rto what a
human being is, and to what he may aspire. Truer relationships gleamed.
Perhaps the last word would be hope--hope even on this side of the
grave.

Meanwhile, she could take an interest in the survivors. In spite of her
Christmas duties, in spite of her brother, the Wilcoxes continued to
play a considerable part in her thoughts. She had seen so much of them
in the final week. They were not "her sort," they were often suspicious
and stupid, and deficient where she excelled; but collision with them
stimulated her, and she felt an interest that verged into liking, even
for Charles. She desired to protect them, and often felt that they could
protect her, excelling where she was deficient. Once past the rocks of
emotion, they knew so well what to do, whom to send for; their hands
were on all the ropes, they had grit as well as grittiness and she
valued grit enormously. They led a life that she could not attain
to--the outer life of "telegrams and anger," which had detonated when
Helen and Paul had touched in June, and had detonated again the other
week. To Margaret this life was to remain a real force. She could not
despise it, as Helen and Tibby affected to do. It fostered such virtues
as neatness, decision, and obedience, virtues of the second rank, no
doubt, but they have formed our civilisation. They form character, too;
Margaret could not doubt it; they keep the soul from becoming sloppy.
How dare Schlegels despise Wilcoxes, when it takes all sorts to make a
world?

"Don't brood too much," she wrote to Helen, "on the superiority of
the unseen to the seen. It's true, but to brood on it is medieval. Our
business is not to contrast the two, but to reconcile them."

Helen replied that she had no intention of brooding on such a dull
subject. What did her sister take her for? The weather was magnificent.
She and the Mosebachs had gone tobogganing on the only hill that
Pomerania boasted. It was fun, but over-crowded, for the rest of
Pomerania had gone there too. Helen loved the country, and her letter
glowed with physical exercise and poetry. She spoke of the scenery,
quiet, yet august; of the snow-clad fields, with their scampering herds
of deer; of the river and its quaint entrance into the Baltic Sea; of
the Oderberge, only three hundred feet high, from which one slid all too
quickly back into the Pomeranian plains, and yet these Oderberge were
real mountains, with pine-forests, streams, and views complete. "It