It is not easy to describe the sprite, because she presented a baffling combination of father and mother. Her native grace, her pretty colouring and delicate features, were a sweet inheritance from Susan; her quickness of wit, her powers of observation, her unmistakable sense of beauty—for she shrank tremblingly from what was mean or ugly—came from Quinney. Essentially she was a child of love, adored by both her parents, and, up to a certain point, spoiled by them. Mrs. Biddlecombe was fondly of the opinion that the child had taken from her parents what was best in each, buttressing the assertion by calling attention to the dash of red in the golden locks, and the peculiar alertness of the mite’s glance flashing hither and thither, searching for the things which delighted her, and acclaiming them when found with joyous chirruping and gestures. "Reg’lar butterfly!" said Quinney. "Dotty about flowers! Picks out the best, by Gum!" The first three years passed without incident. The business prospered. Quinney engaged a capable assistant, and began his travels. His restlessness affected Susan, but she accepted it resignedly. He was different from other men and not to be judged by ordinary standards. Argument was wasted upon him. She expostulated vainly when he began to change the furniture. The knowledge that each bit was more valuable and beautiful than its predecessor did not appeal to her at all. She beguiled him into talking about his business, feigning interest in its growth, but became increasingly conscious that the details bored her. The Dream Cottage, as she had pictured it, faded from memory. It had become a sort of small pantechnicon, a storehouse of precious objects which came and went, an annexe to the shop, to be kept swept and garnished for the entertainment and instruction of collectors. The garden, however, was her peculiar domain, diffusing its own satisfactions and graces. The kitchen and nursery were hers also. She was an excellent housewife, and made Posy’s frocks, and some of her own, despite the protests of Quinney, who babbled foolishly of satins and brocades. Undaunted by her awful experience, she hoped for another child. Upon this point Mrs. Biddlecombe had something to say. "I was an only child, you was an only child, your grandfather was an only child. It’s in the family. After what you went through——" "Joe would like a son, mother." "Has he hinted that to you?" "No." "You take it from me that he doesn’t." To Susan’s astonishment, Joe confirmed what had seemed a ridiculous assumption. After Josephina was weaned, Susan whispered to him one night: "I do miss my baby." "Enjoyed bein’ woke up—hey?" "Yes." "Like another, perhaps?" She detected the scorn in his voice. "If—if you wanted it, Joe. A little son this time." He caught hold of her, speaking vehemently, crushing her to him, as if to remind her how nearly she had slipped from his keeping.