But Mrs. Harris was interrupted.
"I no wanta next year. I wanta dis year, I wanta now! I tired. I wanta see da country. I wanta see da flower, not dese tings—I hata dem." She gave the flowers in front of her a push. "I hata dem! I wanta see da rosa on da bush, I wanta see da leaves on da tree. I wanta put ma face in da grass lak when I young girl in Capri. I wanta look at da sky, I wanta smell da field. I wanta lie at night wi ma bambini and hear da rain. I no can wait one year, I wanta go now!"
"But, Mrs. Tolenti," Mrs. Harris said, secretly a little elated at the storm she had raised, which she could see was impressing Miss Doane, "I had no idea you felt it so strongly—"
"Yes," the low voice continued, "I feel it here," pointing to her breast. She was quiet for a while, then went on in the low, monotonous voice of the desperate poor. "This winter ver had. My man no work. Sometime go wood yard, but only fifty cents one day. He walk, walk, walk, looka for work. We must eat, we must pay rent. We all work maka da flower, but no can maka da mon. Fi' cent a gross for da wreath. It taka long time to maka one dozen wreath, and only git fi' cent. No can live. I canno' live every day, every day da same. Nine year I stay here maka da flower, always maka da flower. Nine year I no go away from dis street. But dis year I tink I go to da country. When I set here maka da flower I say three mont more, two mont more, one mont more, den I see da grass, I hear da bird, I shuta ma eyes, I tink I again in my Capri—Oh, Dio mio!" She turned suddenly and let her face fall upon her arms, stretched out on the pile of flowers before her. "Der ain't no God for poor man, der ain't no God!"
Mrs. Harris looked at her sadly and said nothing; but the tears were streaming down the face of Drusilla and she impulsively rose from her seat and coming to the mother, put her arms round the shaking shoulders, and said quietly:
"You certainly shall go to the country with your babies. You certainly shall go. Don't think a moment again about it."
The woman did not raise her face nor seem to understand; dry sobs shaking her worn and wasted body. She seemed utterly broken and disheartened.
Drusilla turned to Mrs. Harris.
"Will you make her understand?"
The worker said something to the father, and he nodded his head and they went from the room. Drusilla stopped at the door to take a last look around the room, at the wondering faces of the children who watched her with great black eyes, but who did not stop their fingers from separating and placing the flowers together again. She saw the babies on the floor playing quietly, as if they too were oppressed by the tragedy that was always before them, and then she looked at the blank wall outside the window, and it seemed to her that the lives of these hopeless poor were like that window, only a blank wall to face.