ne and profitable life; if they can't work a revolution in
the spirit of our education, they'll do no good. There'll be lots of
talk and tinkering, tariffs and tommy-rot, and, underneath, the land-bred
men dying, dying all the time. No, madam, industrialism and vested
interests have got us! Bar the most strenuous national heroism, there's
nothing for it now but the garden city!"

"Then if we WERE all heroic, 'the Land' could still be saved?"

Mr. Cuthcott smiled.

"Of course we might have a European war or something that would shake
everything up. But, short of that, when was a country ever consciously
and homogeneously heroic--except China with its opium? When did it ever
deliberately change the spirit of its education, the trend of its ideas;
when did it ever, of its own free will, lay its vested interests on the
altar; when did it ever say with a convinced and resolute heart: 'I will
be healthy and simple before anything. I will not let the love of sanity
and natural conditions die out of me!' When, Miss Freeland, when?"

And, looking so hard at Nedda that he almost winked, he added:

"You have the advantage of me by thirty years. You'll see what I shall
not--the last of the English peasant. Did you ever read 'Erewhon,' where
the people broke up their machines? It will take almost that sort of
national heroism to save what's left of him, even."

For answer, Nedda wrinkled her brows horribly. Before her there had come
a vision of the old, lame man, whose name she had found out was Gaunt,
standing on the path under the apple-trees, looking at that little
something he had taken from his pocket. Why she thought of him thus
suddenly she had no idea, and she said quickly:

"It's awfully interesting. I do so want to hear about 'the Land.' I only
know a little about sweated workers, because I see something of them."

"It's all of a piece," said Mr. Cuthcott; "not politics at all, but
religion--touches the point of national self-knowledge and faith, the
point of knowing what we want to become and of resolving to become it.
Your father will tell you that we have no more idea of that at present
than a cat of its own chemical composition. As for these good people
here to-night--I don't want to be disrespectful, but if they think
they're within a hundred miles of the land question, I'm a--I'm a
Jingo--more I can't say."

And, as if to cool his head, he leaned out of the window.

"Nothing is nicer than darkn