ill jingles in his pocket a dozen coins, with which he may do
exactly as he likes. Now it is in the expenditure of that margin of
money--as, in the other case, it was in the expenditure of that margin
of leisure--that the real man will reveal himself. It is the use to
which he puts that margin that declares his true character and
determines the contribution that he, as an individual citizen, will
make to the national weal or woe.

Now, if this broadening margin means anything at all, it means that the
responsibilities of the Church are increasing. For the Church is
essentially the Mistress of the Margin. Concerning the expenditure of
the hours occupied with labour, and concerning the money spent in the
actual requisites of life, the statesman may have something to say.
Legislation may deal with the hours of labour and the rate of wages.
It may even influence the precise amount of the butcher's or the
baker's bills. But when it comes to the hours that follow toil, and to
the cash that remains after the principal accounts have been paid, the
legislator finds himself in difficulties. He has come to the end of
his tether. He cannot direct the people as to how to spend their spare
cash. And, as we have seen, it is just this spare time and spare cash
that determine everything. It is the dominating and deciding factor in
the whole situation. It is manifest, therefore, that, important as are
the functions of statesmanship, the really fundamental factors of
individual conduct and of national life elude the most searching
enactments of the most vigilant legislators. As the hours of labour
shorten, and the margin of spare cash increases, the authority of the
legislator becomes less and less; and the need for some force that
shall shape the moral tone of the people becomes greater and greater.
If the Church cannot supply that force, and become the Mistress of the
Margin, the outlook is by no means reassuring. On one phase of this
matter of the margin the Church holds a wonderful secret. She knows
that there are people who, through no fault of their own, are
marginless. They have neither a moment nor a penny to spare.
Sickness, trouble, and the war of the world have been too much for
them. They are right up against the wall; and they know it. But the
matter does not end there. I remember once entering a dingy little
dwelling in the slums of London. In the squalid room a cripple girl
sat sewing, and as she sewed she