Encouraged by Susan's softer expression, Uncle went on, embroidering his theme with pardonable exaggeration, setting forth prodigious statistics. Millions of babes died for lack of proper care, millions survived infancy to become rickety, misformed, wretched children. And the war was going to change all this. A nation bled white of its men must make the care of children its first and paramount consideration. When he had finished, Susan was so impressed that she said commandingly: "'Tis true. And your duty be plain, Habakkuk." "Meanin', Susan,----?" "You step up so brisk as may be to Home Farm. You see Mr. Fishpingle. You tell 'un that my gran'child needs pure milk, and, if you don't get it, your powers o' speech bain't what you crack 'em up to be." "Come wi' me, Susan. 'Twill blow some cobwebs out of 'ee." "No; I sets in this house till----" "Till when, you broody old hen?" "Till Fancy be better." After some protest, Uncle went his way alone, but he whistled as he strode along, the jolly optimist. Next Sunday he would see Susan in her pew. Soon there would be a christening, and word would come from Alfred. Uncle now shared with the Squire the conviction that Alfred, probably rushing ahead of his men, had been surrounded by Proosians and overpowered. Upon the Tuesday, the Squire received a telegram from London, which he shewed to his wife: "Yellam not a prisoner." The telegram was signed by one of the most honoured names in England. Lady Pomfret sighed. The Squire fussed and fumed, detesting mystery. "What does it mean, Mary? If he isn't a prisoner, where the dooce is he? I have his Colonel's word for it that all the dead and wounded were brought in. This telegram is equally reliable. I ask you, where is Alfred Yellam?" "Shell-shock affects some of them very strangely." "What d'ye mean by that, my dear?" "You remember John Boyce?"