The Portion of Labor

ByMary E. Wilkins

Author of"Jerome" "A New England Nun" Etc. 

Illustrated

Harper & BrothersPublishers New YorkAnd London MDCCCCI

To Henry Mills Alden

[Illustration: What did such a good little girl as you be run away fromfather and mother for?]

Chapter I

On the west side of Ellen's father's house was a file of Norwayspruce-trees, standing with a sharp pointing of dark boughs towardsthe north, which gave them an air of expectancy of progress. 

Every morning Ellen, whose bedroom faced that way, looked out with afirm belief that she would see them on the other side of the stonewall, advanced several paces towards their native land. She had nodoubt of their ability to do so; their roots, projecting in fibroussprawls from their trunks, were their feet, and she pictured themadvancing with wide trailings, and rustlings as of green draperies, and a loudening of that dreamy cry of theirs which was to herimagination a cry of homesickness reminiscent of their old life inthe White north. When Ellen had first heard the name Norway spruce, 'way back in her childhood--so far back, though she was only sevenand a half now, that it seemed to her like a memory from anotherlife--she had asked her mother to show her Norway on the map, andher strange convictions concerning the trees had seized her. Whenher mother said that they had come from that northernmost land ofEurope, Ellen, to whose childhood all truth was naked and literal, immediately conceived to herself those veritable trees advancingover the frozen seas around the pole, and down through the vastregions which were painted blue on her map, straight to her father'swest yard. There they stood and sang the songs of their own country, with a melancholy sweetness of absence and longing, and were foreverthinking to return. Ellen felt always a thrill of happy surprisewhen she saw them still there of a morning, for she felt that shewould miss them sorely when they were gone. She said nothing of allthis to her mother; it was one of the secrets of the soul whichcreated her individuality and made her a spiritual birth. She wasalso silent about her belief concerning the cherry-trees in the eastyard. There were three of them, giants of their kind, which filledthe east yard every spring as with mountains of white bloom, breathing wide gusts of honey sweetness, and humming with bees. Ellen believed that these trees had once stood in the Garden ofEden, but she never expected to find them missing from the east yardof a morning, for she remembered the angel with the flaming sword, and she knew how one branch of the easternmost tree happened to beblasted as if by fire. And she thought that these trees were happy, and never sighed to the wind as the dark evergreens did, becausethey had still the same blossoms and the same fruit that they had inEden, and so did not fairly know that they were not there still. Sometimes Ellen, sitting underneath them on a low rib of rock on aMay morning, used to fancy with success that she and the trees weretogether in that first garden which she had read about in the Bible. 

Sometimes, after one of these successful imaginings, when Ellen'smother called her into the house she would stare at her littledaughter uneasily, and give her a spoonful of a bitter springmedicine which she had brewed herself. When Ellen's father, AndrewBrewster, came home from the shop, she would speak to him aside ashe was washing his hands at the kitchen sink, and tell him that itseemed to her that Ellen looked kind of "pindlin'. " Then Andrew, before he sat down at the dinner-table, would take Ellen's face inhis two moist hands, look at her with anxiety thinly veiled byfacetiousness, rub his rough, dark cheek against her soft, white oneuntil he had reddened it, then laugh, and tell her she looked like abo'sn. Ellen never quite knew what her father meant by bo'sn, butshe understood that it signified something very rosy and heartyindeed. 

Ellen's father always picked out for her the choicest and tenderestbits of the humble dishes, and his keen eyes were more watchful ofher plate than of his own. Always after Ellen's mother had said toher father that she thought Ellen looked pindling he was late aboutcoming home from the shop, and would turn in at the gate ladenwith paper parcels. Then Ellen would find an orange or some otherdelicacy beside her plate at supper. Ellen's aunt Eva, her mother'syounger sister, who lived with them, would look askance at thetidbit with open sarcasm. "You jest spoil that young one, Fanny, "she would say to her sister. 

