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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.


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