants, tilling their small farms, tending their flocks. A few hundred pounds would have bought them all up. Now it was calculated that the winding Wyndbeck flowed through the richest valley in all England.

"What are riches?" asked the child. "What do they do?"

Riches, his father explained to him, were what made people well off and happy.

"I see," said John. But he evidently did not, as his next question proved conclusively.

"Then are all the people happy who live here now?" he asked. They had passed about a score


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 of them during the short time they had walked in silence. "Why don't they look it?"

It had to be further explained to John that the riches of the valley did not belong to the people who lived and died in the valley, who dug the coal and iron or otherwise handled it. To be quite frank, these sad-eyed men and women who now dwelt beside the foul black Wyndbeck were perhaps worse off than their forbears who had dwelt here when the Wyndbeck flowed through sunlit fields and shady woods, undreaming of the hidden wealth that lay beneath their careless feet. But to a few who lived in fine houses, more or less far away, in distant cities, in pleasant country places. It was these few who had been made well off and happy by the riches of the valley. The workers of the valley did not even know the names of these scattered masters of theirs.

He had not meant to put it this way. But little John had continually chipped in with those direct questions that a child will persist in asking. And, after all, it was the truth.

Besides, as he went on to explain still further to little John, they were not all unhappy, these dirty, grimy, dull-eyed men and women in their ugly clothes living in ugly houses in long ugly streets under a sky that rained soot. Some of them


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 earned high wages—had, considering their needs, money to burn, as the saying was.

"I see," said John again. It was an irritating habit of his, to preface awkward questions with, I see. "Then does having money make everybody happy?"

It was on the tip of Anthony's tongue. He was just about to snap it out. Little John mustn't worry his little head about things little Jacks can't be expected to understand. Little boys must wait till they are grown-up, when the answer to all these seemingly difficult questions will be plain to them. But as he opened his lips to speak there sprang from the muddy pavement in front of him a little impish lad dressed in an old pair of his father's trousers, cut down to fit him, so that the baggy part instead of being about the knee was round his ankles—a little puzzled lad who in his day had likewise plagued poor grown-up folk with questions it might have been the better for them had they tried to answer.

"No, John," he answered. "It doesn't make them happy. I wonder myself sometimes what's the good of it. How can they be happy even if they do earn big money, a few of them. The hideousness, the vileness that is all around them. What else can it breed but a sordid joyless race.


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 They spend their money on things stupid and gross. What else can you expect of them. You bring a child up in the gutter and he learns to play with mud, and likes it."

They were walking where the streets crept up the hillside. Over a waste space where dust and ashes lay they could see far east and west. The man halted and flung out his arms.

"The Valley of the Wyndbeck. So they call it on the map. It ought to be the gutter of the Wyndbeck. One long, foul, reeking gutter where men and women walk in darkness and the children play with dirt."

He had forgotten John. The child slipped a hand into his.

"Won't the fields ever come back?" he asked.

Anthony shook his head. "They'll never come back," he said. "Nothing to do for it, John, but to make the best of things as they are. It will always be a gutter with mud underneath and smoke overhead, and poison in its air. We must make it as comfortable a gutter as the laws of supply and demand will permit. At least we can give them rainproof roofs and sound floors and scientific drainage, and baths where they can wash the everlasting dirt out of their pores before it becomes a part of their skin."


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 Guidelines

(a) Treat a corporate name as a binary compound when possible. Write general terms such as 學會, 敎會, etc., separately as binary elements. but:

(b) Insofar as possible, write a historical event as binary elements without doing harm to the original meaning.

(c) Insofar as possible, write a historical publication title as binary elements without doing harm to the original meaning.

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 From where they were they could see the new model dwellings towering high above the maze of roofs around them.

"We'll build them a theatre, John. They shall have poetry and music. We'll plan them recreation grounds where the children can run and play. We'll have a picture gallery and a big bright hall where they can dance."

He broke off suddenly. "Oh, Lord, as if it hadn't all been tried," he groaned. "Two thousand years ago, they thought it might save Rome. Bread and circuses, that is not going to save the world."

They had reached, by chance, Platt's Lane. The door of the workshop stood open as ever. They could hear the sound of Matthew's hammer and see the red glow of the furnace fire. John slipped away from his father's side, and going to the open door called to Matthew.

Matthew turned. There was a strange look in his eyes. The child laughed, and Matthew coming nearer saw who it was.

It was late, so after exchanging just a greeting with Matthew they walked on. Suddenly John caught his father by the sleeve.

"Do you think he is still alive," he said, "Christ Jesus?"


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 Anthony was in a hurry. He had ordered the carriage to wait for them in Bruton Square.

"What makes you ask?" he said.

"Matthew thinks he is," explained the child, "and that He still goes about. That is why he always leaves the door open, so that if Christ passes by He may see him and call to him."

Anthony was still worried about the time. He had to see a man on business before going home. He promised little John they would discuss the question some other time. But, as it happened, the opportunity never came.


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HERE came a day when Betty returned to take up her residence at The Priory. Since her father's death she had been travelling. At first she and Anthony had corresponded regularly. They had discussed religion, politics, the science of things in general; he telling her of changes and happenings at home, and she telling him of her discoveries abroad. She wanted to see everything there was to be seen for herself, and then seek to make use of her knowledge; she would, of course, write a book. But after his eldest son's death, which had happened when the child was about eight years old, Anthony for a time had not cared to write. Added to which there were long periods during which Betty had disappeared into ways untrodden of the postman. Letters had passed between them at ever-lengthening intervals, dealing so far as Anthony was concerned chiefly with business matters. It seemed idle writing about himself: his monotonous prosperity and unclouded domestic happiness. There were times when he would have been glad of a friend to whom he could have trusted secrets, but


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 the thread had been broken. Conscious of strange differences in himself, he could not be sure that Betty likewise had not altered. Her letters remained friendly, often affectionate, but he no longer felt he knew her. Indeed there came to him the doubt that he ever had.

It was on a winter's afternoon that Anthony, leaving his office, walked across to The Priory to see her. She had been back about a week, but Anthony had been away up north on business. She had received him in the little room above the hall that had always been her particular sanctum. Mr. Mowbray, when he had let the house furnished to his cousin, had stipulated that this one room should remain locked. Nothing in it had been altered. A wood fire was burning in the grate. Betty was standing in the centre of the room. She came forward to meet him with both hands:

"It's good to see you again," she said. "But what have you done to your hair, lad?" She touched it lightly with her fingers. She pushed him into the easy chair beside the blazing fire and remained herself standing.

He laughed. "Oh, we grow grey early in Millsborough," he said.

He was looking up at her puzzled. "I've got it," he said suddenly.


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 "Got what?" she laughed.

"The difference in you," he answered. "You were the elder of us when I saw you last, and now you are the younger. I don't mean merely in appearance."

"It's a shame," she answered gravely. "You've been making money for me to spend. It's that has made you old. They're all so old, the moneymakers. I've met so many of them. Haven't you made enough?"

"Oh, it isn't that," he answered. "It gets to be a habit. I shouldn't know what else to do with myself now."

She made him talk about himself. It was difficult at first, there seemed so little to tell. Jim was at Rugby and was going into the Guards. His uncle, Sir James, had married, and had three children, a boy and two girls. But the boy had been thrown from his pony while learning to ride and was a cripple. So it was up to young Strong'nth'arm to take over the Coomber tradition. As he would have plenty of money all would be easy. His uncle was still in India, but was coming back in the spring. He had been appointed to Aldershot.

Norah was at Cheltenham. The Coomber girls had always gone to Cheltenham. She had ideas of her own and was anxious herself to cut school life


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 short and finish her education abroad in Vienna. One of the disadvantages of being rich was that it separated you from your children. But for that the boy could have gone to his old friend Tetteridge. So far as education was concerned, he would have done better. The girl could have gone to Miss Landripp's at Bruton Square. They would have been all together and it would have been jolly.

Eleanor was wonderful. Betty would find her looking hardly a day older than when she had last seen her.

Betty laughed. "Good for you, lad," she said. "It means you are still seeing her through lover's eyes. It's seventeen years ago, the date you are speaking of."

Anthony could hardly believe it at first, but had to yield to facts. He still maintained that Eleanor was marvellous. Most women in her position would have clamoured for fashion and society—would have filled The Abbey with her swell friends and acquaintances, among whom Anthony would always have felt himself an outsider—would have insisted on a town house and a London season, Homburg and the Riviera—all that sort of thing: leaving Anthony to grind away at the money mill in Millsborough. That was what his mother had always feared. His mother had changed her


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 opinion about Eleanor long ago. She had come to love her. Of course, when Norah came home there would have to be changes. But by that time it would all fit in. He would be done with money-making. He had discovered—or, rather, Eleanor had discovered it for him—that he was a good speaker. She had had to bully him, at first, into making the attempt; and the result had surprised even her. He might go into Parliament. Not with any idea of a political career, but to advocate reforms that he had in his mind. Parliament gave one a platform. One spoke to the whole country.

