Mr Thornton was always eager to return to his family after any trip away from home, but as his train pulled into Milton-Northern, he alighted from his carriage with an eagerness of foot which outdid his usual haste to return the mill house. Johnny had turned six some months ago, and had longed for a special set of trains which he had long coveted from his closest friend, Matthew Lyndhurst. Matthew's trains were a gift from his Aunt Edith, and came highly-recommended from his older cousin, Sholto. Matthew - like his parents and grandfather Hale - was a gentle, caring boy, and quite readily shared his expensive trainset with Johnny Thornton, but Johnny was not able to play with his young friend every day, and so did not have unrestricted access to that trainset, as he would have liked.

Many an afternoon at the Lyndhurst's new, large family home - in Newnham, (close to Milton Library to appease Mr Hale) - had ended in Johnny's tears and dark scowls, for - although he was loath to say goodbye to his young friend - he regretted being parted from those shiny, hand-made trains even more. Indeed, Johnny - a quiet, reliable boy of sharp mind and hidden gentleness - was often thought mature beyond his years - much like his father - and yet, those trains always reduced him to tears, and provoked such dark looks from the young lad, as to fairly make Isabel throw back her head in laughter; so like her husband was her son. Mr Thornton, in turn, had felt quite badly for his son, and did not like to see the lad's tears, so he had quite readily offered him a sixth birthday gift of a very fine set of trains from Milton's sole toyshop.

Johnny Thornton, was, however, only a boy of five years, and so his avaricious heart felt no compunction in rejecting the inferior trains, and he insisted that he would have nothing less than the expensive set his friend had, and which could only be purchased from London. So piqued had Mr Thornton's temper been, at his son's ingratitude and uncharacteristic immaturity, that he had retracted his offer of the Milton trainset - or any other trainset - and told his son that he could not have a birthday gift at all!

Young Johnny had sobbed, and pleaded with his grandmamma to change his papa's mind. Mrs Thornton - who doted on the lad (he was quite identical in look to his father; only lacking in height and sideburns) - would have readily intervened and seen her precious grandson's wishes met, but for the fact that the coveted trains came from London. Not favouring London at all, and feeling her grandson's rejection of the Milton trains, to be a slight on the place that was her home, Mrs Thornton had refused Johnny's pleas and said that the trains could not be had. When she had suggested that he ask for tin soldiers or a fine automata instead, Johnny had merely grimaced, and with a heavy scowl, had declared, -

'Soldiers are no different than dolls, Grandmamma, and boys do not play with dolls. Only trains will do!' Upon hearing his son's haughty censure of the gift Mrs Thornton had thought to buy the lad, herself, Mr Thornton - having refused his son any gift, merely as an empty threat - determined that his son was sadly spoilt (for which he wincingly blamed Mrs Thornton, who favoured Johnny above all other grandchildren), and should therefore receive not a single present.

Tears had ensued, and a refusal to eat any dinner, which irked Mrs Thornton greatly, for Isabel insisted that once a child was capable of sitting in a dining chair, they ought to eat with the family, rather than in the nursery. Thus, both parents and grandmother were forced to look upon Johnny's scowling face - his arms crossed stubbornly and defiantly over his chest. He had such a striking likeness to the mill Master when he was displeased, that Isabel laughingly thought her son must have made a study of his father, simply so that he could perfect the ultimate expression of piqued displeasure.

Johnny's dinner untouched, Mr Thornton had risen from the table, wordlessly taken his son's hand, and walked with him to the boy's bedroom. There, he sat upon his son's bed, and placed the long-limbed lad upon his lap.

'Johnny, young man,' said Mr Thornton, softly, and with a very serious look. 'You are a very fortunate boy. You have a loving family, and a large, warm home. You are always well fed, and will receive an education. You may have this mill one day, if you should wish it. Would you wish it?' And he knew that his son did wish it, because Johnny idolised his father, and if he was not playing with Matthew Lyndhurst's trainset, he was to be found trying to follow his father about the mill, or studying books on the machines (but failing to understand the words, for he was yet, too young).

'Yes, Papa,' replied Johnny, solemnly. 'I should like to be a tall man, just like you, and wear black and run the mill.'

