Mrs. Mucklow nodded, looking whimsically at Fancy.
"You hear that, my girl? 'Tis the bone they look for. A man's heart lies in his stomach. Feed up Alferd so long as he behaves himself. I says nothing about the power o' prayer, seein' as generally speaking my most powerful prayers ain't been answered as I could wish, but fasting do wonnerful work, especially wi' men."
Uncle laughed again.
Marriage, however, seemed reasonably remote. Fancy wished to "make good" in her new place. Alfred, very comfortable at home, intended to work hard for a year at least, laying the solid foundations of a business likely to be bigger than he had ever dreamed it to be. Mrs. Yellam, moreover, had spoken plainly and sensibly to her son.
"She be a sweet maid, Alferd, but tarribly spindlin', a slip o' muslin, and young for her years."
"Twenty-two, Mother."
"I knows that. And I minds that her mother died, pore soul, when Fancy was born. A bottle-baby; and I never did hold wi' that. Don't 'ee look so glum. She be plumper a'ready. Pa'son give his maids good plain food, and our air blowing over downs be better nor strong ale for such as she."
"You do love her, Mother?"
"In course I do, and I'm doing my duty by her and you when I tells 'ee that she ain't marriage-ripe, nor likely to be for many months to come. If I was only thinking o' myself, my son, I'd be laying out your wedding sheets this day. Squire and me has many things in common, and this afore all: we likes to see red-cheeked little 'uns coming on."
"You're a wonderful, farseeing woman. Fair aching I am for her, the pretty dear, but wait we must for matrimonial joys, and wait we shall. That's certain."