"So I did. A sharp 'un you be, for sartain. 'Tis true. Where would pore Garge be if I hadn't begotten 'un? And 'twas my brave will as sent 'un to Salisbury to enlist. But I gives the Lard the credit for pickin' such a man as I be for Garge's father. And Garge's valorous deed was a marvellous miracle upsides wi' they young ospreys findin' their way to our clump o' firs." "You ought to be a preacher, Uncle." "Ah-h-h! 'Tis easy for me to preach, allers was; but practisin' be the devil. Me and Pa'son be o' the same mind about that. But how I be wanderin' from my text! We was talkin' of fool-wisdom and your dear mother-in-law." "She's my mother now." "Ay. And I bain't fit to black her boots when it comes to practisin'. I knows that. But she ain't got fool-wisdom, as I calls it." Fancy considered this attentively. Uncle puffed at his pipe, glancing at Fancy's pensive face. He saw that he had puzzled her, and pulled himself together for another effort. "'Tis like this. Susan be proud because she thinks as she walks wi' God A'mighty. She takes credit for that, pore soul! Now, I be proud and so humble as a bee when the Lard sees fit to walk wi' me. That be my fool-wisdom, Fancy." "I see." And she did. Uncle's naïve remarks were illuminating. She could look back, by the light of fool-wisdom, and sort out innumerable, half-forgotten trifles, unconsidered at the time, which corroborated, almost disconcertingly, this--what could she call it? Yes--vaingloriousness on the part of Mrs. Yellam. Another word, in every-day use amongst the "boys," bustled into her mind--"swank." She smiled. It seemed a wicked word to apply to such a majestic woman, and yet it was just right. Mrs. Yellam did "swank" whenever she talked of herself or Alfred. She had won first prize for the best village garden at the annual Flower Show, discontinued since the outbreak of war, because, so she told Fancy, she tended her vegetables herself. Alfred's robust health, his sobriety, his capacity for steady work, his churchgoing, his pleasant manners with neighbours--all these were feathers in Mrs. Yellam's cap, placed there by herself! She was set on guiding herself and others, admittedly a leader. Uncle was right. His dear sister did not walk humbly with the Lord. Hamlin's sermon had not been forgotten by Fancy. His son's death had made it an imperishable memory. And Mrs. Yellam, it will be recalled, had shrewdly suspected that the Parson had aimed a shaft or two at her. Had he? Could it be possible that this wonderful old woman's soul was lean? Naturally Fancy shrank from such a conclusion. To lighten her mind, and with the intention of extracting more fool-wisdom from Uncle, she said mischievously: "Uncle----?" "Yas, my dear----?" "What takes a man to the ale-house? Fool-wisdom?"