Constance’s hand descended into her pocket and drew out a hard paper packet, which she clapped on to her son’s head.

“Oh, mother!” He pretended that she had hurt him, and then he opened the packet.  It contained Congleton butterscotch, reputed a harmless sweetmeat.

“Good!” he cried, “good!  Oh!  Thanks, mother.”

“Now don’t begin eating them at once.”

“Just one, mother.”

“No!  And how often have I told you to keep your feet off that fender.  See how it’s bent.  And it’s nobody but you.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s no use being sorry if you persist in doing it.”

“Oh, mother, I had such a funny dream!”

They chatted until Amy came up the stairs with tea and bacon.  The fire had developed from black to clear red.

“Run and tell father that breakfast is ready.”

After a little delay a spectacled man of fifty, short and stoutish, with grey hair and a small beard half grey and half black, entered from the shop.  Samuel had certainly very much aged, especially in his gestures, which, however, were still quick.  He sat down at once—­his wife and son were already seated—­and served the bacon with the rapid assurance of one who needs not to inquire about tastes and appetites.  Not a word was said, except a brief grace by Samuel.  But there was no restraint.  Samuel had a mild, benignant air.  Constance’s eyes were a fountain of cheerfulness.  The boy sat between them and ate steadily.

Mysterious creature, this child, mysteriously growing and growing in the house!  To his mother he was a delicious joy at all times save when he disobeyed his father.  But now for quite a considerable period there had been no serious collision.  The boy seemed to be acquiring virtue as well as sense.  And really he was charming.  So big, truly enormous (every one remarked on it), and yet graceful, lithe, with a smile that could ravish.  And he was distinguished in his bearing.  Without depreciating Samuel in her faithful heart, Constance saw plainly the singular differences between Samuel and the boy.  Save that he was dark, and that his father’s ‘dangerous look’ came into those childish eyes occasionally, Cyril had now scarcely any obvious resemblance to his father.  He was a Baines.  This naturally deepened Constance’s family pride.  Yes, he was mysterious to Constance, though probably not more so than any other boy to any other parent.  He was equally mysterious to Samuel, but otherwise Mr. Povey had learned to regard him in the light of a parcel which he was always attempting to wrap up in a piece of paper imperceptibly too small.  When he successfully covered the parcel at one corner it burst out at another, and this went on for ever, and he could never get the string on.  Nevertheless, Mr. Povey had unabated confidence in his skill as a parcel-wrapper.  The boy was strangely subtle at times, but then at times he was astoundingly ingenuous, and then his dodges would not deceive the dullest.  Mr. Povey knew himself more than a match for his son.  He was proud of him because he regarded him as not an ordinary boy; he took it as a matter of course that his boy should not be an ordinary boy.  He never, or very rarely, praised Cyril.  Cyril thought of his father as a man who, in response to any request, always began by answering with a thoughtful, serious ‘No, I’m afraid not.’