“I did not ask that. Are you happy?”
And then, moved on her side, perhaps, by an impulse towards confidence, Etruria yielded. “I don’t think that we can any of us be happy, Miss,” she said, “with so much sorrow about us.”
“You strange girl!” Mary cried, taken aback. “What do you mean?”
But Etruria was silent.
“Come,” Mary insisted. “You must tell me what you mean.”
“Well, Miss,” the girl answered reluctantly, “I’m sad and loth to think of all the suffering in the world. It’s natural that you should not think of it, but I’m of the people, and I’m sad for them.”
Balaam when the ass spoke was scarcely more surprised than Mary. “Why?” she asked.
The girl pointed to the open window. “We’ve all we could ask, Miss—light and air and birds’ songs and sunshine. We’ve all we need, and more. But I come of those who have neither light nor air, nor songs nor sunshine, who’ve no milk for children nor food for mothers! Who, if they’ve work, work every hour of the day in dust and noise and heat. Who are half clemmed from year’s end to year’s end, and see no close to it, no hope, no finish but the pauper’s deals! It’s for them I’m sad, Miss.”
“Etruria!”
“They’ve no teachers and no time to care,” Etruria continued in desperate earnest now that the floodgates were raised. “They’re just tools to make money, and, like the tools, they wear out and are cast aside! For there are always more to do their work, to begin where they began, and to be worn out as they were worn out!”