"You can do jest as you are a mind to with your own young ones whenyou get them, but you can let mine alone. It's none of your businesswhat her father and me give her to eat; you don't buy it, " Ellen'smother would retort. There was the utmost frankness of speechbetween the two sisters. Neither could have been in the slightestdoubt as to what the other thought of her, for it was openlyproclaimed to her a dozen times a day, and the conclusion was nevercomplimentary. Ellen learned very early to form her own opinions ofcharacter from her own intuition, otherwise she would have held heraunt and mother in somewhat slighting estimation, and she lovedthem both dearly. They were headstrong, violent-tempered women, butshe had an instinct for the staple qualities below that surfaceturbulence, which was lashed higher by every gust of opposition. These two loud, contending voices, which filled the house beforeand after shop-hours--for Eva worked in the shop with herbrother-in-law--with a duet of discords instead of harmonies, meantno more to Ellen than the wrangle of the robins in the cherry-trees. She supposed that two sisters always conversed in that way. Shenever knew why her father, after a fiery but ineffectual attempt toquell the feminine tumult, would send her across the east yard toher grandmother Brewster's, and seat himself on the east door-stepin summer, or go down to the store in the winter. She would sit atthe window in her grandmother's sitting-room, eating peacefully theslice of pound-cake or cooky with which she was always regaled, andlisten to the scolding voices across the yard as she might havelistened to any outside disturbance. She was never sucked into thewhirlpool of wrath which seemed to gyrate perpetually in her home, and wondered at her grandmother Brewster's impatient exclamationsconcerning the poor child, and her poor boy, and that it was a shameand a disgrace, when now and then a louder explosion of wrath struckher ears. 

Ellen's grandmother--Mrs. Zelotes Brewster, as she was called, though her husband Zelotes had been dead for many years--was anaristocrat by virtue of inborn prejudices and convictions, indespite of circumstances. The neighbors said that Mrs. ZelotesBrewster had always been high-feeling, and had held up her head withthe best. It would have been nearer the truth to say that she heldup her head above the best. No one seeing the erect old woman, inher draperies of the finest black goods to be bought in the city, could estimate in what heights of thin upper air of spiritualconsequence her head was elevated. She had always a clear sight ofthe head-tops of any throng in which she found herself, and queensor duchesses would have been no exception. She would never havefailed to find some stool of superior possessions or traits uponwhich to raise herself, and look down upon crown and coronet. Whenshe read in the papers about the marriage of a New York belle to anEnglish duke, she reflected that the duke could be by no means asfine a figure of a man as Zelotes had been, and as her son Andrewwas, although both her husband and son had got all their educationin the town schools, and had worked in shoe-shops all their lives. She could have looked at a palace or a castle, and have remainedtrue to the splendors of her little one-story-and-a-half house witha best parlor and sitting-room, and a shed kitchen for use in hotweather. 

She would not for one instant have been swerved from utmostadmiration and faith in her set of white-and-gold wedding china bythe contemplation of Copeland and Royal Sèvres. She would havepitted her hair-cloth furniture of the ugliest period of householdart against all the Chippendales and First Empire pieces inexistence. 

As Mrs. Zelotes had never seen any household possessions to equalher own, let alone to surpass them, she was of the same mind withregard to her husband and his family, herself and her family, herson and little granddaughter. She never saw any gowns and shawlswhich compared with hers in fineness and richness; she never tasteda morsel of cookery which was not as sawdust when she reflected uponher own; and all that humiliated her in the least, or caused her tofeel in the least dissatisfied, was her son's wife and her familyand antecedents. 

Mrs. Zelotes Brewster had considered that her son Andrew wasmarrying immeasurably beneath him when he married Fanny Loud, ofLoudville. Loudville was a humble, an almost disreputably humble, suburb of the little provincial city. The Louds from whom thelocality took its name were never held in much repute, beingconsidered of a stratum decidedly below the ordinary social one ofthe city. When Andrew told his mother that he was to marry a Loud, she declared that she would not go to his wedding, nor receive thegirl at her house, and she kept her word. When one day Andrewbrought his sweetheart to his home to call, trusting to her prettyface and graceful though rather sharp manner to win his mother'sheart, he found her intrenched in the kitchen, and absolutelyindifferent to the charms of his Fanny in her stylish, albeitsomewhat tawdry, finery, though she had peeped to good purpose fromher parlor window, which commanded the road, before she fledkitchenward. 

Mrs. Zelotes was beating eggs with as firm an impetus as if she wereheaving up earth-works to strengthen her own pride when her sonthrust his timid face into the kitchen. "Mother, Fanny's in theparlor, " he said, beseechingly. 

"Let her set there, then, if she wants to, " said his mother, andthat was all she would say. 

Very soon Fanny went home on her lover's arm, freeing her mind withno uncertain voice on the way, though she was on the public road, and within hearing of sharp ears in open windows. Fanny had a prideas fierce as Mrs. Zelotes Brewster's, though it was not so wellsustained, and she would then and there have refused to marry Andrewhad she not loved him with all her passionate and ill-regulatedheart. But she never forgave her mother-in-law for the slight shehad put upon her that day, and the slights which she put upon herlater. She would have refused to live next door to Mrs. Zelotes hadnot Andrew owned the land and been in a measure forced to buildthere. Every time she had flaunted out of her new house-door in herwedding finery she had an uncomfortable feeling of defiance under afire of hostile eyes in the next house. She kept her own windowsupon that side as clear and bright as diamonds, and her curtains inthe stiffest, snowy slants, lest her terrible mother-in-law shouldhave occasion to impeach her housekeeping, she being a notablehousewife. The habits of the Louds of Loudville were consideredshiftless in the extreme, and poor Fanny had heard an insinuation ofMrs. Zelotes to that effect. 

