One of the Populace

           Thewinterwasawretchedone.ThereweredaysonwhichSaratrampedthroughsnowwhenshewentonhererrands;therewereworsedayswhenthesnowmeltedandcombineditselfwithmudtoformslush;therewereotherswhenthefogwassothickthatthelampsinthestreetwerelightedalldayandLondonlookedasithadlookedtheafternoon,severalyearsago,whenthecabhaddriventhroughthethoroughfareswithSaratuckeduponitsseat,leaningagainstherfather’sshoulder.OnsuchdaysthewindowsofthehouseoftheLargeFamilyalwayslookeddelightfullycozyandalluring,andthestudyinwhichtheIndiangentlemansatglowedwithwarmthandrichcolor.Buttheatticwasdismalbeyondwords.Therewerenolongersunsetsorsunrisestolookat,andscarcelyeveranystars,itseemedtoSara.Thecloudshunglowovertheskylightandwereeithergrayormud-color,ordroppingheavyrain.Atfouro’clockintheafternoon,evenwhentherewasnospecialfog,thedaylightwasatanend.Ifitwasnecessarytogotoheratticforanything,Sarawasobligedtolightacandle.Thewomeninthekitchenweredepressed,andthatmadethemmoreill-temperedthanever.Beckywasdrivenlikealittleslave.

           "’Twarn’tforyou,miss,"shesaidhoarselytoSaraonenightwhenshehadcreptintotheattic—"’twarn’tforyou,an’theBastille,an’bein’theprisonerinthenextcell,Ishoulddie.Thattheredoesseemrealnow,doesn’tit?Themissusismoreliketheheadjailereverydayshelives.