Tea had been brought. They were sitting opposite to one another at a small table near the fire.

"It reminds one of old times," said Betty. "Do you remember our long walks and talks together up on the moor, we three. We had to shout to drown the wind."

He did not answer immediately. He was looking at a reflection of himself in a small Venetian mirror on the opposite wall. It came back to him what old Mr. Mowbray had once said to him, as to his growing likeness to Ted. There was a suggestion, he could see it himself, especially about the eyes.

"Yes," he answered. "I remember. Ted was the dreamer. He dreamed of a new world. You


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 were for the practical. You wanted improvements made in the old."

"Yes," she answered. "I thought it could be done."

He shook his head.

"You were wrong," he said. "We were the dreamers. It was Ted had all the common sense."

"Oh, yes, I go on," he said in answer to her look. "What else is to be done. There used to be hope in the world. Now one has to pretend to hope. I hoped model dwellings were going to do away with the slums. There are miles more slums in Millsborough today than there were ten years ago; and myself, if I had to choose now I'd prefer the slums. I'd feel less like being in prison. But we did all we could. We put them in baths. It was a new idea in Millsborough. The local Press was shocked. 'Pampering the Proletariat,' was one of their headlines. They could have saved their ink. Our bath was used to keep the coals in. If they didn't do that, they emptied their slops into it. It saved them the trouble of walking to the sink. We gave them all the latest sanitary improvements, and they block the drains by turning the places into dustbins. And those that don't, throw their muck out the window. They don't want cleanliness and decency. They were born and bred in mud


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 and the dirt sticks to them; and they bring up their children not to mind it. And so it will go on. Of course, there are the few. You will find a few neat homes in the filthiest of streets. But they are lost among the mass, just as they were before. It has made no permanent difference. Millsborough is blacker, fouler, viler than it was when we started in to clean it. Garden suburbs. We began one of those five years ago on the slopes above Leeford, and already it has its Alsatia where its disreputables gather together for mutual aid and comfort. What is it all, but clearing a small space and planting a garden in the middle of a jungle. Sooner or later the jungle closes in again. Every wind blows in seeds.

"This profit-sharing. I can see the end of that. They quarrel among themselves over the sharing. Who shall have the most. Who shall be forced to accept least. And the strong gather together: it is for them to dictate the division; and the weaker snarl and curse, but have to yield. And brother is against brother, and father is against son. And so the old game of greed and grab begins anew. Co-operative shops. And the staff is for ever insisting on the prices being raised to their own kith and kin, so that their wages may be increased out of the profits. And when I expostulate they talk


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 to me about my own companies and the fine dividends we earn by charging high prices to our neighbours." He laughed.

"You remember Sheepskin," he went on, "the old vicar? The Reverend Horace Pendergast has got the job now. He's a cousin of Eleanor's—rattling good preacher. We're hoping to make him a bishop. I went to see the old man once, when I was a youngster, to arrange about my uncle's funeral, and he threw me in a sermon. I don't know why—I wasn't worrying much about religion in those days—but I can still see his round, pink, puzzled face and his little fat hands that trembled as he talked. It was near Christmas time—Christ's birthday; and all that he could think about, he told me, were the Christmas bills and how to meet them. It wasn't his fault. How can a respectable married man be a Christian? 'How can I preach Christ?'—there were tears in his eyes. 'Christ the outcast, the beggar, the servant of the poor, the bearer of the Cross.' That's what he had started out to preach. The people would only have laughed at him. He lives in a big house, they would have said, and keeps four servants and a gig. His sons go to college, and his wife and daughters wear rich garments. 'Struggle enough I find it, Strong'nth'arm,' he confessed to me. 'But I ought not to be


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 struggling to do it. I ought to be down among the people, preaching Christ, not only with my lips but with my life.' It isn't talkers for God, it is fighters for God that are wanted. Men who are not afraid of the world!"

The daylight had faded. Betty had pushed the table into a corner. They sat beside the blazing logs.

"Some years ago," said Betty, "I travelled from San Francisco to Hong Kong in company with a Chinese gentleman. It was during the off-season, and half a dozen of us had the saloon to ourselves. There were two commercial travellers and a young missionary and his wife. By process of natural selection—at least so I like to believe—Mr. Cheng and myself chummed on. He was one of the most interesting men I have met, and I think he liked talking to me. I remember one brilliantly clear night we were alone together on the deck. I was leaning back in my chair looking up at the Southern Cross. Suddenly I heard him say that the great stumbling block in the way of man's progress was God. Coming from anybody else the remark would have irritated me; but I knew he wasn't trying to be clever; and as he went on to explain himself I found myself in agreement with him. Man's idea of God is of some all-powerful Being who is


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 going to do everything for him. Man has no need to exert himself; God, moving in mysterious ways, is labouring to make the world a paradise where man may dwell in peace and happiness. All man has to do is to trust in God and practise patience. Man if he took the task in hand for himself could turn this world into a paradise tomorrow without waiting for God. But it would mean man giving up his greeds and passions. It is easier to watch and pray. God has promised man the millenium, in the dim and distant future. Men by agreeing together could have the millenium ready in time for their own children. When man at last grasps the fact that there is no God—no God, that is, in the sense that he imagines—that whatever is going to be done for him has got to be done by himself, there will be born in man the will to accomplish his own salvation. It is this idea of man as the mere creature—the mere puppet of God—powerless to save himself, helpless to avert his own fate, that through the ages has paralysed man's spiritual energies.

"God is within us. We are God. Man's free will is boundless. His future is in his own hands. Man has only to control his evil instincts and heaven is here; Man can conquer himself. Of his own will, he does so every day. For the purposes


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 of business, of pleasure, of social intercourse, he puts a curb upon his lusts and passions. It is only the savage, the criminal that lets them master him. Man is capable of putting greed and selfishness out of his life. History, a record of man's sin and folly, is also a record of man's power to overcome within himself the obstacles that stand in the way of his own progress.

"Garibaldi called upon his volunteers to disregard all worldly allurements, to embrace suffering, wounds and death for the cause of Italian unity. And the young men flocked to his banners. Let the young men once grasp that not God but they themselves can win for all mankind freedom and joy, and an ever-increasing number of them will be willing to make the necessary sacrifice.

"One man showed them the way. There have, at various times, been born exceptional men through whom the spirit we call God has been able to manifest itself, to speak aloud to men. Of all these, your Christ was perhaps more than any of the others imbued with this spirit of God. In Christ's voice we recognize the voice of God. It is the voice we hear within us, speaking to each of us individually. Christ's one commandment: 'Love one another,' is the commandment that God has been whispering to us from


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 the beginning of creation. Out of that Commandment life sprang. Through that commandment alone can life be made perfect. Love one another. It would solve every problem that has plagued mankind since the dawn of the Eocene epoch. It would recall man's energies from the barren fields of strife to mutual labour for the husbandry of all the earth. In the words of your prophet: 'The Wilderness be made glad, the desert rejoice and blossom as the rose.' Why has man persisted in turning a deaf ear to this one supreme commandment? Why does man persistently refuse to follow the one guide who would lead him out of all his sorrows? To love is as easy as to hate. Why does he set himself deliberately to cultivate the one and not the other? There is no more reason for a French peasant hating a German farm labourer, for a white man hating a brown man, for a Protestant hating a Catholic, than for loving him. But our hate we take pains to nourish, it is a part of our education. We teach it to our children. At the altar of hate man is willing to make sacrifice; he will give to his last penny. On the altar of hate the mother will consent to the slaying of her own first-born. All things that are good come to man through love. No man denies this. No man but seeks, within the circle of his own home, to surround himself with


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 love. Life without love is every man's fear. To gain and keep love man sacrifices his own ease and comfort. To love is sweeter than to hate. Man watches himself, lest by sloth or indifference he should let love die; plans and labours to strengthen and increase love. If he would, he could love all men. If man took the same pains to cultivate his will to love that he takes to cultivate his will to hate, he could change the world.

"Man excuses himself for disregarding Christ's express commandment by telling himself that the salvation of the world is God's affair, not his. God's love will make for man's benefit a new heaven and a new earth. There is no need for man to bestir himself. While man pursues his greeds and hatreds God is busy preparing the miracle. One day, man is to wake up and find, to his joy, that he loves his fellow man; and the tears of the world will be wiped away. It is not God, it is man that must accomplish the miracle. It is by man's own endeavour that he will be saved; by cleansing himself of hate, by setting himself in all seriousness to this great business of loving. Until he obeys Christ's commandment he shall not enter the promised land.

