stones give no sign. One never stops to read an epitaph on one of them;
one knows it would not be interesting, or really whisper to one the
strange, happy, human things of another world--even of this world, that
make the old tombstones such good company and so friendly to us. One
gives a glance at the stone and passes on. It was made by machinery,
apparently; a machine might have designed it, a machine might have died
and been buried under it. One looks beyond it at all the others like
it--all the glib, competent-looking white stones. Were the silenced
people all machines under them, all mechanical, all made to a pattern
like their stones, like these strangely hard, brief tombstones standing
here at their heads, summing up their lives before us curtly,
heartlessly, on this gentle old hillside?

I wondered.

I looked back to the old eloquent cemetery that almost seemed to be
breathing things, and looked once more at the new.

And as I stood and thought, they seemed to me to be two worlds--one the
world the people all about me are always saying sadly is going by, and
the other--well, the one we will have to have.

* * * * *

As I look off from the hilltop at the great sloping countryside about
me, which stretches miles and miles, with its green fields, and bushy
treetops, its red roofs, its banners of steam from twenty railways, its
huge, grim, furious chimneys, its still, sleepy steeples, I also see two
worlds, the same two worlds over again that I saw in the churchyard,
except that they are all jumbled together--the complacent, capable,