She slipped from his knee, fetched a foot-stool, and sat down upon it, clasping his hand in hers.
“Tell about eugannicks, Uncle Ben.”
For the second time that morning he noticed that the maid was in sunlight, whereas he sat in shadow. And her voice, eager, youthful, vibrant with feeling, seemed to ring out of the sunlight, whereas his own grave inflections floated quietly out of the shadowy past.
“It would come better from your mother, Prue.”
“Mother be manglin’ to-day. ’Tis easier to talk to ’ee than her, so busy she be from marnin’ till night. An’ I brought my troubles to ’ee, Uncle Ben, when I was a lil’ maid. Squire said that a marriage ’atween cousins ’d be dis—astrous. If he were talkin’ eugannicks, why then I hate an’ despise eugannicks—yas, I do.”
“He was talking eugenics. Sir Geoffrey is a great gentleman, Prue. There are not many left like him. He lives on his own land, he spends all his money amongst his own people.”
Prudence said sharply:
“Squire ain’t too much to spend, seeminly.”
“True enough. He’s land poor. It’s been a struggle ever since I can remember. And I’ve been here all my life. And I know Squire better—better than he knows himself.”
Prudence observed more cheerfully: