With the spring, Josiah’s interest in the boy that resembled him grew ostentatiously. One Sunday afternoon, Jonas was accorded a puff of the paternal pipe. Gloatingly, he came over to Quincy, who sat sulking on the sofa, and blew into his face. Quincy observed that now Jonas’ breath was like his father’s. It hurt him. A favorite place for Jonas came to be his father’s knee. He would sit there and they would have long, mumbled converse together. Quincy would seek out his mother if she was present, and talk to her. Or if she was busy, he would press his face against the back of his chair and hold rival conversation with himself, biting the upholstery or punching it with emphatic fists--eager above all to appear indifferent. But all that he would be really conscious of was his father’s low chuckle and the shrill peal of Jonas’ laughter. “Do you like Dad?” the child asked his brother one evening, as Jonas stumbled noisily into their room. “He’s great!” came the answer. “I like mother,” said Quincy. “Do you, molly-boy?” And Quincy turned away his head in a flood of shame, tempered with pride. Toward their sisters also, there came to be a gulf in policy. Jonas was actively adverse to both Adelaide and Rhoda. Quincy, who also did not love them, feared them and was anxious above all to be left alone. But if they addressed him with kindness, or some slight show of interest, his enmity subsided. He became glad, eager to respond. This inclination brought him the criticism of his brother. Jonas was for warfare and a perpetual offensive. He criticized Quincy’s amiable bent. And his way of criticism was a sneer that cut. In Marsden, however, they had a common ground and a true grievance binding them against their sisters. For Rhoda curried favor with this sinister vicegerent of their parents’ will. And Adelaide always followed Rhoda. Both of them were forcibly inclined toward him, by reason of his unfortunate rut of life. And for these causes, Jonas and Quincy were impelled against them. * * * * * With his nine years, Quincy was admitted to dinner with the remainder of the family. And although this privilege might have been expected to prove welcome, it marked a new cycle of suffering for Quincy. The two major instances were these: that it necessitated his climbing up alone to bed through the dark and terrible house, and that it brought out poignantly at last to the child how his own place therein differed from what he wished and from that occupied by all the others.