She would, most certainly, have been less fond of Henry had he been more like other children, and his dependence upon her gave her something of the feeling that very rich ladies have for very small dogs.

She was too, in a way, proud.

"Never been able to talk, nor never will, they tell me, the lamb," she would assure her friends, "but as gentle and as quiet!" She would sit, sometimes, in the evening before the fire and think of the old noisy, tiresome days when Henry, Senior, would beat her black and blue, and would feel that her life had indeed fallen into pleasant places.
There was nothing whatever in the house, all silent about her and filled with shrouded furniture, that could alarm her.

"Ghosts!" she would cry.
"You show me one, that's all.

I'll give you ghosts!" Her digestion was excellent, her sleep undisturbed by conscience or creditors.