'If you wish to be just like me and run the mill, you will have much responsibility, young man. You cannot act the small boy, but must be a man. A man does not cry about a trainset. A man is grateful for what he receives, and if he receives nothing for his birthday, he does not complain, because he knows himself to be very lucky in having a warm home, and food upon the table, when others have no such thing.'

'Yes, Papa,' whispered Johnny, now hanging his head, in the face of his father's gentle censure.

'You were rude and ungrateful, Johnny, and so you shan't have a birthday gift this year. Let it be a lesson to you.' Now Mr Thornton lifted his son from his lap, set him on the bed, and ruffled his hair affectionately. 'You are my young man, Johnny, so I expect you to accept this punishment without complaint, as a man would.'

'Yes, Papa.' The boy's lip trembled at seeing such disappointment in his father's look, but he held back his tears, because his father never cried, and he wished to be a man like him.

'Now,' said Mr Thornton, softly, 'it is my turn to read to you, to-night. What should you like me to read?' He gave a little knowing smile, for he knew his son well.

'The machines, Papa!' exclaimed Johnny, excitedly. And because Isabel was reading to Elizabeth that night, and could not complain that a reference book about mill-works was not a proper bedtime story, Mr Thornton only smiled broadly at his son, and bid him to change into his nightshirt, and clean his face and teeth, whilst he went to his study to retrieve the book.

As Mr Thornton walked down the hallway, he stopped at the door to his daughter's bedroom, and pressed it gently open. There he found Isabel sat with her arm about a sleepy Elizabeth, reading to her, a tale about wolves.

'Papa!' smiled Elizabeth, stretching out her hands. And smiling, Mr Thornton came towards the bed, and leant down to press his daughter to him.

'My treasure,' said he, in his quiet way, which was so simple and yet conveyed such tender affection.

'Shall I still get a birthday gift?' asked the little girl, 'or are we not to have them anymore?'

'It is only Johnny who is not to have one, and only this year; because he behaved badly,' explained Isabel, in a consoling voice.

'Good,' nodded Elizabeth. 'I should like toy soldiers.' Mr Thornton grimaced.

'Not a doll?'

'No, Papa!' frowned Elizabeth. 'When we go to Aunt Fanny's, all they have is dolls, and dolls cannot fight.' Mr Thornton's eyes widened in alarm, as Isabel tried to stifle her laughter.

'Papa must go now, so that he may read to Johnny,' encouraged Isabel, bidding her husband from the room, before father and daughter could bicker with one another (which they were often wont to do).

'Goodnight, my treasure,' whispered Mr Thornton, kissing his daughter's cocoa hair, before retrieving the book from his study, and reading to his son.

'You are quite determined, then?' asked Isabel, as Mr Thornton climbed into bed beside her. 'Johnny is to receive no gift?'

'Not for his birthday, no. If he accepts his punishment without complaint, I shall give him something at a later date.' Isabel nodded her agreement, but felt it was perhaps a little hard on her son, for he was not quite six, and presents were to children - and to Fanny Watson - quite wondrous things. 'Now,' said Mr Thornton, pulling Isabel flush against him, and pressing her to him quite possessively, 'what is this of Elizabeth not wanting dolls because they cannot fight?'

'But you know she has never been interested in dolls, John,' sighed Isabel, in amusement.

'But fighting! Where does this talk of soldiers come from?' Isabel smirked and raised one brow, expectantly.

'Is she not my daughter?'

'Ay!' sighed Mr Thornton. 'She vexes me; quite purposely, I think. I said I wanted my own little Isabel, but I thought perhaps in look; in caring, playful temperament. But I see she has all your stubborn, vexatious ways; all your faults, as well.'

'Faults!' cried she, pushing him away from her. 'Your hands wander, John, upon my faulty person.'

'Nay, love,' cooed Mr Thornton, pulling Isabel into his firm embrace once again, his lips now to her ear. 'You have your faults - as do I - but I find no fault with your person. Your body, I quite delight in.'

'Then you are not a very discerning man,' chided she, for Isabel had now born four healthy babes, in addition to slumbering Grace. 'I am not the youthful thing you first unwrapped upon our wedding night; the babes have altered me.'

'Mmmm,' murmured Mr Thornton, his lips now mumbling down the length of her throat, as he collected the hem of her nightdress. In truth, he did not know why she made the effort to put it on, for it was always hastily removed. Their passions for one another had not tempered with time, but had only grown in ardour. 'Your bosom is fuller from nursing the babes; Hannah and Adam, I think it is, who I have to thank for this.' And now one warm hand cupped possessively at her bosom, as the other hand trailed underneath her nightgown, and claimed her feminine curves.

'I have marks on my stomach, as well as my back, now,' admitted Isabel, self-consciously.

'Let me see,' mused Mr Thornton (although he knew his wife's body better than his mill). He rolled her onto her back, drew her nightdress from her body, and knelt above her, so that he might drink his fill of the comely vision of beauty, she so willingly offered him. His long fingers glided gently over the slight swell of her stomach, which would now never be quite flat - as it had been on their wedding night - despite her still being very slight in size. 'These, Izzy?' asked Mr Thornton, now tracing those silvery lines, which were the lingering evidence of her having carried his babes.

'Yes,' came Isabel's tentative reply, for she thought her Mr Thornton still quite the dark Adonis, and never thinking herself to have compared to him in beauty, she now felt rather inferior.

'I am not a vain, man, Izzy. But I am a proud man, and I've no shame in telling you that when I look at you - a lovely picture, I might add! - I see all that I ever loved and desired, enhanced by these slight changes. When I look upon you now, I cannot help but think of you big with my babes, and I am filled with such pride; the feeling is so potent, as to make you more irresistible to me than you ever were.'

'Lies!' cried she, with a saucy grin.

'But it is true, love. You gave me Johnny, and our darling Grace. My impish Elizabeth, and then - oh! I was anxious, but the sight of you with twins again! - why, I almost did not wish the twins to come, just so that I might see you so big with child, a little longer.'

'How cruel! It was a very hot summer, and I was uncomfortable!' scolded Isabel.

'I know, Izzy, my love, but I said only "almost". Now let me prove my adoration, and apologise for my selfish, wicked thoughts of that hot summer.' And so saying, Mr Thornton slunk down the bed, and pressed kisses to those feminine lines, which spoke of one's motherly achievement. And pulling the bedclothes up about them - so that they might keep out the winter chill - Mr Thornton devoted himself to his wife's pleasure, and in the most self-less of ways.

Hidden, was he, from the gloaming of the room, by those warming bedclothes. And Isabel was quite undone, heedless to the slight click of the bedroom door as it was gently opened, for she was lost in a heady maelstrom of pleasure and unsated longing. She could hear little but the sound of her own heart beating wildly in her breast; her own blood ringing in her ears.

'Are you playing hide and seek, Papa?' came a curious voice. 'Because you are too big to hide under the bedclothes, Papa, and I know that you are there! I can see you moving!' Mr Thornton stilled in horror at the sound of his eldest daughter's voice; the mortification of discovery.

'Oh!' gasped Isabel, swallowing thickly, as she fought to steady her voice. 'You are out of bed, Elizabeth, and it is late.'

'I had a bad dream about dolls, Mamma. All of Cousin Irene, and Cousin Olivia, Cousin Connie, and Cousin Rosanna's dolls attacked me, and you had not given me toy soldiers for my birthday, because you said I had been bad like Johnny, so I could not fight them off.'

'Well,' frowned Isabel, slowly rolling from beneath her husband, and fumbling for a robe, so that she might emerge from the bedclothes fully covered.

'Papa!' scowled Elizabeth. 'I do know you are there. You can come out, now.'

'Yes, John. What a silly place to hide,' chided Isabel - now amused - as she nudged her mortified husband with her foot. Still, he was unclothed and could not reveal himself without revealing more than he would like, and knowing this, Isabel could only say, 'now, Elizabeth, you were not playing this game, so you ought not to have found Papa, but let your Mamma find him. Now you have spoilt the game.' And all the while, Isabel was groping about the darkness for her nightgown or robe, whilst trying not to laugh at her predicament.

'Sorry, Mamma,' whimpered Elizabeth, who did not like to be scolded. 'Please may I sleep in your bed, because of my bad dream?'

'No!' glowered Mr Thornton, who had not moved, nor spoken, since his daughter had made her untimely interruption. At the sound of his deep, firm voice, Elizabeth flinched and started to sob, and whilst her little eyes were scrunched against her tears, Isabel pulled on her night dress and climbed from the bed.

'Come, now. I will help you back to bed,' shushed Isabel, softly.

'Papa is angry with me,' cried the little girl.

