"God send it may be so, Hamlin. This is a war between autocracy and democracy; and I don't believe in democracies, as you know." Hamlin remained silent. The Squire continued, more vehemently: "Can you mention one country that is a democracy? Is America a democracy?" "We shall know soon." "Is it a democracy to-day? Uncle Sam says so. But isn't America governed by the few and for the few? Do you call France a democracy after the revelations of this Caillaux trial? Are we a democracy, in the true sense? Perhaps Switzerland comes nearer the standard mark, but I know nothing about Switzerland. I have always distrusted profoundly the mob." "That may be at the root of the trouble. Distrust breeds distrust. If this war should open all eyes, if men should learn to see each other as they are--much alike in the mass--and not, not, as they blindly believe, essentially different, why, then this war will not have been waged in vain." Sir Geoffrey wrestled valiantly with these words. "I grope, Hamlin, I grope. It sounds humiliating when one is past sixty." Hamlin nodded. He was groping, too, but he had greater faith in human nature. He said hesitatingly: "The result of all wars, according to history, has been this: the poor emerge poorer; the rich richer. I hope that it will not be so after this world-war. And our energies should be directed to that end, Pomfret:--a more generous distribution of material wealth, a happier understanding between all classes, a breaking-down of barriers everywhere, not only as between man and man, but as between nation and nation." Sir Geoffrey jumped up, holding out his hand. "You are a good fellow, Hamlin, sound at core. I have often misjudged you in the past. Forgive me! The past, as we knew it, is dead. We will work together in the present." Hamlin rose quickly, grasping the outstretched hand. After discussing practical details concerning the lecture, they separated. The Squire strode on to the village, much heartened. The Parson sat down at his desk to write the Sunday morning sermon. For a time, he put no pen to paper. He leaned head upon hand, thinking deeply. Out of the dump-heap which was left of his pet theories, he tried to piece together some sort of mosaic pavement upon which he could stand. It was difficult to realise the change in himself, more difficult to realise the change in the Squire. But the change had taken place. What would be the effect on his parishioners? Who would help? Who would hinder? If this war meant the regeneration and reconstruction of the world, all were involved. He thought of the dead Pope, who had passed away without exciting a ripple of excitement outside the Vatican. What part would his successor play? Would the Church of England grasp a tremendous opportunity? Would the Nonconformists gird up their loins for the spiritual battle?