As he spoke, he was sensible that an older, more experienced woman might have turned upon him fiercely, asking him if such an abstention, whether voluntary or forced, was to be commended. And when Prudence left his encircling arm and lifted widely-opened eyes to his, he almost winced before their mute interrogation. But the maid only murmured gently: “That be true. Uncle Ben, dear, whatever made ’ee stay single? Do tell!” Should he speak or hold his peace? Her violence had affected him most strangely, broken down barriers of silence, self-imposed. The wish to speak gripped him. And the right word at such a moment might be a warning now and a solace hereafter if—if his plans went agley. He said very quietly: “My Christian name is Benoni.” Prudence observed promptly— “Benoni, so mother tells me, come slam-bang out o’ the Holy Book.” “Yes. Did your mother tell you what Benoni means?” She shook her head. “It means in Hebrew—a son of sorrow.” She stared at him, trying to interpret a new and strange kinsman. Pity informed her face, and then she smiled, recalling the old and familiar Uncle Ben. “But you bain’t sorrowful, dear heart.” “I hope not. I count myself, Prue, a happy man. But sorrow brought me into the world, sorrow brought me to Nether Applewhite.” As her imagination grappled with his calm statement, Fishpingle sat down. She knelt beside him, forgetting her own troubles as she gazed anxiously into his kind face. “Surely your mother has given you some—hint?” Prudence affirmed positively that this was not the case. She added proudly that her mother was no talker; one who kept herself to herself as became a respectable mother of ten. Fishpingle continued: “Your grandmother was my mother’s sister.” “I know that.” “My mother was the prettiest maid in Nether Applewhite; clever, too, quick with her tongue, as you are—and quick with her needle, as you aren’t.” “Now, Uncle Ben!” His voice lost its more familiar intonations and became impersonal and dreamy. “She became lady’s maid to Sir Geoffrey’s grandmother, Lady Alicia Pomfret. She went about with her everywhere. She ran away with my father. And when I was born she—died.” Prudence shivered. “Oh, dear! You never saw your own mother?” He picked up the miniature. “This, child, is her portrait.” Prudence looked at it and kissed it. “Thank you, Prue,” said Fishpingle. He took the miniature from her and placed it with the letters in the tin box. “Before my mother died, she sent for Lady Alicia, her old mistress. Her ladyship took charge of me and brought me here.” “But your father, Uncle Ben? Didn’t he want you?” “He was not his own master. He married again later on. A small provision was made for me, not much. That is all. What I have told you is between our two selves. Promise?” “I promise and vow! But why didn’t you marry? A man must love somebody.” “I have loved Sir Geoffrey, Master Lionel, her ladyship and you.”