he country. Where are all the people? Are
they all in town? Some cows are browsing in the pastures, and sheep
scurry about as the train flies by, but where are the people who have
made this great garden?"

"You must remember," explained Chester's companion, "all this has not
been done hurriedly by many people within a short time. What the
Englishman doesn't do today he can do tomorrow; and so centuries of work
by a few men has produced what we see."

"Well, I do occasionally see a few slow-moving men and women, somberly
clad in grays and browns. These, I suppose, are the sturdy supporters of
their country."

"Here is something I clipped from an American magazine," said Elder
Malby, "which impressed me with its peculiar truth." He read:

"'England is London says one, England is Parliament says another,
England is the Empire says still another; but if I be not much mistaken,
this stretch of green fields, these hills and valleys, these hedges and
fruit trees, this soft landscape, is the England men love. In India and
Canada, in their ships at sea, in their knots of soldiery all over the
world, Englishmen must close their eyes at times, and when they do, they
see these fields green and brown, these hedges dusted with the soft
snow of blossoms, these houses hung with roses and ivy, and when the
eyes open, they are moist with these memories. The pioneer, the sailor,
the soldier, the colonist may fight, and struggle and suffer, and
proclaim his pride in his new home and possessions, but these are the
love of a wife, of children, of friends; that other is the love, with
its touch of adoration, that is not less nor more, but still different,
that mysterious mingling of care for, and awe of, the one who brought
you into the world.

"'This is the England, I take it, that makes one feel his duty to be his
religion, and the England that every American comes to as to a shrine.
When this is sunk in the sea, or trampled over by a host of invading
Germans, or mauled into bankruptcy by pandering politicians and sour
socialists, one of the most delightful spots in the whole world will
have been lost, and no artist ever be able to paint such a picture
again, for nowhere else is there just this texture of canvas, just this
quality if pigment, just these fifteen centuries of atmosphere.' I think
this sums it up nicely," commented Elder Malby.

"Ireland is a pretty fine country, too," said Chester, with far-away
tone, still gazing out