strance after she had once tried to caution him against
too fond a hope. She saw how bitterly he would be disappointed in case
it should prove to be a girl. He was, however, so fixed on the point
that she determined to say no more. After all, it might be a boy; the
chances were equal. The Squire would not listen to any one else at all;
so as the time went on his idea was more firmly fixed than ever. His
arrangements were made on the base that he would have a son. The name
was of course decided. Stephen had been the name of all the Squires of
Normanstand for ages--as far back as the records went; and Stephen the
new heir of course would be.

Like all middle-aged men with young wives he was supremely anxious as the
time drew near. In his anxiety for his wife his belief in the son became
passive rather than active. Indeed, the idea of a son was so deeply
fixed in his mind that it was not disturbed even by his anxiety for the
young wife he idolised.

When instead of a son a daughter was born, the Doctor and the nurse, who
knew his views on the subject, held back from the mother for a little the
knowledge of the sex. Dame Norman was so weak that the Doctor feared
lest anxiety as to how her husband would bear the disappointment, might
militate against her. Therefore the Doctor sought the Squire in his
study, and went resolutely at his task.

'Well, Squire, I congratulate you on the birth of your child!' Norman
was of course struck with the use of the word 'child'; but the cause of
his anxiety was manifested by his first question:

'How is she, Doctor? Is she safe?' The child was after all of secondary
importance! The Doctor breathed more freely; the question had lightened
his task. There was, therefore, more assurance in his voice as he
answered:

'She is safely through the worst of her trouble, but I am greatly anxious
yet. She is very weak. I fear anything that might upset her.'

The Squire's voice came quick and strong:

'There must be no upset! And now tell me about my son?' He spoke the
last word half with pride, half bashfully.

'Your son is a daughter!' There was silence for so long that the Doctor
began to be anxious. Squire Norman sat quite still; his right hand
resting on the writing-table before him became clenched so hard that the
knuckles looked white and the veins red. After a long slow breath he
spoke:

'She, my daughter, is well?' The Doctor answered with cheerful alacrity: