Elizabeth Cullen fussed over her youngest daughter who had come home to the farm to rest. The seventeen-year-old, pregnant with her first child, was sickly and spent most days in bed. Elizabeth prayed for a boy - James’ and her only son had died in infancy - and the other two daughters, Sophia and Catherine had so far only had girls. In his advanced years, James would enjoy the company of a little boy. She looked over at her husband, sitting in his favourite chair by the fire reading a play. She didn’t know what the play was, or why he took pleasure in reading at all but was glad she’d decided to get the servant to set the fire, the mid-autumn evenings were getting colder, earlier. He was nearing eighty years, and she was always concerned for his comfort, although he seemed stout enough. H
