“No,” he said musingly.  “I never had a child!  And Sally, if I had it all to do over again, I’d marry again.  I’d have sons.  That’s the citizen’s duty.  Some day we’ll recognize it, and then you bearers of children will come into your own.  There’ll be recognition for every one of them, we’ll be the first nation to make our poor women proud and glad when a child is coming.  It’s got to be, Sally.”

Sally was listening politely, but she was not interested.  She had heard all this before, many times.  Dr. Ben’s extraordinary views upon the value of the family were familiar to every one in Monroe.  But her attention was suddenly aroused by the mention of her own name.

“Now, supposing that you and Joe take it into your heads to get married some day,” the doctor was saying, “how about children?”

Sally’s ready colour flooded her face.  She made no attempt to answer him.

“Would ye have them?” the old man asked impatiently.

“Why—­why, Dr. Ben, I don’t know!” Sally said in great confusion.  “I—­I suppose people do.”

“You suppose people do?” he asked scornfully.  “Don’t ye know they do?”

“Well, I don’t suppose any girl thinks very much of such things until she’s married,” Sally said firmly.  “Mama doesn’t like us to discuss—­”

“Doesn’t your mother ever talk to you about such things?” the old man demanded.

“Certainly not!” Sally answered with spirit.

“What does she talk to you about?” he asked amazedly.  “It’s your business in life, after all.  She’s not taught ye any other.  What does she expect ye to do—­learn it all after it’s too late to change?”

“All what?” Sally said, a little frightened, even a little sick.  He stopped his march, and looked at her with something like pity.

“All the needs of your soul and body,” he said kindly, “and your children’s souls and bodies.  Well! that’s neither here nor there.  But the fact is this, Sally:  I’ve no children of my own to raise.  And as ye very well know, I’ve got my own theories about putting motherhood on a different basis, a business basis.  I want you to let me pay you—­as the State ought to pay you—­three hundred a year for every child you bear.  I want to demonstrate to my own satisfaction, before I try to convince any Government, that if the child-bearing woman were put on a plane of economic value, her barren, parasite sister would speedily learn—­”

Sally had turned pale.  Now she rose in girlish dignity.

“I hope you’ll forgive me, Dr. Ben, for saying that I won’t listen to one word more.  I know you’ve been thinking about these things so long that you forget how outrageous they sound!  Motherhood is a sacred privilege, and to reduce it to—­”

“So is wifehood, Sally!” the old man interposed soothingly.

“Well,” she flashed back, “nobody’s paid for wifehood!”

“Oh, yes, my dear.  You can sue a man for not supporting you.  It’s done every day!”