About two weeks after Edward Hamlin's death, unexpected balm, very precious spikenard, was poured upon Mrs. Yellam's lacerated feelings. William Saint had got his desire and leanness of soul withal. Alfred's good business was his. When he drove past the Yellam cottage, Mrs. Yellam turned her face from the window, if she happened to be there. She told Uncle that she discerned a mocking smile, a contemptuous upper lip, upon that hard, yellow face. Uncle nodded, saying nothing. But leaving his sister's house, he laid a couple of fingers upon his biceps as he contracted the muscles of it. He smiled genially. His biceps still swelled hard and big as a cricket ball. And only the day before he had been out running with the hounds. William Saint did not run. He walked to his objectives, the sort of tortoise, Uncle reflected, who wins prizes from the more nimble hare. He was so pleasant with Jane that she suspected a frontal attack upon her money-box. Uncle, however, impetrated no loan. Later in the afternoon, when she went to the fowl-house to collect eggs, she surprised her lord and master, with his coat off, vigorously punching a sack of bran in the shed that adjoined the chicken-run. "Whatever be you doing?" she asked. Uncle grinned. "I be working off some ale, Jane. So thin stuff it be that I wants to get rid of it quick." "I thought you was gone mad." "Ah-h-h! Others may think that afore we be much older." To her further amazement, Uncle remained at home that evening instead of going to the _Sir John Barleycorn_. She wondered if he were sickening for an illness. Possibly, the Parson's sermon on lean souls had affected him. Presently Uncle's earnest words lent colour to this possibility. He observed didactically: "Hate be bad for the body. Parson got that notion from me. A man as hates his feller-men, and lies awake nights plottin' and plannin' evil, bain't never a fighter." "How about they Proosians?" Uncle riposted gaily: "I hain't one to misparage the enemy, but from what I hears, and you knows I hears more than most, they Proosians fights wi' wallopin' big guns, not wi' fisteses." "Who's talking o' fisteses?" "I be. I reckons as a man past sixty might well stand up to a Proosian not more'n thirty." "You ain't never thinking of enlisting, Habakkuk?" "No, no. I couldn't leave 'ee, Jane." "You takes keer o' yourself for my sake. I knows that. What be you thinking of?" "You'll know soon enough, old girl. I minds that time when I bruised meself so bad slidin' off a slippery roof bang on to a stone wall. You rubbed in some wonnerful stuff. Any of it left?" "Lard help us! I knew you'd miss your ale. You bain't never thinking o' drinking Helliman's Embrocation?" "Not yet. Have you the bottle handy?" Jane nodded; Uncle relapsed into silence, broken by rumblings and chucklings. He went to bed early and slept soundly.