Then, with his little white hat curled with an ostrich feather, and his white coat, he was a joy to her, the twining wisps of hair clustering round his head.

Mrs.Morel lay listening, one Sunday morning, to the chatter of the father and child downstairs.

Then she dozed off.
When she came downstairs, a great fire glowed in the grate, the room was hot, the breakfast was roughly laid, and seated in his armchair, against the chimney-piece, sat Morel, rather timid; and standing between his legs, the child--cropped like a sheep, with such an odd round poll--looking wondering at her; and on a newspaper spread out upon the hearthrug, a myriad of crescent-shaped curls, like the petals of a marigold scattered in the reddening firelight.
Mrs.Morel stood still.

It was her first baby.

She went very white, and was unable to speak.
"What dost think o' 'im ?" Morel laughed uneasily.
She gripped her two fists, lifted them, and came forward.