"I have put it more or less into my own words," she explained, "but I have given you the sense of


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 it. He thought the time would come—perhaps soon—when the thinkers of the world would agree that civilization had been progressing upon a wrong line—that if destruction was to be avoided, man must retrace his steps. He thought that, apart from all else, the mere instinct of self-preservation would compel the race to turn aside from the pursuit of material welfare to the more important work of its spiritual development. He did not expect any conscious or concerted movement. Rather he believed that men and women in increasing numbers would withdraw themselves from the world, that they might live lives in conformity with God's laws. He was a curious mixture of the religious and the scientific. He often employed the word God, but could not explain what he meant beyond that he 'felt' him. He held that the only altar at which a reasonable man could worship was the altar erected by the Greeks: 'To the Unknown God.' Christ he regarded as a Promethean figure who had received the fire from heaven and brought it down to men. That fire would never be extinguished. The spirit of Christ still moved about the world. It was the life force behind what little love still glowed and flickered among men. One day the smouldering embers would burst into flame."


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 Betty put in two or three years at The Priory on and off, occupying herself chiefly with writing. But the wanderlust had got into her blood, and her book finished she grew restless.

One day Anthony and Eleanor had dined with her at The Priory. Eleanor had run away immediately after dinner to attend a committee meeting of the Children's Holiday Society of which she was the president. Betty, she was sure, sympathized sufficiently with the movement to forgive her. She would be back soon after nine. Betty and Anthony took their coffee in the library.

"I wanted you both to come tonight," she explained. "I've got into a habit of acting suddenly when an impulse seizes me. I may wake up any morning and feel I've got to go."

"Whither?" he asked.

"How much money can I put my hands on within the next few months?" she asked.

She had warned him that she might be talking business. He mentioned a pretty considerable sum.

"All earned by the sweat of other people's brows," she commented with a smile.

"You give away a pretty good deal of it," he reminded her consolingly.


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 "Oh, yes," she said, "I am very good. I take from them with one hand and give them back thirty per cent. of it with the other; that's what our charity means. And it doesn't really help, that's the irritating part of it. It's just the pouring out of a libation to the God-of-Things-as-they-are. 'The poor always ye have with you.

"I sometimes think," he said, "that Christ, when he told the young man to sell all he had and give it to the poor, was thinking rather of the young man than of the poor. It would have done them but such fleeting good. But to the young man it meant the difference between slavery and freedom. To be quit of it all. His horses and his chariots. His fine houses and his countless herds. His army of cringing servants. His horde of fawning clients. How could he win life, bound hand and foot to earth? Not even his soul was his own. It belonged to his great possessions."

She was going into central Russia. She had passed through there some years ago and had happened upon one of its ever recurring famines. There was talk of another in the coming winter.

"The granary of Europe," she continued. "I believe we import one-third of our grain from Russia. And every year the peasants die there of starvation by the thousands. That year I was there


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 they reckoned a hundred thousand perished in one valley. They were eating the corpses of the children. And on my way to St. Petersburg I passed stations where the corn was rotting by the roadside. The price had fallen and it wasn't worth transporting. The devil must get some fun looking down upon the world."

He had been standing by the window with his hands in his pockets. It was still twilight. He swung round suddenly.

"I believe in the Devil," he said. "I don't mean the devil that we sing about—the discontented angel that God has let out at the end of a chain, that is finally to be destroyed when he has served God's purpose. But the eternal spirit of evil that is a part of all things—that brooded over chaos before God came. He also must be our father. Hate, cruelty, lust, greed: how else were we born with them? Would they have come to us from God. Evil also claims us for his children—is fighting for possession of us, is calling to us to labour with him, to turn the world into hell. Hate one another. Do ill to one another. That is his commandment. Which does the world obey: God or the Devil? Does hate or love rule the world? Whom does the world honour? The greedy man, the selfish man, the man who 'gets on'


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 by trampling on his fellows. Who are the world's leaders? The makers of war, the preachers of hate. Who dares to follow Christ—to fight for God. How many? That's the trouble of it. 'If any man will come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross.' Poverty, self-denial, contempt, loneliness. We are afraid."

He took a cigar from his case.

"It could be done," he said. "That's the tragedy of it. The victory won for God: if only a few of us had the courage. There are thousands of men and women in this England of ours alone who believe—who are convinced that the only hope of the world lies in our following the teaching of Christ. If these thousands of men and women were to say, each to himself, 'I will no longer sin against the light that is within me. Whatever others may do—whatever the difficulties, the privations to myself may be, I will lead Christ's life, I will obey his commandments.' If here in Millsborough there were, say, only a handful of men and women known to be trying to lead Christ's life, some of them rich men who had given up their possessions, feeling that so long as there is poverty in the world no man who loves his neighbour as himself can afford to be rich. Others, poor men and women content to remain poor, knowing that to gain riches


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 one must serve Mammon and not God. A handful of men and women, scattered, silent, putting themselves forward only when some work for Christ was to be done. A handful of men and women labouring in quietness and in confidence to prepare the way for God: teaching their children new desires, new ambitions.

"Some would fail. But others would succeed. More would follow. It needs only a few to set the example. It would appeal to all generous men and women, to the young. Fighting for God. Fighting with God to save the world. Not to save oneself—not to get one's own sweet self into heaven. That is the mistake that has been made: Appealing to the self that is in man, instead of to the Christ that is in man. 'Believe and thou shalt be saved.' It is an appeal to man's greed, to his self-interest. It is heroes God wants, not mercenaries. Never mind yourself. Forget the wages. Help God to save the world. This little land of England, this poor, sad, grimy town of Millsborough, where each man hates his neighbour and the children play with dirt. Help God to make it clean and sweet. Help God to wipe away the tears of the world. Help God to save all men.

"We talk about the Spirits of Good and Evil, as if Evil were of its own nature subordinate to the


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 Good—as if God's victory were certain; a mere matter of time. How do we know? Evil was the first-born. All things that do not fight against it revert to it. How do we know it will not triumph in the end. God is not winning. God is being driven back. Man will not help. Once His followers were willing to suffer—to die for Him. Today we are afraid of a little ridicule—of a few privations. We think it can be done by preaching—by the giving of alms. There is but one way to fight for God: the way of Christ. Let the young man deny himself, take up his cross."

There had followed a silence. How long it lasted neither could have told. The door opened and Eleanor entered.

She was full of her meeting. The committee had settled to send two hundred children for a fortnight to the seaside. She had let Anthony in for a hundred guineas. She laughed.

Betty explained that they might not be meeting again for some time. She was off to Russia. Eleanor was curious and Betty explained her plans.

Eleanor was seated on the arm of Anthony's chair. She had noticed he was not smoking, and had lighted his cigar for him.

"It was poor mother's sorrow," she said. I have never done anything,' she confided to me once


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 towards the end. I have given away a little money, but it was never mine to give. It never cost me anything. I want to give myself. It is the only gift that heals."

Eleanor jumped down from her perch, and taking Betty's face in her hands kissed her.

"How fine of you," she said. "I rather envy you."


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OW to tell her? The door was not quite closed. He could hear her voice giving directions to the maid, the rustling of garments, the opening and shutting of drawers. Later, he would hear her wish the maid good night; and then the door would open and she would come in for their customary talk before going to bed. It was the hour when she had always seemed to him most beautiful, clad in loose shimmering robes, veiling her wonderful whiteness. Tonight she would clasp her soft arms round his neck and, laughing, tell him how proud she was of him. All the evening he had read the promise of it in her eyes. And they would kiss, perhaps for the last time.

Could he not put it off—again, for the hundredth time? Was it not cruel to choose this night? It had been a day of roses, and she had been so happy. In the morning there had been the unveiling of the war memorial, the great granite cross with the four bronze guns at its base. It stood high up on the crest of the moor, for all the town to see, the sky for its background; and carved in golden


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 letters round its pedestal, so that the cold grey cross seemed, as it were, to have grown out of their blood, the names of the young men who had given their lives that England might rejoice. His speech had been a supreme success. It had moved the people as such speeches rarely do, for with every word he uttered he had been thinking of himself.

