Mr. Rosewarne leant forward, and picking up a pen, docketed the paper with the day of the month and the year. He then pulled out a drawer on the left-hand side of his knee-hole table, selected a packet labelled "Complimentary, P. B."--his clerk's initials--slipped the new verses under the elastic band containing similar contributions of twenty years, replaced the packet, and shut the drawer. The little greyhound, displaced by these operations, sprang again to his knees, and he fell to fondling her ears. "I do not think there will be many more miles, Benny," said he, reaching for the cider-jug. "But let us drink to the rest of the way." "A great many, I hope, sir," remonstrated Mr. Benny. "And, sir--talking about milestones--you will be pleased to hear that Mrs. Benny was confined this morning. A fine boy." "That must be the ninth at least." "The eleventh, sir--six girls and five boys: besides three buried." "Good Lord!" "They bring their love with them, sir, as the saying is." "And as the saying also is, Benny, it would be more to the purpose if they brought their boots and shoes. Man, you must have a nerve, to trust Providence as you do!" "It's a struggle, sir, as you can guess; but except to your kindness in employing me, I am beholden to no man. I say it humbly--the Lord has been kind to me." Rosewarne looked up for a moment and with a curious eagerness, as though on the point of putting a question. He suppressed it, however. "It seems to me," he said slowly, "in this question of many children or few there's a natural conflict between the private man and the citizen; yes, that's how I put it--a natural conflict. I don't believe in Malthus or any talk about over-population. A nation can't breed too many sons. Sons are her strength, and if she is to whip her rivals it will be by the big battalions. Therefore, as I argue it out, a good citizen should beget many children. But now turn to the private side of it. A man wants to do the best for his own; and whatever his income, he can do better for two children than for half a dozen. To be sure, he mayn't turn 'em out as he intended."-- Here Rosewarne paused for a while unwittingly, as his eyes fell on the packet of letters in Mr. Benny's hand. The uppermost--the business letter which he had just signed--was addressed to his only son. "--But all the same," he went on, "he has fitted them out and given them a better chance in the struggle for life. The devil takes the hindmost in this world, Benny. I'd like to lend you a book of Darwin's--the biggest book of this century, and a new gospel for the next to think out. The conclusion is that the spoils go to the strongest. You may help a man for the use you can make of him, but in the end every man's your natural enemy." "A terrible gospel, sir! I shall have to get along with the old one, which says, 'Bear ye one another's burdens.'"