"I am twenty-seven, Mr. Coree. I know it to the very day, because Monsieur Lafourche--of Lyons, who later settled at Guadeloupe--used often to say that I was born but two days after his other--after his daughter. He wished me bred up as maid and companion to her. I had lessons with the same teachers when we were little girls, even the reading and writing. I cannot read English with any comfort. She, the little Mademoiselle, she died at sixteen of a consumption. I think my presence hurt him with reminders of her." Clarissa's voice was passionless, cool and distant; Ben noticed his hands were no longer shaking. "Monsieur Lafourche his fortune was much impaired in the war of--of your King William's time. Then in 'ninety-eight, between the wars, he sold his plantation at Guadeloupe and returned to France, and so was obliged to let me go, to a merchant of Boston, who later sold me here. Where," she said mildly and remotely, "I have received much kindness." Anger moved in Ben, severe but directionless, formless, thwarted, without an object and seeking one. One _could_ not be angry with Uncle John. He must have meant it for the best--somehow, somehow. "Where--do you know where _Artemis_ is bound for?" "Barbados, sir." "I see.... Clarissa, I cannot think of you as a slave." She moved into the light at the window, looking out; presently said with neutral calm: "But I am a slave." The anger moved blindly, a flooded river seeking any low spot, any outlet at all. "Don't you know there's talk in these times that slavery itself is wrong? Why, Judge Samuel Sewall hath said it, written it too, and maybe not many will agree with him, but--but before God, I do," Ben said, wondering at the wiry clang of his own voice. "One hears of it," she said gently, "but I think there will alway be slavery." "Oh, why?" "Perhaps because no one is ever wholly free." "Oh, don't put me off with philosophy! I understand you, but--that was not--well, my brother, and my Uncle John too--I have heard my Uncle John say he would never own a slave, for that the thing itself is wrong. And later I talked of it with my brother, he was most passionate, he said it was vile and contemptible that any man should pretend to possess the life of another, or be privileged to command it and drive it where he may please. My brother is strangely wise--younger but a better scholar than I, much wiser. Somehow I can't ever do anything without first wondering, how would he do it, what would he think of it? I lean on him too much--well, I suppose it's because we went through much together, and I love him so, and we--I don't know--I'm confused." "I am not so sure," she said, speaking into the light. "I think you have your own wisdom, Mr. Cory. Perhaps, if he be the quicker scholar, it is only that your brother can speak his thoughts more easily."