"I know I'm a bad manager. I'm not economical, but I do try. I suppose I ought to be thankful that the children's appetites are enormous, and that Theresa's energy wears her clothes into rags. And the poor child loathes wearing Grace's outgrown frocks. I dye them and disguise them when I can, but she thinks everybody knows. She doesn't even have clothes of her own!"
"If we can only hold out until she is grown up. She is not an ordinary child."
"Of course she isn't! You knew she wasn't ordinary when she was an hour old. What was it you said—the moulding of her forehead? You made up your mind to it before she was born! And I love you for it—at present."
"What do you mean?"
"Only that some day I may want to hear you sing my praises instead of hers. I suppose"—she gave her twisted smile—"one could become jealous of a daughter."
"You jealous!"
She looked at him with humorous discernment. "Why not?" And without waiting for an answer she went on: "Do you know what I wish for both the children? You'll think it's treachery."
"Tell me."
"Marriage."
He made her a little bow. "May I take that as a compliment. It's perhaps the happiest wish for them, the happiest work, but I can't have Theresa wasted. She must have her chance."