"'Cause," repeated the blackey. — "I don't want to get home."
"Who do you live with?"
"I live with my mother, when I'm to home."
"Where do you live when you are not at home?"
"Nowheres."
The gathered storm came down at this point with great fury. The rain fell, whole water; little streams even made their way under the walls of the shanty and ran across the floor. The darkness asked no help from black walls and smoky roof.
"Isn't this better than to be out?" said Winthrop, after his eyes had been for a moment drawn without by the tremendous pouring of the rain. But the little black girl looked at it and said doggedly,
"I don't care."
"Where have you been with that basket?"
"Down yonder — where all the folks goes," she said with a slight motion of her head towards the built-up quarter of the country.