The next minute they were walking down the drive together.
As they passed the end of the house, he remembered the words which he had once used to his sisters, "After seven generations you simply can't keep them away.

It's bred in the bone." A thrill ran over him as he looked at the little figure by his side.
"If she had only been a boy!" he breathed.
At the end of the drive he stopped.
"You must go back now, dear." "No," said Mary and tried to pull him on.
For as long as it might take you to count five, Josiah stood there irresolute, Mary's fingers pulling him one way and the memory of poor Martha's fate pulling him the other.
"And yet," he thought, "she's bound to see it sometime.

Perhaps better now--before she understands--than later--" He lifted her and sat her on his arm.
"Now, listen, little woman," he said as they gravely regarded each other.
"This is important.

If I take you this morning, will you promise to be a good girl, and sit in the office, and not go wandering off by yourself?
Will you promise me that ?" This, too, may have been heredity, going back as far as Eve: Still gravely regarding him she nodded her head in silence and promised him with a kiss.

He set her down, her hand automatically slipping into his palm again, and together they walked to the factory.
The road made a sharp descent to the interval by the side of the river, almost affording a bird's-eye view of the buildings below--lines of workshops of an incredible length, their ventilators like the helmets of an army of giants.
A freight train was disappearing into one of the warehouses.