'Well,' she continued, understanding that an explanation was expected of her, 'one has to learn things; knowledge doesn't come of itself.' 'Assuredly not,' he said, with evident pleasure and curiosity; 'even parent birds teach their brood the use of their wings, and how to build their nests.' 'I did not know that; but it is of men and women I am speaking. They are higher than birds and beasts.' 'Yes,' he said, in a reflective tone; 'it is so.' 'If the world were filled with nothing but old people, I wonder what sort of a world it would be!' 'It would soon be no world at all,' he said; and added, with good-humoured depreciation, 'and while it lasted it would be a very disagreeable world, if the inhabitants in any way resembled me.' 'Never mind that, uncle Bryan; perhaps some people try to make themselves out a great deal worse than they are. So, then, there _must_ be young people; that is a necessity.' 'As much a necessity as the seasons; it is the law of nature.' 'A good law?' 'Undoubtedly, young philosopher.' His manner was almost blithe. 'Well, then, to come back, as a friend of mine says. The young do not know what is right and wrong, and knowledge does not come of itself. Who teaches them?' 'The old,' he replied readily. 'Because they are more likely to know what is right and wrong.' 'For that reason, I should say. They have had more time to learn, and they have had more experience of the world.' 'Of course,' she said, 'and experience means wisdom. The old _must_ know better than the young.' 'Naturally.' 'And young people should be guided by old people?' 'It would be better if that were more generally done.' 'That is all I wanted to know.' Before many days were over, Jessie made her meaning apparent. She always accompanied my mother and me to church, and on the Sunday following this conversation she unmasked her battery. 'Uncle Bryan,' she said, while we were at breakfast, 'I want you to come to church with us this morning.' A startled look flashed into my mother's eyes; uncle Bryan stared at Jessie, and bit his lips. He did not reply immediately. 'Young ladies have many wants,' he said. 'But this is a good want,' she pleaded. There was nothing saucy or defiant in her tone or manner; both were very gentle. 'But this is a good want. You will come with us?' 'I will not come with you,' he replied sternly. 'Do you never go to church? 'Never.' 'Why?' 'That is my affair.' The corners of his lips began to twitch. 'Is it not good to go to church?' she asked, still in a gentle tone, her colour beginning to rise. I noted with consternation these familiar signs of the coming battle. The shock was the more bitter because, to all outward appearance, everything had been fair between them until this moment. Only the night before we had stopped up half an hour later than usual, because the time was passing very pleasantly to all of us.