On the evening of this first day, William, after he got home, sat there in sad heaviness. His mother asked how he liked his employment, and he returned an evasive answer. Presently he rose to go to bed, saying he had a headache. Up he went to the garret, and flung himself down on the mattress, sobbing as if his heart would break. Jane, suspecting something of this, followed him up. She caught him in her arms.
"Oh, my darling, don't give way! Things may grow brighter after a time."
"It is such a dreadful change!—from my books, my Latin and Greek, to go there and sweep out places like those two black boys!" he said hysterically, all his reticence gone.
"My dear boy! my darling boy! I know not how to reconcile you, how to lessen your cares. Your experience of the sorrow of life is beginning early. You are hungry, too."
"I am always hungry," answered William, quite unable to affect concealment in that hour of grief. "I heard one of those black boys say he had boiled pork and greens for dinner. I did so envy him."
Jane checked her tears; they were rising rebelliously. "William, darling your lot seems just now very dark and painful, but it might be worse."
"Worse!" he echoed in surprise. "How could it be worse? Mamma, I am no better than an errand-boy there."
"It would be worse, William, if you were one of those poor black boys. Unenlightened; no wish for higher things; content to remain as they are for ever."
"But that could never be," he urged. "To be content with such a life is impossible."
"They are content, William."