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: 'Splendid!--I never saw a finer child in my life.

She will be a comfort and an honour to you!' The Squire spoke again: 'What does her mother think?
I suppose she's very proud of her ?' 'She does not know yet that it is a girl.

I thought it better not to let her know till I had told you.' 'Why ?' 'Because--because--Norman, old friend, you know why! Because you had set your heart on a son; and I know how it would grieve that sweet young wife and mother to feel your disappointment.

I want your lips to be the first to tell her; so that on may assure her of your happiness in that a daughter has been born to you.' The Squire put out his great hand and laid it on the other's shoulder.
There was almost a break in his voice as he said: 'Thank you, my old friend, my true friend, for your thought.