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257
Cranford
·
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
171
I
never
was
ambitious,
nor
could
I
have
written
charges,
but
I
thought
I
could
manage
a
house
(my
mother
used
to
call
me
her
right
hand),
and
I
was
always
so
fond
of
little
children—
the
shyest
babies
would
stretch
out
their
little
arms
to
come
to
me;
when
I
was
a
girl,
I
was
half
my
leisure
time
nursing
in
the
neighbouring
cottages;
but
I
don’t
know
how
it
was,
when
I
grew
sad
and
grave—
which
I
did
a
year
or
two
after
this
time—
the
little
things
drew
back
from
me,
and
I
am
afraid
I
lost
the
knack,
though
I
am
just
as
fond
of
children
as
ever,
and
have
a
strange
yearning
at
my
heart
whenever
I
see
a
mother
with
her
baby
in
her
arms.
Nay,
my
dear”
(and
by
a
sudden
blaze
which
sprang
up
from
a
fall
of
the
unstirred
coals,
I
saw
that
her
eyes
were
full
of
tears—
gazing
intently
on
some
vision
of
what
might
have
been),
“do
you
know
I
dream
sometimes
that
I
have
a
little
child—
always
the
same—
a
little
girl
of
about
two
years
old;
she
never
grows
older,
though
I
have
dreamt
about
her
for
many
years.
I
don’t
think
I
ever
dream
of
any
words
or
sound
she
makes;
she
is
very
noiseless
and
still,
but
she
comes
to
me
when
she
is
very
sorry
or
very
glad,
and
I
have
wakened
with
the
clasp
of
her
dear
little
arms
round
my
neck.
Only
last
night—
perhaps
because
I
had
gone
to
sleep
thinking
of
this
ball
for
Phœbe—
my
little
darling
came
in
my
dream,
and
put
up
her
mouth
to
be
kissed,
just
as
I
have
seen
real
babies
do
to
real
mothers
before
going
to
bed.
But
all
this
is
nonsense,
dear!
only
don’t
be
frightened
by
Miss
Pole
from
being
married.
I
can
fancy
it
may
be
a
very
happy
state,
and
a
little
credulity
helps
one
on
through
life
very
smoothly—
better
than
always
doubting
and
doubting
and
seeing
difficulties
and
disagreeables
in
everything.”
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