Then of course children came: a lovely little blonde daughter with a head
of thistle-down. Everybody adored the child. It was the first exquisite
blonde thing that had come into the family, a little mite with the white,
slim, beautiful limbs of its father, and as it grew up the dancing,
dainty movement of a wild little daisy-spirit. No wonder the Marshalls
all loved the child: they called her Joyce. They themselves had their own
grace, but it was slow, rather heavy. They had everyone of them strong,
heavy limbs and darkish skins, and they were short in stature. And now
they had for one of their own this light little cowslip child. She was
like a little poem in herself.

But nevertheless, she brought a new difficulty. Winifred must have a
nurse for her. Yes, yes, there must be a nurse. It was the family decree.
Who was to pay for the nurse? The grandfather--seeing the father himself
earned no money. Yes, the grandfather would pay, as he had paid all the
lying-in expenses. There came a slight sense of money-strain. Egbert was
living on his father-in-law.

After the child was born, it was never quite the same between him and
Winifred. The difference was at first hardly perceptible. But it was
there. In the first place Winifred had a new centre of interest. She was
not going to adore her child. But she had what the modern mother so often
has in the place of spontaneous love: a profound sense of duty towards
her child. Winifred appreciated her darling little girl, and felt a deep
sense of duty towards her. Strange, that this sense of duty should go
deeper than the love for her husband. But so it was. And so it often is.
The responsibility of motherhood was the prime responsibility in
Winifred's heart: the responsibility of wifehood came a long way second.