Even his two children, occasionally critical of him, had congratulated him. The boy had had tears in his eyes. He had looked very handsome in his weather-stained uniform, in spite of the angry scar across his cheek. He had taken things into his own hands at the beginning of the war, had enlisted as a private, and had won his commission on the field. For Norah, the war had happened at a providential moment. During the suffrage movement she had caused Eleanor many a sleepless night. The war had caught her up and directed her passions into orthodox channels. It had done even better for her. It had thrown her into the company of quite a nice boy, with only a consumptive cousin between him and an ancient peerage. To Anthony himself, the war had brought, without any effort of his own, increasing wealth and power. Millsborough had become a shining centre for the output of munitions. Anthony's genius for organization had been the motive force behind. At the


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 luncheon that had followed the unveiling of the memorial a Cabinet Minister had dropped hints. Eleanor's prophecy of long ago that Anthony would become a millionaire with a seat in the House of Lords would all come true.

In the evening the great new dining-room, fashioned out of the ruins of what had once been the monk's refectory, had been thrown open for the first time. All their world and his wife had dined there; his fellow-townsmen who had grown up with him, who had watched, admired and envied his marvellous career; county folk from far and near; famous folk, humble folk. The Reverend Horace Pendergast, most eloquent of divines, and soon to be a bishop, had proposed the toast of "The uncrowned king of Millsborough," his dear and well-beloved cousin Anthony Strong'nth'arm—had quoted scripture appropriate in speaking of one so evidently singled out for favour by the Lord. General Sir James Coomber, in a short, blunt speech, had seconded the toast, claiming merit for himself as having from the first, and against family opposition, encouraged his sister to stick to her guns and marry the man of her choice. Not that she had needed much encouragement, Jim had added amid laughter. She would have done it, was Jim's opinion, if all the King's horses, and all


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 the King's men had tried to prevent her. And from Eleanor, seated at the other end of the long table, had come a distinct "Hear, hear," followed by more laughter. Others, one after another, had risen spontaneously to add their testimony to the honour and affection with which he was regarded throughout Millsborough, and all round about.

And then an odd thing had happened. As he rose to respond there came into his mind the sudden thought that here within the space of these same walls must often have supped his namesake, the monk Anthony. And with the thought there came the face and form of the young monk plainly before him. It entered by a small serving door that stood ajar, and slipped into a vacant seat left empty by a guest who had been called away. He knew the whole thing was an hallucination, a fancy that his sudden thought had conjured up. But the curious part of it was that the face of the young monk, who with elbows resting on the table was looking at him with such earnestness, was not the face of the monk in the picture with which he was familiar, the hero, the martyr, but the face of a timid youth. The hands were clasped, and the eyes that were fixed on Anthony seemed to be pleading with him.

He could not remember what he had said. He


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 did not think it was the speech he had intended. He had the feeling he was answering the questioning eyes of the young monk still fixed upon him. But it seemed to have gone all right, though there had been no applause when he had sat down. Instead, a little silence had followed; and when the conversation round the table was renewed it had been in a subdued tone, as though some new note had been struck.

Foolish though it seemed, it was this slight episode that had finally decided him that he must speak with her this very night. Too long he had put it off, whispering to himself now one excuse, now another. It had come to him while he had been preparing his speech for the unveiling of the war memorial: How long was he going to play the coward? When was he going to answer the call of his King, his country?

When had that call first come to him? What voice—what vision had first spoken to him? He tried to think. There had been no trumpet call. No pillar of light had flashed before his eyes. It had come to him in little whispers of the wind, in little pluckings at his sleeve. Some small wild creature's cry of pain. The sorrow of a passing face. The story of a wrong done, when or where


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 it did not matter. Always the darkness was full of reproachful eyes accusing him of delay.

It seemed to him that he was standing beside God in some vast doorless chamber, listening to the falling of the tears of the world—the tears of all the ages that were past, the tears of the ages yet to come; and God's sad eyes were watching him.

If he could take her with him. If only she would come with him. There had been a moment at the beginning of the war when it might have been: those days of terror when the boy lay wounded unto death; and he had heard her cry out in the night: "Oh, God, take all I have but that." Had he urged her then? Honours, riches! In that moment she would have known their true value. But the child had lived, and all her desires were now for him. She would resent whatever might make to his detriment. No, he would have to go alone.

How was he going to put it into words? How could he hurt her least, while at the same time leaving no opening for false hope? He had purposely avoided thinking it out. It would be useless coming to her with cut and dried phrases. He would not be laying down the law. He would be pleading for forgiveness, for understanding.


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 He could picture the bewilderment that would come into her eyes as slowly his meaning dawned upon her: giving place to anger, despair. It would seem to her that she had never known him, that she had been living with a strange man. Why had he not taken her into his confidence years ago, made her the sharer of his dreams—his visions? How did he know she would not have sympathized with him? It was his love for her that had made him false—or rather his love for himself. He had wanted to come to her always with gifts, so that she might be grateful to him, proud of him. Now it was too late. It would seem to her that all these years he had been living apart, her husband only in body. She would feel herself a woman scorned.

He smiled to himself, recalling how at the beginning of the Great War, as they had named it, the hope had come to him that after all he might not have to drink this cup. God was going to do without man's help. Out of one stupendous sacrifice of blood and tears the world was to be born anew. Sin was to destroy her own children; man's greed and hate was to be burned up in the fire man's evil passions had kindled. It was a strange delusion. Others had shared it. With the bitter awakening a dumb apathy had seized him, paralysing his soul. Of what use was the struggle. The gibe was true:


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 "Mankind would always remain a race of low intelligence and evil instincts." Let it perish, the sooner the better.

And then, gradually, out of his despair, had arisen in him a great pity for God. It startled him at first. It was so grotesque an idea. And yet it grew upon him. The mysterious warfare between Good and Evil. It shaped itself in his brain, a thing concrete, visible. The loneliness of God. He saw Him as a Leader betrayed, deserted; his followers fleeing from him, hastening to make their peace with evil. He must find his way to God's side. God wanted him.

It was no passing mood. The thought took possession of him. All other voices sounded to him faint and trivial.

His sorrow was for her. If he could but have spared her. For himself he felt joy that the struggle was over, that he had conquered, that nothing now could turn him from his purpose. He would get rid of all his affairs—of everything, literally. Not for the sake of the poor. If all the riches of the world were gathered together and given to the poor it would be but a stirring of the waters, a moment's shifting of the social landmarks. Greed and selfishness would shape themselves anew. From time immemorial the rich had


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 flung money to the poor, and the poor had ever increased in numbers, had sunk ever poorer. Money was a dead thing. It carried with it the seeds of destruction. Love, service, were the only living gifts. It was for his own sake—to escape, in the words of Timothy, from many hurtful lusts, which drown men in destruction and perdiction, that he must flee from his great possessions. No man could possess money without loving money. Only in common poverty—in common contentment with having food and raiment could there be brotherhood, love.

He had made his plans. He would rent a small house, next door to where his mother still lived in Bruton Square, and practise there as a solicitor. The old lady was still active and capable. If need be—if he had to go alone—she could keep house for him. He was keen on Bruton Square. It was where the mean part of the town began. It would not be too far for the poor to come to him. The little modest house would not frighten them with suggestion of charges beyond their means, of contemptuous indifference to their unprofitable bits of business. He would be able to help them, to keep them from falling into the hands of charlatans. They would come to trust him in their troubles. He might often be able to serve as mediator, as


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 peacemaker between them. It would be a legitimate way of earning his living.

It was essential that he should earn his living. That seemed to him of tremendous importance. If the world were to be saved it must be saved by all men working together for God. That must be the dream, the goal. He wanted to tell men that the Christ-life could be lived not by the few but by all; not alone by celibates and mendicants—of what use would that be—but by men with wives and children. It must come to be the life of the street, the market-place, the home.

If she would come with him, join her voice with his, tell the people that man and woman could live happily together without this luxury and ostentation for which Youth daily sold its birthright of love and joy, condemned itself to frenzied toil and haunting fear; that life was not a thing of furniture and clothes, of many servants, of fine houses and rich foods; that a man and woman who had known these things could choose to give them up, find comfort and content without them; that having food and raiment there was no need of this savage struggling for more—this greed and covetousness that for so long had pierced the world with many sorrows. If only she would come with him. Together they might light a lamp.


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 How could he ask her? The mere physical discomforts and privations, it would not be the fear of these that would hold her back. Demand the heroic of her—call upon her, in the name of any cause worth fighting for, to face suffering, death itself, and she would put her hand in his and go with him gladly. She had envied Betty, going out alone to fight starvation and disease amid the terrors of a winter in the Russian steppes.

"I'd have loved to be going with her," she had told him. "It must be from my mother that it comes to me. Some strange thing happened to her when she was a girl. She would never tell me what, though I knew it had been her trouble all her life. And when she lay dying she drew me down to her, and whispered to me that in her youth God had called to her and she had not obeyed. It was dad and we children that had hindered her. She had married a husband so she could not come."

