"Made with your own pretty hands--and with all this mort o' servants tumblin' over one another to help ye. But 'tis nat'ral. . . . It came to nothing with me, but I know. And expectin' a boy o' course. . . . La! ye blushin' one, don't I know the way of it!" When Ruth's travail came on her the three were gathered by candle-light in Sir Oliver's dressing-room. Beyond the door, attended by her maid and a man-midwife, Ruth shut her teeth upon her throes. So the prologue opens. PROLOGUE. _Mrs. Josselin sits in an armchair, regarding the pattern of the carpet with a silly air of self-importance; Mrs. Strongtharm in a chair opposite. By the window Miss Quiney, pulling at her knuckles, stares out through the dark panes. A clock strikes_. _Miss Quiney (with a nervous start)_. Four o'clock . . . nine hours. . . . _Mrs. Strongtharm._ More. The pains took her soon after six. . . . When her bell rang I looked at the clock. I remember. _Miss Quiney_. My poor Ruth. _Mrs. Strongtharm_. Eh? The first, o' course. . . . But a long labour's often the best. _Miss Quiney_. There has not been a sound for hours. _Mrs. Strongtharm_. She's brave. They say, too, that a man-child, if he's a real strong one, will wait for daybreak; but that's old women's notions, I shouldn't wonder. _Miss Quiney_. A man-child? You think it will be? _Mrs. Strongtharm_. (She exchanges a glance with Mrs. Josselin, who has looked up suddenly and nods.) Certain. _Mrs. Josselin_. Certain, certain! I wonder, now, what they'll call him! After Sir Oliver, perhaps. Her own father's name was Michael. In my own family--that's the Pocock's--the men were mostly Williams and Georges. Called after the Kings of England. _Mrs. Strongtharm (yawns)_. Oliver Cromwell was as good as any king, and better. Leastways my mar says so. For my part, I don't bother my head wi' these old matters. _Miss Quiney (tentatively)_. Do you know, I was half hoping it would be a girl, just like my darling. _(To herself)_ God forgive me, when I think-- _Mrs. Strongtharm (interrupting the thought)_. _She_ won't be hoping for a girl. You don't understand these things, beggin' your pardon, ma'am. _Miss Quiney (meekly)_. No. _Mrs. Josselin_. You don't neither of you understand. How should you? _Mrs. Strongtharm (stung)_. I understand as well as a fool, I should hope! _(She turns to Miss Quiney.)_ 'Twas a nat'ral wish in ye, ma'am, that such a piece o' loveliness should bear just such another. But wait a while; they're young and there's time. . . . My lady wants a boy first, like every true woman that loves her lord. There's pride an' wonder in it. All her life belike she's felt herself weak an' shivered to think of battles, and now, lo an' behold, she's the very gates o' strength with an army marchin' forth to conquer the world. Ha'n't ye never caught your breath an' felt the tears swellin' when ye saw a regiment swing up the street?