'No, love. Papa is just vexed because you spoilt his game. He is not angry with you.' And taking her daughter by the hand, Isabel saw her back to bed, and spent the next twenty minutes or so, reading to Elizabeth, until she was fast asleep.

'John?' whispered Isabel, when she returned to their darkened bedroom.

'What!'

'Oh, do not be angry.'

'Angry!' scowled he, sitting up in bed. 'I am appalled. I have never been so embarrassed.'

'But these things happen, love.'

'Perhaps where you are from - with everyone so loose - but not here, Izzy. Not in Milton!' Isabel narrowed her eyes at her husband's face, and pursed her lips, before saying, -

'Very well. I had best sleep in my own room from now on.'

'Nay!' cried Mr Thornton, grabbing her wrist. 'You had best lock the door.'

'Are you still in a temper?' asked she, seeing that the door was locked.

'Ay, but I have spent these past twenty minutes in need of you, so let me love you now, and talk of this to-morrow.'

'What is there to talk of? Elizabeth did not understand what she saw; it did no harm.'

'Ay, but what if she speaks of it to Mother?' scowled Mr Thornton, and Isabel's eyes widened in alarm, before she uttered a fearful, -

'Good God!'

Mr Thornton shook his head, at the memory of that humiliating discovery. Never in his life, had he been so uncomfortable, and never would he forget it. It irked him that Isabel - once over her initial shock - seemed to find amusement in their sorry predicament, but it was simply one example of the ways in which their views on children differed. Isabel was far more relaxed with their children, and encouraged them to sit at the table, and talk with the mill hands. She had even come to her husband with a reading schedule, citing a need for him to read to his children at bedtime. He had pulled a face, and allowed his mother to think him bidden to the task, but quietly relished those ten or so private minutes with each child; no wife or mother to encroach upon those tender moments.

He looked at the large package he carried in his arms, and smiled. It was long over-due, but he was eager to present his son with his gift. The recollection of that mortifying night - what had come before it - with his scowling son, who had been softly scolded and bidden to be the young man he always claimed his son to be, ever stirred Mr Thornton's pride. For his son had accepted his father's castigation with a measured equanimity, and had apologised for his temper. Not one word did Johnny speak, of those coveted trains. No tears were shed or longing sigh emitted, upon leaving the Lyndhurst's at Newnham, even though each step taken was a step further from those beloved trains. Then came the birthday, and Johnny had sat at breakfast with a tentatively hopeful look about him. He had raised his eyes to his father as Mr Thornton had entered the room and seated himself at the table.

'Happy birthday, my young man,' had said Mr Thornton.

'Thank you, Papa.' And giving his son an approving, encouraging smile, Mr Thornton had turned to his breakfast, and quietly taken his meal. His son had been quiet that day, but voiced no complaint. He was grateful to receive a cake - which Isabel had made herself - and smiled upon tasting it, but his disappointment was felt throughout the house. Still, the boy did not complain, nor cry, and when Mr Thornton had settled his son to bed that night, and Johnny had kissed his cheek with the same open affection that he did each evening, Mr Thornton had been well pleased.

Immediately, he had determined that his son would have the trainset he so desired, and seeing that he had a meeting with Mr Colthurst in London - some three weeks after Johnny's birthday - the pleased father decided that he would catch the morning train, and purchase the trainset the same day. Alas! Mr Colthurst had suffered a family crisis with his father, and so the meeting was put off by a fortnight, but the elder Mr Colthurst being truly quite unwell, the fortnight had stretched to a month, and by then Mr Thornton was back to Le Havre. It was, then, some two months after his eldest son had turned six years old - Elizabeth one month from turning five - that Mr Thornton finally made his trip to London.

Mr Colthurst had asked him endless questions about the mills, and requested his opinion on the whispers of discontent in the Americas. After having kept Mr Thornton talking long, the parliamentarian had pressed him - once again - to think about running for parliament. Again, Mr Thornton refused - having no wish to travel often to London (his trips to Le Havre already irking him quite enough) - and had suggested that Mr Colthurst try Dr Lyndhurst, instead. The notion had piqued the politician's interest, and he had quite happily bid his friend good day, so that Mr Thornton might collect the trainset for his son, and - grudgingly - a set of toy soldiers for Elizabeth's upcoming birthday.