She had laughed and kissed him. He remembered the tears in her eyes and the little catch in her voice.

But there was nothing heroic about this thing that he wanted to do. It was the littleness, the meanness of it that would freeze her sympathies. Her sense of humour would rise up against it. Was there no better way of serving Christ than by


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 setting up as a pettifogging solicitor in a little square of faded gentility. And a solicitor of all professions! A calling so eminently suggestive of the Scribe and Pharisee. Was there not danger of the whole thing being smothered under laughter?

And why here in Millsborough where everybody knew him? Where they would be stared at, called after in the street, snapshotted and paragraphed in the local Press; where they would be the laughing stock of the whole town, a nuisance round the neck of all their friends and acquaintances. The boy's career: he would be the butt of the messroom. Norah's engagement: it would have to be broken off. What man wants to marry into a family of cranks? Could it serve Christ for His would-be followers to cover themselves with ridicule.

It was just because his going on with his own business had seemed to him the simplest, plainest path before him that he had chosen it. He had thought at one time of asking Matthew Witlock to let him come as his assistant in the workshop. He had retained much of his old skill as a mechanic. With a little practice it would come back to him. He would have enjoyed the work: the swinging of the hammer, the flashing of the sparks, the harmony of hand and brain. His desk had always


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 bored him. The idea had grown upon him. It would have been like going home. He would have met there the little impish lad who had once been himself. Old Wandering Peter would have sat cross-legged upon the bench and talked to him. He would have come across his father, pottering about among the shadows; would have joked with him. Strong kindly Matthew of the dreamy eyes would have been sweet, helpful company. Together they would have listened to the passing footsteps. There, if anywhere, might have come the Master.

It had cost him an effort to dismiss the desire. He so wanted to preach the practical, the rational. We could not all be blacksmiths. We could not all do big things, heroic things. But we could all work for God, wherever and whatever we happened to be; that was the idea he wanted to set going.

He wanted to preach to men that the Christ-life was possible for all: for the shop-keeper, for the artisan, for the doctor, for the lawyer, for the labourer, for the business man. He wanted to tell the people that Christ had not to be sought for in any particular place, that he was here; that we had only to open the door and He would come to us just where we were. One went on with one's work, whatever it was, the thing that lay nearest to one,


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 the thing one could do best. We changed the Master not the work, took other wages.

He wanted to tell it in Millsborough for the reason that it was the only place where he could be sure of being listened to. Nowhere else could he hope to attract the same attention. He wanted to attract attention—to advertise, if any cared to put it that way. It was the business man in him that had insisted upon Millsborough. In Millsborough, for a time—for quite a long time—this thing would be the chief topic of conversation. Men would discuss it, argue around it, think about it when alone.

In Millsborough he had influence. In Millsborough, if anywhere, he might hope to find followers. For twenty years he had been held up to the youth of Millsborough as a shining example: the man who had climbed, the man who had "got on," the man who had won all the rewards the devil promises to those who will fall down and worship him, wealth, honour, power—the kingdoms of the earth. He stood for the type of Millsborough's hero: the clever man, the knowing man, the successful man; the man who always got the best of the bargain; the man who always came out on top; the man who whatever might happen to others always managed to fall on his feet. "Keep your eye on


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 Anthony Strong'nth'arm." In Millsborough it had become a saying. The man to be in with, the man to put your money on, the man God always prospered.

He could hear them—see their round, staring eyes. He could not help but grin as he thought of it. Anthony Strong'nth'arm declines a peerage. Anthony Strong'nth'arm resigns his chairmanship of this, that and the other most prosperous concern; his directorship in half a dozen high dividend-paying companies; gets rid of his vast holdings in twenty sound profitable enterprises; gives up his great office in St. Aldys Close, furniture, fittings and goodwill all included; writes a courteous letter of farewell to all his wealthy clients; takes a seven-roomed house in Bruton Square, rent thirty-two pounds a year; puts up his plate on the door: "Anthony John Strong'nth'arm, Solicitor. Also Commissioner for Oaths. Office hours, ten to four." What's the meaning of it? The man is not a fool. Has never, at any time, shown indications of insanity. What's he up to? What's come into his head? If it's God he is thinking of, what's wrong with the church or the chapel, or even the Pope, if he must have a change? Does he want a religion all to himself? Is it the poor that are troubling him? He'd do better for them, going on


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 with his money-making, giving them ten—twenty, fifty per cent., if he liked, of his profits. What is the explanation? What does he say about it—Anthony Strong'nth'arm himself?

They would have to listen to him. If only from curiosity they would hear him out to the end. It might be but a nine days' wonder; the talk grow tiresome, the laughter die away. That was not his affair. He wanted to help. He was sure this was the best thing he could do.

He had not noticed the door open. She was standing before him. She drew his face down to her and kissed him.

"Thank you," she whispered, "for one of the happiest days of my life."

He held her to him for a while without speaking. He could feel the beating of her heart.

"There is something I want to tell you," he said.

She put a hand upon his lips. "I know," she answered. "In three minutes time. Then you shall tell me."

They stood with their arms round one another till the old French clock upon the mantelpiece had softly chimed the twelve hours. Then she released him, and seating herself in her usual chair, looked at him and waited.


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E had not asked her for an answer. She had promised to think it out. She might wish to talk it over with Jim. She and Jim had always been very near to one another. And there were the children to be consulted. She was to be quite free to choose. Everything would be arranged according to her decision. He had said nothing to persuade her—unless he had hoped that by explaining to her his own reasons he might influence her,—and beyond a few questions she had remained a silent listener. It was shamefacedly, as one confessing a guilty secret, that he had told her. From the tones of his voice, the look in his eyes, she had read his unconscious pleading to her to come with him. But whether she went with him or stayed behind would make no difference to his going. It was that had hardened her.

To a certain extent she had been prepared. Ever since the child John's death she had felt the change that was taking place in him. There was an Anthony she did not know, dimly associated in her mind with that lover of her dream who standing by the latchet gate had beckoned to her, and


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 from whom she had hidden herself, afraid. She had set herself to turn his thoughts aside towards social reform, philanthropy. It was with this idea she had urged him to throw himself into public affairs, to prepare for Parliament. She had hoped for that. There she could have helped him. It would have satisfied her own craving to be doing something herself.

And then the war had engulfed them, obliterating all other horizons: it had left her nothing but her animal emotions. Her boy's life! She could think of nothing else. Norah was in France: and she also was in the danger zone. The need of work obsessed her. She had found a rambling old house, far away upon the moors, and had converted it into a convalescent hospital.

Labour was scarce and the entire management had fallen upon her own shoulders. Anthony's duties had confined him to Millsborough. For years they had seen one another only for a few hours at a time. There had been no opportunity for intimate talk. It was not until her return home to The Abbey that her fear had come back to her. There was no definable reason. It was as if it had always been there—a presence, waiting its time. One evening, walking in the garden, she had seen him standing there by the latchet gate, and had


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 crept back into the house. She had the feeling that it would be there, by the latchet gate, that he would tell her. So long as she could avoid meeting him there she could put it off, indefinitely. The surer she felt of it, the more important it seemed to her to put it off—for a little while longer: she could not explain to herself why. It was when, without speaking, he had pressed her to him so close that she had felt the pain in his body, that she knew the time had come for her to face it.

What answer was she to make him? It seemed such a crazy idea. To give up The Abbey. To think of strangers living there. It had been the home of her people for five centuries. Their children had been born there. For twenty years they had worked there lovingly together to make it more beautiful. It would be like tearing oneself up by the roots. To turn one's back upon the glorious moors—to go down into the grimy sordid town, to live in a little poky house with one servant; presuming the Higher Christianity permitted of even that. Yes, they would get themselves talked about: no doubt of that.

To do her own shopping. She had noticed them—passing them by swiftly in her shining car—tired women, carrying large network bags bulging with parcels. Some of them rode bicycles. She found


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 herself wondering abstractedly whether she would be able to afford a bicycle. She had learnt to ride a bicycle when a girl. But that was long ago. She wondered whether she would be able to pick it up again. She pictured herself bargaining outside the butchers' shops, examining doubtful looking chickens—when chickens were cheap. There was a particular test you had to apply. She would have to make enquiries. She could see the grinning faces of the tradesmen, hear their oily tongues of mock politeness.

Her former friends and acquaintances—county folk who had motored in for a day's shopping, the stout be-jewelled wives of the rich magnates and manufacturers of Millsborough. Poor ladies! how worried they would be, not knowing what to do, meeting her by chance in the street. She with her umbrella and her parcels. And their red-faced husbands who would squeeze her hand and try to say the right thing. There would be plenty of comedy—at first, anyhow. That was the trouble. Tragedy she could have faced. This was going to be farce.

