She liked to think of him as he
was now, and as he would be for the next few years--something soft and warm
and loving, that she could hold in her arms; beside whose bed she could
watch and pray at night. Her future was bounded by the years of her son's
childhood. She thought already, with a vague pang, of the time when he
should go out into the world, and she be no longer necessary to him.
The day came when she looked back to that interval of perfect quiet--the
dimly-lighted rooms, the low wood fire, and her husband's figure seated by
the hearth--with a bitter sense of regret. Daniel Granger was so good to
her in those days--so entirely devoted, in a quiet unobtrusive way--and she
was so selfishly absorbed by the baby as to be almost unconscious of his
goodness at the time. She was inclined to forget that the child belonged to
any one but herself; indeed, had the question been brought home to her, she
would have hardly liked to admit his father's claim upon him. He was her
own--her treasure beyond all price--given to her by heaven for her comfort
and consolation.
Not the least among the tranquil pleasures of that period of
retirement--which Clarissa spun out until the spring flowers were blooming
in the meadows about Arden--was a comparative immunity from the society of
Miss Granger. That young lady made a dutiful call upon her stepmother
every morning, and offered a chilling forefinger--rather a strong-minded
forefinger, with a considerable development of bone--to the infant.
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