She smiled grimly. Uncle really thought that the thaw had set in. He continued joyously:
"You listen to me, Susan; I've an upliftin' message for 'ee, and it consarns what your thoughts be dwellin' on—the baby upstairs. Pa'son made that plain this marning to us old sticks. The Babe of Bethlehem brought good cheer and peace to a wicked world ten thousand years ago, and the peace o' this world, seemin'ly, lies wi' the little 'uns. And we be bound to take extry good care o' they. I tell 'ee, Pa'son talked so warm about babes that I felt it in me to raise another family."
"On pure cream?" asked Susan. But, at last, he had challenged her attention.
"Ah-h-h! You has your joke. But babes be goin' to be our salvation. 'Tis a brave, true notion. What makes a pack o' hounds, Susan? The young drafts. If they be lackin' in bone and blood, they turns out skirters, and presently the pack be streamin' all over country, runnin' riot, chasin' everything and catchin' nothing. And so, old girl, when you sets your gert mind on what milk to give lil' Lizzie, you be sarvin' the Lard and your country."
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——"