The dulness—the appalling dulness of it. The long evenings in the one small living room. She would have to learn sewing—make her own dresses, while Anthony read aloud to her. He read rather


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 well. Perhaps, by help of great economy in the housekeeping, they might be able to purchase a piano, on the hire system—or would it have to be a harmonium?

She had risen. From the window, she could see the cloud of smoke beneath which the people of Millsborough moved and had their being.

Why should it seem so impossible. Her present ordered existence, mapped out from year to year, calling for neither thought nor effort, admitting of neither hope nor fear, the sheltered life of a pampered child—had not that also its dulness, its monotony? Why did rich people rent saeters in Norway, live there for months at a time on hunter's fare, doing their own cooking and cleaning—welcome the perils and hardships of mountain climbing; of big game shooting; of travels into unknown lands; choose danger, privation and toil, and call it a "holiday"? Had not she herself found the simple living and hard work of the hospital a welcome change from everlasting luxuriousness? Would the Garden of Eden have been the ideal home for men and women with brains and hands? Might not earning one's living by the sweat of one's brow be better sport?

Need those evenings after the day's work was done be of necessity so deadly? Her great din-


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 ners at The Abbey, with all their lights and lackeys, had they always been such feasts of intellectuality? Surely she had had social experience enough to teach her that brains were a thing apart from birth and breeding, that wit and wisdom were not the monopoly of the well-to-do. It came back to her, the memory of her girlhood's days when they had lived in third-rate boarding-houses in Rome and Florence; rented small furnished appartements in French provincial towns; cheap lodgings in Dresden and Hanover. There had been no lack of fun and laughter in those days. Those musical evenings to which each student brought his own beer, and was mightily careful to take back with him the empty bottles, for which otherwise ten pfennigs would be charged. How busy she and her mother had been beforehand, cutting the sandwiches, and how sparing of the butter! Some of the players had made world-famous names; and others had died or maybe still lived—unknown. One of them she had heard just recently, paying ten guineas for her box; but his music had sounded no sweeter than when she had listened to it sitting beside Jim on the uncarpeted floor, there not being chairs enough to go round. Where had she heard better talk than from the men with shiny coat sleeves and frayed trousers who had come to sup with her father off


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 maccaroni and chianti at two lire the flask. There might be clever brilliant men and women even in Millsborough. So far as she could judge she had never succeeded in securing any of them for her great receptions at The Abbey. They might be less shy of dropping in at Bruton Square.

It was what one felt, not what one had, that was the source of our pleasure. It was the school boy's appetite, not a Rockefeller's wealth that purchased the good dinner. The nursery filled with expensive toys: the healthy child had no need of them. It was the old rag doll, clutched tight to our bosom that made the attic into heaven. It was astride on the wooden horse without a head that we shouted our loudest. We over-burdened life with empty show, turned man into a mannikin. We sacrificed the play to the scenery and dresses. Four walls and a passion were all that the poet demanded.

Whence had come this idea that wealth brought happiness? Not from the rich. Surely they must have learnt better, by this time.

It was not the enjoyable things of life that cost money. These acres of gardens where one never got away from one's own gardeners! What better were they than a public park? It was in the hidden corner we had planted and tended ourselves—where we knew and loved each flower, where each


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 whispering tree was a comrade that we met God in the evening. It was the pleasant living room, where each familiar piece of furniture smiled a welcome to us when we entered, that was home. Through half-a-dozen "reception rooms," we wandered, a stranger. The millionaire, who, reckoning interest at five per cent., paid ten thousand a year to possess an old master—how often really did he look at it? What greater artistic enjoyment did he get out of it than from looking at it in a public gallery? The joy of possession, it was the joy of the miser, of the dog in the manger. Were the silver birches in the moonlight more beautiful because we owned the freehold of the hill?

She remembered her walking tours with Jim. Their packs upon their backs, and the open road before them. The evening meal at the wayside Inn, and the sweet sleep between coarse sheets. She had never cared for travel since then. It had always been such a business: the luggage and the crowd, and the general hullaballoo.

What would the children say? Well, they could not preach, either of them: there was that consolation. The boy, at the beginning of the war, and without saying a word to either of them, had thrown up everything, had gone out as a common soldier—he had been so fearful they might try to stop


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 him—facing death for an ideal. She certainly was not going to be afraid of anything he could say, after that.

Norah's armour would prove even yet more vulnerable. Norah, a young lady brought up amid all the traditions of respectability, had dared even ridicule; had committed worse than crimes—vulgarities. A militant suffragette reproving fanaticism need not be listened to attentively.

But this case she was thinking of was exceptional. Whatever Anthony and she might choose to do with the remainder of their lives need not affect their children. Norah and Jim would be free to choose for themselves. But the young mother faced with the problem of her children's future? Ten years ago, what answer would she herself have made?

The argument took hold of her. She found herself working it out not as a personal concern, but in terms of the community. Was it necessary to be rich that one's children should be happy? Childhood would answer "no." It is not little Lord Fauntleroy who clamours for the velvet suit and the lace collar. It is not Princess Goldenlocks who would keep close barred the ivory gate that leads into the wood. Childhood has no use for riches. Childhood's joys are cheap enough. Youth's


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 pleasures can be purchased for little more than health and comradeship. The cricket bat, the tennis racket, the push bike, the leaky boat that one bought for a song and had the fun of patching up and making good; even that crown of the young world's desire, the motor-cycle itself—these and their kindred were not the things for which one need to sell one's soul. Education depended upon the scholar not the school. Was the future welfare of our children helped by our being rich? or hindered?

Suppose we brought up our children not to believe in riches, not to be afraid of poverty: not to be afraid of love in a six-roomed house, not to believe that they were bound to be just twice as happy in a house containing twelve, and thereby save themselves the fret and frenzy of trying to get there: the bitterness and heart break of those who never reached it. The love of money, the belief in money, was it not the root of nine-tenths of the world's sorrow? Suppose one taught one's children not to fall down and worship it, not to sacrifice to it their youth and health and joy. Might they not be better off—in a quite material way?

It occurred to her suddenly that she had not as yet thought about it from the religious point of view. She laughed. It had always been said


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 that it was woman who was the practical. It was man, was the dreamer.

But was she not right? Had that not been the whole trouble: that we had drawn a dividing line between our religion and our life, rendering our actions unto CaesarCæsar [sic], and only our lips unto God? Christianity was Common Sense in the highest—was sheer Worldly Wisdom. The proof was staring her in the face. From the bay of the deep window, looking eastward, she could see it standing out against the flame-lit sky, the great grey Cross with round its base the young men's names in golden letters.

The one thing man did well—make war. Man's one success—the fighting machine. The one institution man had built up that had stood the test of time. The one thing man had made perfect—War.

The one thing to which man had applied the principles of Christianity. Above all things required of the soldier was self-forgetfulness, self-sacrifice. The place of suffering became the place of honour. The forlorn hope a privilege to be contended for. To the soldier, alone among men, love thy neighbour as thyself—nay, better than thyself—was inculcated not as a meaningless formula, but as a sacred duty necessary to the very exist-


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 ence of the Regiment. When war broke out in a land, the teachings of Christ were immediately recognized to be the only sensible guide to conduct. At the time, Anthony's suggestion had seemed monstrous to her; that he should ask her to give up riches, accept poverty, that he should put a vague impersonal love of humanity above his natural affection for her children and herself! But if it had been England and not God that he had been thinking of—if, at any moment during the war, it had seemed to him that the welfare of England demanded this, or even greater sacrifice, she would have approved. The very people whose ridicule she was now dreading would have applauded. Who had suggested to the young recruit that he should think of his wife and children before his country, that his first duty was to provide for them, to see to it that they had their comforts, their luxuries: and then—and not till then—to think of England? She had regarded his determination to go down into the smoky dismal town, to live his life there among common people, as foolish, fantastic. He could have helped the poor of Millsborough better by keeping his possessions, showering down upon them benefits and blessings. He could have been of more help to God, powerful and rich, a leader among men. As a strug-


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 gling solicitor in Bruton Square of what use could he be?

Had she thought like that, during the war, of the men who had given money but who had shirked the mud and blood of the trenches—of the shouters who had pointed out to others the gate of service?

Neither rich nor poor, neither great nor simple—only comrades. Would it ever be won, the war to end war—man's victory over himself.

The pall of smoke above the distant town had merged into the night. In its place there gleamed a dull red glow, as of a pillar of fire.

She turned and faced herself in the great Cheval glass with its frame of gilded cupids. She was still young—in the fulness of her life and beauty; the years with their promise of power and pleasure still opening out before her.

And suddenly it came to her that this was the Great Adventure of the World, calling to the brave and hopeful to follow, heedless, where God's trumpet led. Somewhere—perhaps near, perhaps far—there lay the Promised Land. It might be theirs' to find it—at least to see it from afar. If not—! Their feet should help to mark the road.

Yes, she too would give up her possessions; put fear behind her. Together, hand in hand, they would go forward, joyously.


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text: Anthony John

title: Anthony John


text: Anthony John/Chapter 1

title: Anthony John/Chapter 1


text: Anthony John/Chapter 2

title: Anthony John/Chapter 2


text: Anthony John/Chapter 3

title: Anthony John/Chapter 3


text: Anthony John/Chapter 4

title: Anthony John/Chapter 4


text: Anthony John/Chapter 5

title: Anthony John/Chapter 5


text: Anthony John/Chapter 6

title: Anthony John/Chapter 6


text: Anthony John/Chapter 7

title: Anthony John/Chapter 7


text: Anthony John/Chapter 8

title: Anthony John/Chapter 8


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136

The throng of noble people each other’s hands did take;

Whilst men unto each other their courtly bows did make,

The ladies fair were kissing each other lovingly,—

Which Siegfried’s men and Gunther’s right joyous were to see.

No longer did they linger, but rode towards the town.

The host meanwhile had bidden that every guest be shown

How truly he was welcome to royal Burgundy.

Then many a match was tilted for maidens fair to see.

And Hagen, too, from Tronjé, and Ortewein also,

That they were men of power did all they could to show;

And whatsoe’er they order’d that durst no man gainsay.

Unto the guests so welcome much service offer’d they.

The clang of shields resounded before the castle-gate

From many a thrust and parry; and long thereby did wait

The host and guests together, ere within doors they came;

Ay, and the hours sped quickly with many a merry game.

Before the stately palace all joyously they rode;

And many fine-wrought housings, of handsome stuff and mode

Were seen upon the saddles of many a well-dight dame,

On either side low-hanging. Then Gunther’s chieftains came.

The guests unto their chambers were taken presently.

One saw how Lady Brunhild at times would cast her eye

Toward the Lady Kriemhild, who verily was fair.

Her colour in bright beauty might well with gold compare.


text: Anthony John/Chapter 9

title: Anthony John/Chapter 9


text: Anthony John/Chapter 10

title: Anthony John/Chapter 10


text: Anthony John/Chapter 11

title: Anthony John/Chapter 11


text: Anthony John/Chapter 12

title: Anthony John/Chapter 12


text: Anthony John/Chapter 13

title: Anthony John/Chapter 13


text: Anthony John/Chapter 14

title: Anthony John/Chapter 14


text: Anthony John/Chapter 15

title: Anthony John/Chapter 15


text: Anthony John/Chapter 16

title: Anthony John/Chapter 16


text: Anthony John/Chapter 17

title: Anthony John/Chapter 17


text: Anthony John/Chapter 18

title: Anthony John/Chapter 18


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 wandering fortune of my life should carry me back again to where you await death's whistle by the river, that will not be the old I who walks the street; and those wives and mothers, say, will those be you?

There was never any mistake about the Oise, as a matter of fact. In these upper reaches, it was still in a prodigious hurry for the sea. It ran so fast and merrily, through all the windings of its channel, that I strained my thumb, fighting with the rapids, and had to paddle all the rest of the way with one hand turned up. Sometimes, it had to serve mills; and being still a little river, ran very dry and shallow in the meanwhile. We had to put our legs out of the boat, and shove ourselves off the sand of the bottom with our feet. And still it went on its way singing among the poplars, and making a green valley in the world. After a good woman, and a good book, and tobacco, there is nothing so agreeable on


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 (d) Hyphenate an administrative entity term used as part of the name of a jurisdiction as one word. but:

(e) Write a generic term for a type of topographic feature, road, architectural construction, etc., used as a part of a proper name, together with its name. Attempt to create binaries when possible. but:

(f) Connect a single syllable modifier that indicates a type of publication, such as 초 (抄), 집 (集), 지 (誌), 선 (選), 론 (論), 전 (傳) etc. to the word that precedes it, except if the word is a proper noun.

title: Page:Korean Romanization.pdf/43


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 earth as a river. I forgave it its attempt on my life; which was after all one part owing to the unruly winds of heaven that had blown down the tree, one part to my own mismanagement, and only a third part to the river itself, and that not out of malice, but from its great pre-occupation over its business of getting to the sea. A difficult business, too; for the detours it had to make are not to be counted. The geographers seem to have given up the attempt; for I found no map represent the infinite contortion of its course. A fact will say more than any of them. After we had been some hours, three if I mistake not, flitting by the trees at this smooth, breakneck gallop, when we came upon a hamlet and asked where we were, we had got no farther than four kilometres (say two miles and a half) from Origny. If it were not for the honour of the thing (in the Scotch saying), we might almost as well have been standing still.


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XIII.]

At Worms was heard the turmoil, on all sides of the town,

Of these incoming strangers. King Gunther made it known

Unto his marshal, Dankwart, that he for these must care;

So did he for the people good lodging-room prepare.

Both out of doors and indoors they e’en might feast their fill.

Ay! ne’er before were strangers welcomed with more goodwill.

Whatever they desiréd was ready at their side:

So wealthy was King Gunther to none was aught denied.

Served were they in all friendship and banish’d was all hate;

The host himself at table with all the guest-folk sate.

Siegfried must now his seat take where he afore had done;

There went to table with him full many a worthy one.

Twelve hundred gallant warriors were round the table seen

Sitting with him and feasting. Then thought Brunhild the queen,

That ne’er a sovran ruler could ever have more wealth.

Still leaned she so towards him she could but wish him health.

And verily that evening, while the king sat there yet,

Right many a costly garment was by the wine made wet,

As the cup-bearers quickly around the table went.

The servants there were many, and all right diligent.

As long had been the custom when festival was made,

Unto the maids and matrons a fair good-night they bade.

To whomsoever came there the host a welcome gave.

In kindliness and honour they all enough could have.


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 {|style="width:100%"| but:
 * style="width:50%"|亂中 日記抄
 * style="width:50%"|Nanjung ilgich’o
 * 현대 한국 시인선
 * Hyŏndae Han’guk siinsŏn
 * 國稅 基本論
 * Kukse kibonnon
 * 의암 선생 항쟁기
 * Ŭiam Sŏnsaeng hangjaenggi
 * 토끼전
 * T’okkijŏn
 * }
 * 토끼전
 * T’okkijŏn
 * }
 * }

(g) Always separate the modifier 편 (篇) from the word it modifies.

Capitalization

Guidelines

1. Each separately written word of a corporate name (except particles), or an abbreviation thereof, is capitalized.

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 We lunched on a meadow inside a parallelogram of poplars. The leaves danced and prattled in the wind all round about us. The river hurried on meanwhile, and seemed to chide at our delay. Little we cared. The river knew where it was going; not so we: the less our hurry, where we found good quarters and a pleasant theatre for a pipe. At that hour, stockbrokers were shouting in Paris Bourse for two or three per cent.; but we minded them as little as the sliding stream, and sacrificed a hecatomb of minutes to the gods of tobacco and digestion. Hurry is the resource of the faithless. Where a man can trust his own heart, and those of his friends, to-morrow is as good as to-day. And if he die in the meanwhile, why then, there he dies, and the question is solved.

We had to take to the canal in the course of the afternoon; because, where it crossed the river, there was, not a bridge, but a siphon. If


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{|style="width:100%"|
 * style="width:50%"|
 * style="width:50%"|
 * 민주화 를 위한 전국 교수 협의회
 * Minjuhwa rŭl Wihan Chŏn’guk Kyosu Hyŏbŭihoe
 * }
 * }

2. Each separate word of a personal name is capitalized.

3. Titles and terms of address are capitalized.

4. Each separately written word of a geographic name is capitalized. An abbreviated geographical name is capitalized. An abbreviated geographical name is capitalized in coordinate compounds and at the beginning of other compound words.

5. The first word of the title of a book, periodical, or series is capitalized.

6. Names of dynasties are capitalized.

7. A word derived from a proper name is capitalized only if the name retains its full, original meaning.

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Rh bank of a tributary of the Buffalo river at East London. Its discovery was due to the opening of a way to a quarry, for it had the semblance of a natural hill, being covered with a deep layer of vegetable soil, in which trees and shrubs were growing; and this appearance it had presented as far back as could be traced. Upon examination—which was very thorough, as over thirty-two thousand cubic metres of it were removed to fill a lagoon—it was found to consist of a mass 45.72 metres or one hundred and fifty English feet long and 12.19 metres or forty feet deep, composed of oyster, mussel, cockle, periwinkle, and other shells, mixed with bones of animals of various kinds, ashes, and pieces of coarse pottery. A very few stone implements were found in it, but stones showing the action of fire were common.

