Baines.  She had no notion of the thrill which ran through the town on that night when it was known that John Baines had had a stroke, and that his left arm and left leg and his right eyelid were paralyzed, and that the active member of the Local Board, the orator, the religious worker, the very life of the town’s life, was permanently done for.  She had never heard of the crisis through which her mother, assisted by Aunt Harriet, had passed, and out of which she had triumphantly emerged.  She was not yet old enough even to suspect it.  She possessed only the vaguest memory of her father before he had finished with the world.  She knew him simply as an organism on a bed, whose left side was wasted, whose eyes were often inflamed, whose mouth was crooked, who had no creases from the nose to the corners of the mouth like other people, who experienced difficulty in eating because the food would somehow get between his gums and his cheek, who slept a great deal but was excessively fidgety while awake, who seemed to hear what was said to him a long time after it was uttered, as if the sense had to travel miles by labyrinthine passages to his brain, and who talked very, very slowly in a weak, trembling voice.

And she had an image of that remote brain as something with a red spot on it, for once Constance had said:  “Mother, why did father have a stroke?” and Mrs. Baines had replied:  “It was a haemorrhage of the brain, my dear, here”—­putting a thimbled finger on a particular part of Sophia’s head.

Not merely had Constance and Sophia never really felt their father’s tragedy; Mrs. Baines herself had largely lost the sense of it—­such is the effect of use.  Even the ruined organism only remembered fitfully and partially that it had once been John Baines.  And if Mrs. Baines had not, by the habit of years, gradually built up a gigantic fiction that the organism remained ever the supreme consultative head of the family; if Mr. Critchlow had not obstinately continued to treat it as a crony, the mass of living and dead nerves on the rich Victorian bedstead would have been of no more account than some Aunt Maria in similar case.  These two persons, his wife and his friend, just managed to keep him morally alive by indefatigably feeding his importance and his dignity.  The feat was a miracle of stubborn self-deceiving, splendidly blind devotion, and incorrigible pride.

When Sophia entered the room, the paralytic followed her with his nervous gaze until she had sat down on the end of the sofa at the foot of the bed.  He seemed to study her for a long time, and then he murmured in his slow, enfeebled, irregular voice: 

“Is that Sophia?”

“Yes, father,” she answered cheerfully.

And after another pause, the old man said:  “Ay!  It’s Sophia.”

And later:  “Your mother said she should send ye.”

Sophia saw that this was one of his bad, dull days.  He had, occasionally, days of comparative nimbleness, when his wits seized almost easily the meanings of external phenomena.