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257
Cranford
·
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
173
“Have
you
been
in
India?”
said
I,
rather
astonished.
“Oh,
yes!
many
a
year,
ma’am.
Sam
was
a
sergeant
in
the
31st;
and
when
the
regiment
was
ordered
to
India,
I
drew
a
lot
to
go,
and
I
was
more
thankful
than
I
can
tell;
for
it
seemed
as
if
it
would
only
be
a
slow
death
to
me
to
part
from
my
husband.
But,
indeed,
ma’am,
if
I
had
known
all,
I
don’t
know
whether
I
would
not
rather
have
died
there
and
then
than
gone
through
what
I
have
done
since.
To
be
sure,
I’ve
been
able
to
comfort
Sam,
and
to
be
with
him;
but,
ma’am,
I’ve
lost
six
children,”
said
she,
looking
up
at
me
with
those
strange
eyes
that
I’ve
never
noticed
but
in
mothers
of
dead
children—
with
a
kind
of
wild
look
in
them,
as
if
seeking
for
what
they
never
more
might
find.
“Yes!
Six
children
died
off,
like
little
buds
nipped
untimely,
in
that
cruel
India.
I
thought,
as
each
died,
I
never
could—
I
never
would—
love
a
child
again;
and
when
the
next
came,
it
had
not
only
its
own
love,
but
the
deeper
love
that
came
from
the
thoughts
of
its
little
dead
brothers
and
sisters.
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