"A daughter! I do not want a maid; no—I shall never forgive you, if it be not a boy. Urith, My—everything depends on that. When there is a new Anthony Cleverdon, my father can hold out in his obstinacy no longer. He must give way. An Anthony Cleverdon of Willsworthy, and not of Hall! It would go against all his pride, against his most cherished ambition. It cannot, it shall not be. Urith, a boy it must be, and what is more, he shall not lie in that dusty, cobweb-clad pig-trough. It would not become him."
"But, Tony," laughed Urith, "it was mine, I was rocked in that. It was not so bad that I could not sleep therein."
"Oh, you!" he spoke disparagingly in tone. "You were only heiress of Willsworthy, but my young Anthony will be something much different from that."
"I want my child to lie in the same crib in which I was rocked. It will be a pleasure to me."
"I will not have it. This is too mean."
"What does it signify?"
"If it does not signify, then let me go and buy a new cradle."
"No," said Urith. "No—there I lay when a poor little feeble creature; and there, in the same, it shall lie when it comes."
"I will go into Peter Tavy to the carpenter, and order a new cradle."