Sophia pitied her.
"I don't know," she said restlessly, stretching out aimless hands into the darkness, "I don't know why I cry, Miss Sophia.

It isn't for one thing more than another; everything is the reason--everything, everything." "You mean, for one thing, that your father has gone, and you are homesick ?" "You said you wouldn't _tell ?_" "Yes." "Well, I'm not sorry about _that_, because--well, I suppose I liked father as well as he liked me, but as long as he lived I'd have had to stay on the clearin', and I hated that.

I'm glad to be here; but, oh! I want so much--I want so much--oh, Miss Sophia, don't you know ?" In some mysterious way Sophia felt that she did know, although she could not in any way formulate her confused feeling of kinship with this young girl, so far removed from her in outward experience.

It seemed to her that she had at some time known such trouble as this, which was composed of wanting "so much--so much," and hands that were stretched, not towards any living thing, but vaguely to all possible possession outside the longing self.
"I want to be something," said Eliza, "rich or--I don't know--I would like to drive about in a fine way like some ladies do, or wear grander clothes than any one.

Yes, I would like to keep a shop, or do something to make me very rich, and make everybody wish they were like me." Sophia smiled to herself, but the darkness was about them.