Her companion was quite silent, rather oddly, she thought; and her meditations came back for a moment from social to individual distinctions and differences. Then, really in a puzzle as to the former matter, she repeated her question.
"But what can one do to them, then, Mr. Winthrop? -- or what should be one"s aim?"
"Put them in the way of exercising the talent and industry and circ.u.mstance which have done such great things for us."
"So that by the time they have the means they will be ready for them? -- But dear me! that is a difficult matter!" said Elizabeth.
Her companion smiled a little.
"But they haven"t any talent, Mr. Landholm, -- nor industry nor circ.u.mstance either. To be sure those latter wants might be made up."
"Most people have talent, of one sort or another," said Winthrop. "There"s a little specimen pretty well stocked."
"Do you think so?"
"Try her."
"I don"t know how to try her!" said Elizabeth. "I wish you would."
"I don"t know how, either," said Winthrop. "Circ.u.mstances have been doing it this some time."
"I wish she hadn"t come in," said Elizabeth. "She has unsettled all my ideas."
"They will rest the better for being unsettled."
Elizabeth looked at him, but he did not acknowledge the look.
Presently, whether to try how benevolence worked, or to run away from her feeling of awkwardness, she got up and moved a few steps towards the place where the little blackey sat.
"Have you had dinner enough?" she said, standing and looking down upon her as a very disagreeable social curiosity.
"There aint no more, if I hain"t," said the curiosity, with very dauntless eyes.
"Where do you get your dinner every day?"
""Long street," said the girl, turning her eyes away from Elizabeth and looking out into the storm.
"Do you often go without any?"
"When the folks don"t give me none."
"Does that happen often?"
"They didn"t give me none to-day."
"What do you do then?"
The eyes came back from the door to Elizabeth, and then went to Winthrop.
"What do you do then?" Elizabeth repeated.
"I gets "em."
"You didn"t get any to-day?" said Winthrop.
She shook her head.
"You mustn"t any more."
"n.o.body ha"n"t no business to let me starve," said the blackey stoutly.
"No, but I"ll tell you where to go the next time you can"t get a dinner, and you shall have it without stealing."
"I ha"n"t stole it -- n.o.body never see me steal -- I only tuk it," -- said the girl with a little lowering of her voice and air.
"What"s your name?"
"Clam."
"Clam!" said Elizabeth, -- "where did you get such an odd name?"
""Long street," said the girl, her black eyes twinkling.
"Where did you get it?" said Winthrop gravely.
"I didn"t get it nowheres -- it was guv to me."
"What"s your other name?"
"I ha"n"t got no more names -- my name"s Clam."
"What"s your mother"s name?"
"She"s Sukey Beckinson."
"Is she kind to you?" asked Elizabeth.
"_I_ don" know!"
"Did you have dinner enough?" said Winthrop with a smile.
Clam jumped up, and crossing her hands on her breast dropped a brisk little courtsey to her benefactor. She made no other answer, and then sat down again.
"Are you afraid to go home with your empty basket when the storm"s over?" said he kindly.
"No," she said; but it was with a singular expression of cold and careless necessity.
"The rest of the basketful wouldn"t be worth more than that, would it?" said he giving her a sixpence.
Clam took it and clasped it very tight in her fist, for other place of security she had none; and looked at him, but made no more answer than that.