Fancy said slily:

"But, Uncle, you took credit for George getting the Victoria Cross."

"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' G.o.d 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 nave 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--"sw.a.n.k." She smiled. It seemed a wicked word to apply to such a majestic woman, and yet it was just right. Mrs. Yellam did "sw.a.n.k" 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?"

Uncle threw back his handsome head and roared with laughter. But fool-wisdom told him that this was the right way to tackle a backslider.

What a pity that Jane disdained indirect methods! He shook a long forefinger in a smiling face.

"You lil' besom----! Now, if Alferd ever takes a notion to drink more ale than be strictly needful to slake a pleasant thirst, you poke just such fun at 'un, and smile at 'un, as you be smilin' at an old sinner this minute. My wife be a good, faithful 'ooman, but vartue wi' her be turned sourish, like that there clarety wine, the only liquor as never did lie easy on my good stomach. Maybe I married her latish in life. And cooks, from stewin' over fire, do seem to overbake their livers and lights. Anyways, hard looks drive a man to ale-house; smiles keep 'un at home. I admits to you, Fancy, but never a word to Jane, mind 'ee, that ale be my weakness. 'Twould be blasphemious to say that the Lard ever walked wi' me _to_ an ale-house, except on one very notable occasion, but 'tis a fact that in His Marcy He have walked wi' me _from_ the _Sir John Barleycorn_. And now you has it."

"Tell me about the notable exception."

"Ah-h-h! You knows. The Lard walked wi' me when I downscrambled Willum Saint. I gives He the credit. He put the notion into my head o' flingin'

Willum's ale into Willum's face, and bashin' 'un wi' his own tankard. I tell 'ee that notion come to me bang from Kingdom Come. My own notion was different. I calkilated on a stand-up fight. Willum might ha' downed me, being so young and strong a man. And I tells 'ee more, a lil'

secret, seein' as you has the trick o' squeezin' secrets out o' sinners: the Lard walks wi' me when I comes here to see you. And I be drinkin'

less ale in consekence."

With that he kissed Fancy and took his leave.

Solomon jumped into the warm, cushioned arm-chair. But, instead of curling himself up, he walked three times round the chair, and then sat up, with his head on one side glancing interrogatively at Fancy, as much as to say:

"If you want fool-wisdom, why not tap it at its source?"

Fancy eyed him reflectively. All day, the dog had behaved strangely. He never left Fancy for a moment. But, till now, he had seemed disinclined for conversation. And he had hardly touched his dinner. Again and again he had walked round the kitchen, whining a little. Fancy, supposing that he wished to go outside, had opened the door, but he remained with her, staring up at her, as if he had some message to deliver. Finally, she jumped to the conclusion that the dog must be feeling unwell, or, possibly, cats lay heavy on his conscience.

"What is it, Solomon?"

He whined.

"Got a pain, Solly?"

He regarded her sorrowfully. Till that moment Fancy had been happy and light-hearted. Uncle had cheered her up. And his parting remark was uplifting and unmistakable. G.o.d had seen fit to use her, Fancy Yellam, as a humble instrument whereby Uncle's thirst for ale became less importunate. A warm glow suffused her small body.

And now, suddenly, she felt chilled, uneasy, unhappy, merely because a dog gazed mournfully at her, as if he, the wicked little sinner, were grieving for her. Did he know that pain was coming to her inexorably? As the thought a.s.sailed her mind, so swiftly that she winced, Solomon's tail flickered. Not in joyousness. She divined that. In some uncanny fashion he was encouraging her to accept this thought of pain, to confront it valiantly, not to shrink from it.

"Do you know, Sol?" she whispered.

His tail flickered again. He leaped into her lap, and laid his head upon her bosom. She could feel his heart beating; her own heart beat with it.

Was this another amazing proof of fool-wisdom?

Peace came back to her. Humbly, she committed herself to the keeping of Omnipotence, thinking intently of her mother. Solomon never moved. She was intimately sensible that this dumb creature comforted her. She glanced into the shadows of the kitchen. Had her mother's face and figure formed themselves out of those shadows, she would not have been surprised or frightened. She expected to see her. The conviction stole slowly upon her that the mother stood near her, invisible, but a powerful protector. And from her would radiate hope and faith and love.

She would be with her in her travailings....

Presently, another thought stole upon her. As Mrs. Yellam said, Fancy had never seen her mother in the flesh. It seemed so cruel that she should have been taken at a moment when tiny lips were wailing for what she alone could give. From a child she had wanted her mother. To-night, for the first time, it flashed into her mind that, perhaps, her mother had wanted her--desperately. Just as she wanted her child. How bitter a disappointment it must be to forego the tender ministrations, the sweet services which only women know, and which, in their fool-wisdom, they count dearer than anything the world can bestow.

If--if anything went wrong, she would join her mother....

Solomon lay motionless, but his heart went on throbbing.

Why?

A last thought, the greatest, seemed to float direct from her mother's mind to hers. Alfred was facing death, daily, with a laugh, facing, too, the possibility of grinding pain. As a soldier's wife, she must try to be brave, like him....

Solomon moved restlessly, and then sprang to the floor. He wagged his tail briskly, as he took up a commanding position near the door. Mrs.

Yellam was approaching the cottage. If Fancy opened the door and looked out, she would not see her because it was dark. But she would not hear her, either. And if she called, Mrs. Yellam would not answer, being, as yet, too far away.

But Solomon knew.

Within five minutes, Susan Yellam entered, bringing with her an exhilarating atmosphere of keen, fresh air. Her cheeks were red; her eyes sparkled.

"Frost be coming, and maybe snow. I likes to see G.o.d A'mighty's world white and clean come Christmastide."

The old woman bustled about cheerfully, commanding Fancy to sit still.

She had brought with her a fat hen-pheasant, a gift from the Squire to Alfred's wife.

"Folks are very kind," said Fancy.

"Ah, well, 'tis easy to be kind when we be happy. Captain Pomfret walked wi' one crutch to-day. And they be drinking champagne for dinner. 'Tis the work o' that Lunnon doctor, so they say, a very wonnerful chap wi'

electrics, bridlin' the lightnin', so to speak. And they perfarms miracles wi' men's faces, manufacturin' noses and what-not just so easy as pats o' b.u.t.ter. Such fellers must be proud o' theirselves."

"Maybe Mr. Hamlin'll return thanks in church, next Sunday."

"More'n likely. I never thought o' that."