Prudence observed more cheerfully: “We all says that.” He pressed her hand. She divined somehow that he was speaking with difficulty, speaking rather to himself than to her, conjuring up a picture which she beheld but dimly. “You are little more than a child, but have you ever thought of what it means when two persons live together and work together for fifty years?” “I have thought o’ that lately, Uncle Ben.” “Eugenics begin there, my maid. Two persons living together and working together, not entirely for themselves but for others. Now, Prue, have you thought of the others?” “What others?” she whispered. “Your—children.” “Ye—es. But I hope there won’t be too many o’ they, uncle.” “Mind your grammar. You speak well enough before the quality. Now, child, I’ve broken the ice for a modest maid. Eugenics mean care and thought for those who come after us. Sir Geoffrey looks upon all of you as his children. He gave up the hounds to build more cottages. He takes a real interest in every colt and lamb and calf and child born in Nether Applewhite.” Prudence considered this, with her head on one side. “He must get fair dazed and mazed, pore man,” she declared. “Occasionally he does. Look at me, Prue.” She lifted her clear eyes to his, listening attentively as he went on— “Rightly or wrongly, Sir Geoffrey dislikes marriages between folk who are near of kin.” Prudence pouted. “’Tis right and proper that a maid may not marry her granfer, but cousins——” Fishpingle tried to explain that any taint, any predisposition to disease, is likely to come out with greater virulence in the children of those persons who are of kin. Prudence, however, remained unconvinced. She jumped up and stood proudly before him. “But, Uncle Ben, we be strong and hearty as never was, me and Alfie.” “If I can make that clear to Sir Geoffrey——” “To be sure you can, and you will.” To her amazement and distress his tone, as he answered her, sounded unconvincing and troubled. “Perhaps. I—I hope so. He can be very—obstinate.” “You be more obstinate than he.” Tears formed in her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. Fishpingle was not proof against this. Suddenly she flung herself into his arms, sobbing passionately. Between her sobs he could hear a strangled voice repeating miserably: “I can’t live without Alfie, no, I can’t.” He stroked her head till she grew calmer. He was wondering, not for the first time, at the force of love, its violence in primitive natures, its effect upon such an artless maid as this, and lastly the danger involved in thwarting and diverting from its normal channel so devastating a stream. And the resolution to help this confiding, helpless creature gathered increasing will-power and direction. When she grew calmer, he said softly: “You can’t live without Alfred? Come, come, I have lived all these years without a wife.”