cut-out, homeless-looking houses, the little snuggled-down old ones with
their happy trees about them and trails of cooking smoke. I see the same
two worlds standing and facing each other before me whichever way I
turn.

And when I slip out of the churchyard from those two little separate
worlds of the dead, and move slowly down the long bustling village
street, and look into the faces of the living, the same two worlds that
were in the churchyard and on the hills seem to look at me out of the
faces of the living too.

The faces go hurrying past me, worlds apart. Most people, I imagine, who
read these pages must have noticed the people's faces in the streets
nowadays--how they seem to have come out of separate worlds into the
street a moment, and hurry past, and seem to be going back in a moment
more to separate worlds.

There is hardly even a village footway left anywhere to-day where one
cannot see these two worlds, or the spirit of these two worlds, flitting
past one through the streets in people's faces, and nightly before our
eyes, struggling with each other to possess, to swallow away into itself
human souls, to master the fate of man upon the earth.

One of these is the World of the Hand-made; the other is the
Machine-made World.

* * * * *

As day by day I watch these two worlds with all their people in them
flocking past me, I have come to have certain momentary but recurrent