John Turnham's fears would never be his--this jealous care of a transient bodily beauty.

Polly was neither too rare nor too fair for her woman's lot; and, please God, the day would come when he would see her with a whole cluster of little ones round her--little dark-eyed replicas of herself.

She, bless her, should dandle and cosset them to her heart's content.

Her joy in them would also be his..