This mass of shells must have been collected by a small community, for a large number of people could not have existed at the same time upon the food obtainable within walking distance. It must have been abandoned several hundred years at the lowest estimate, to allow time for dust and sand to be blown over it, and plants to grow and decay, until at length vegetable mould half a metre in depth was formed, sufficient to support large shrubs and trees. Some pestilence may have destroyed the whole of the people who obtained subsistence there, or they may have been attacked and killed by men of their own race who lived by hunting wild animals, or they may have existed until the arrival of Hottentot immigrants some time about the year 1400 of our era, when they would certainly have been exterminated. The cause of the abandonment of the mound is thus conjectural, and all that can be asserted concerning it is that it cannot have been more recently than 1400, and may have been many centuries earlier. Of the length of time required for the collection of such a vast mass of shells no estimate whatever can be made.

The other mounds composed of shells and refuse that have been discovered along the South African coast are exactly similar to the one at East London in character,


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4 though not usually so large. It is only by accident that they are found, for on the surface of the undulating soil there is no indication of their existence. They are turned to account by farmers at the present day, who use their contents as fertilisers for cultivated ground. In Europe, notably along the coast of Denmark, similar mounds have been exposed, and are there termed kitchen middens, a name that might also be used here. It would be convenient if the people who lived so largely upon shellfish had a distinctive name given to them, for the word strandloopers (beach-rangers), applied to them by some recent writers, causes much confusion. That word was used in the middle of the seventeenth century by the first Dutch settlers in South Africa to denote a very different class of people, an impoverished people of mixed Hottentot and Bushman blood, speaking the Hottentot language and whenever possible following Hottentot customs, who from dire necessity were reduced at times to eke out a miserable existence in the same manner as the far more ancient men of the shell mounds, and it has since been commonly used in history to signify them alone. The others—those alluded to in this paragraph—were beachrangers, it is true, but that was their normal mode of existence, and to distinguish them from the very different beachrangers of recent times I propose to term them the Ancient Shellmound Men.

The mounds referred to, however, may have had their origin at a time not exceedingly remote, for those who have examined them carefully have found no apparent change in the physical features of the country since the earliest deposit was made. The shore was then where it is to-day, though the rocks along it may have undergone some slight alteration of form from the action of winds and waves. Much older are various stone implements shaped by human hands, which have been found in situations where they must have lain undisturbed for an incalculable length of time. For instance, they have been picked up in gravel washed by a stream into a recess when its bed was more than twelve


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 it had not been for an excited fellow on the bank, we should have paddled right into the siphon, and thenceforward not paddled any more. We met a man, a gentleman, on the tow-path, who was much interested in our cruise. And I was witness to a strange seizure of lying suffered by the Cigarette: who, because his knife came from Norway, narrated all sorts of adventures in that country, where he has never been. He was quite feverish at the end, and pleaded demoniacal possession.

Moy (pronounce Moÿ) was a pleasant little village, gathered round a château in a moat. The air was perfumed with hemp from neighbouring fields. At the Golden Sheep, we found excellent entertainment. German shells from the siege of La Fère, Nürnberg figures, gold fish in a bowl, and all manner of knick-knacks, embellished the public room. The landlady was a stout, plain, short-sighted, motherly body, with


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138

As soon as night was ended and the next daylight shone,

The packing-chests were open’d, and many a precious stone

Shone bright on goodly raiment, by lady’s hand shown forth.

Then was to sight unfolded full many a robe of worth.

Ere yet it was broad daylight the knights and squires came out

Before the hall in numbers; again began the rout

Or ever early mass had before the king been sung.

Then thanks for featly riding he gave the heroes young.

Soon shrill and loud resounded full many a trumpet-blast.

From drums and pipes together there was a noise so vast,

That Worms, the great, wide city, loud echoed to the call.

Upon their chargers mounted the haughty heroes all.

Throughout the land began then a mighty tournament,

Where many a good knight tilted; and thereto many went,

Whose youthful hearts and eager beat high in gallant mood;

Behind their shields one saw them, gay warriors and good.

And at their windows seated look’d down the stately dames

And beauteous, well-dight maidens, intent to watch the games,

And see the merry jousting of the bold knights below.

The host amongst his lieges himself would riding go.

Thus were the hours beguiléd, and none did deem them long,

Until the minster-belfry did call to evensong.

Then were brought round the palfreys; the dames to ride began;

The noble queens were follow’d by many a gallant man.


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After long solicitation, which had been kept up constantly for over four months, I next went to Kokomo, Indiana, and for three weeks God wonderfully blessed me and the people of that city.

My first meeting was held in the Friends’ Church, which was very large. It would not hold the people. The next day we went to the court house. While there Barnum’s show came to the city. The papers said there would be a race between the Woodworth meeting and the show to see who would get the biggest crowd. Hundreds came to the city to go to the show, but when they heard of the wonderful meeting in the court house they came there. Once, while the great show was passing, I was preaching and held the crowd. The next time they passed there were several hundred on their knees in prayer. Not one went to the window. Praise God for such victory through the power of the Holy Ghost. We went from the court house to the skating rink, the largest building in the city. About one hundred were baptized. It was said about twenty thousand witnessed this solemn and wonderful scene. The first one baptized was a Methodist minister. About twenty church members who had not thought of being baptized were so impressed they stepped out with their best clothes on and were baptized. The crowds were so large I had to appoint three meetings that night. One was held in the court house yard and one on the street. Some ministers took charge of these meetings, and I held services in the rink. The power of God was felt for fifty miles round. Thousands of souls were brought into the light of God. The Sabbath we closed God gave us a pentecost. The Holy Ghost fell on the multitude that had crowded in the rink and around the door. The power of God had been poured out in all the meetings, and “signs and wonders” followed and rested upon the people. The Holy Ghost sat upon the blood-washed sons and daughters of the Lord Almighty.

In two hours five hundred converts had testified that they knew they were saved by the power of God, and happy on their way to heaven. Many fell under the power of the Holy Ghost while speaking. Many fell in all parts of the house. Old men and women wept aloud. Others shouted, and sinners cried for mercy. All classes were stricken down in the meetings; many church members and ministers of different denominations, not

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 only in the meetings, but in the city and miles away. They had wonderful visions of hell and heaven, and many of the deep things of God. As they stood and told these visions the fear of God fell upon the people, and hundreds were convicted and brought to Christ.

One minister on his way home stopped ten miles away with some friends who had been to the meeting; while there, he fell in a trance The news soon spread. The neighbors gathered in. One left his plow and went in. He had been fighting off conviction. As he looked at his minister lying like one dead, the Spirit of God showed him if he was not converted before he come out of the trance he would be lost forever. He fell on his knees and called upon God to save him. Others followed. The house became a mourner’s bench. Soon their mourning was turned to shouts of praise. Before the minister came back from his visit to heaven, the news had been shouted around the throne: “Sinners are coming home to God.” This is only one instance out of hundreds where God has started a revival far away from the meetings, by striking some one down in a trance. The great revival at Cornelius’ house was all brought about by two trances, one a sinner, the other a saint, though they were many miles apart at the time. God used three visions to bring about the conversion of Saul. If I would write all the mighty works of God, I would have to write a book for each meeting.

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XIV.]

Alighting at the minster, they stood down on the grass.

Unto her guests Brunhilda so far right friendly was.

Into the wide cathedral, wearing their crowns of state,

They went: ere long love changéd to jealousy and hate.

When they to mass had listen’d they left the church, and so

Rode off with many honours. One saw them later go

All gaily to the banquet. Their pleasure knew no stay,

And all was merrymaking until the eleventh day.

Before the hour of vespers one day the tumult loud

Was heard, of many warriors, who in the court did crowd.

Their knightly feats they practised to pass the time away:

And many a man and woman ran up to watch the play.

The noble queens were seated together, side by side,

They thought of two bold warriors, renownéd far and wide.

Then said the fair Kriemhilda: “I have indeed a lord

Who rightly is the ruler of all this kingdom broad.”

Then cried the Lady Brunhild: “Howe’er could such thing be,

Unless there were none living but only thou and he?

Beneath his rule the kingdom might fall in such a case:

So long as Gunther liveth, it could not come to pass.”


text: The Lay of the Nibelungs/Chapter 13

title: The Lay of the Nibelungs/Chapter 13