The elder Mrs. Brewster's knowledge of her son's house and his wifewas limited to the view from her west windows, but there washalf-truce when little Ellen was born. Mrs. Brewster, who consideredthat no woman could be obtained with such a fine knowledge ofnursing as she possessed, and who had, moreover, a regard for herpoor boy's pocket-book, appeared for the first time in his doorway, and opened her heart to her son's child, if not to his wife, whomshe began to tolerate. 

However, the two women had almost a hand-to-hand encounter overlittle Ellen's cradle, the elder Mrs. Brewster judging that it wasfor her good to be rocked to sleep, the younger not. Little Ellenherself, however, turned the balance that time in favor of hergrandmother, since she cried every time the gentle, swaying motionwas hushed, and absolutely refused to go to sleep, and her motherfrom the first held every course which seemed to contribute to herpleasure and comfort as a sacred duty. At last it came to pass thatthe two women met only upon that small neutral ground of love, andupon all other territory were sworn foes. Especially was Mrs. Zelotes wroth when Eva Loud, after the death of her father, one ofthe most worthless and shiftless of the Louds of Loudville, came tolive with her married sister. She spoke openly to Fanny concerningher opinion of another woman's coming to live on poor Andrew, andpaid no heed to the assertions that Eva would work and pay her way. 

Mrs. Zelotes, although she acknowledged it no social degradation fora man to work in a shoe-factory, regarded a woman who worked thereinas having hopelessly forfeited her caste. Eva Loud had worked in ashop ever since she was fourteen, and had tagged the grimy andleathery procession of Louds, who worked in shoe-factories when theyworked at all, in a short skirt with her hair in a strong blackpigtail. There was a kind of bold grace and showy beauty about thisEva Loud which added to Mrs. Zelotes's scorn and dislike. 

"She walks off to work in the shop as proud as if she was going to aparty, " she said, and she fairly trembled with anger when she sawthe girl set out with her son in the morning. She would haveconsidered it much more according to the eternal fitness of thingshad her son Andrew been attending a queen whom he would have droppedat her palace on the way. She writhed inwardly whenever little Ellenspoke of her aunt Eva, and would have forbidden her to do so had shedared. 

"To think of that child associating with a shop-girl!" she said toMrs. Pointdexter. Mrs. Pointdexter was her particular friend, whomshe regarded with loving tolerance of superiority, though she hadbeen the daughter of a former clergyman of the town, and had weddedanother, and might presumably have been accounted herself of asomewhat higher estate. The gentle and dependent clergyman's widow, when she came back to her native city after the death of herhusband, found herself all at once in a pleasant little valley ofhumiliation at the feet of her old friend, and was contented toabide there. "Perhaps your son's sister-in-law will marry and goaway, " she said, consolingly, to Mrs. Zelotes, who indeed lived inthat hope. But Eva remained at her sister's, and, though she hadadmirers in plenty, did not marry, and the dissension grew. 

It was an odd thing that, however the sisters quarrelled, the minuteAndrew tried to take sides with his wife and assail Eva in his turn, Fanny turned and defended her. "I am not going to desert all thesister I have got in the world, " she said. "If you want me to leave, say so, and I will go, but I shall never turn Eva out of doors. Iwould rather go with her and work in the shop. " Then the nextmoment the wrangle would recommence, and the harsh trebles of wrathwould swell high. Andrew could not appreciate this savageness ofrace loyalty in the face of anger and dissension, and his brainreeled with the apparent inconsistency of the thing. 

"Sometimes I think they are both crazy, " he used to tell his mother, who sympathized with him after a covertly triumphant fashion. Shenever said, "I told you so, " but the thought was evident on herface, and her son saw it there. 

However, he said not a word against his wife, except by implication. Though she and her sister were making his home unbearable, he stillloved her, and, even if he did not, he had something of his mother'spride. 

However, at last, when Ellen was almost eight years old, matterscame suddenly to a climax one evening in November. The two sisterswere having a fiercer dispute than usual. Eva was taking her sisterto task for cutting over a dress of hers for Ellen, Fanny claimingthat she had given her permission to do so, and Eva denying it. Thechild sat listening in her little chair with a look of dawningintelligence of wrath and wicked temper in her face, because she washerself in a manner the cause of the dissension. Suddenly AndrewBrewster, with a fiery outburst of inconsequent masculine wrath withthe whole situation, essayed to cut the Gordian knot. He grabbed thelittle dress of bright woollen stuff, which lay partly made upon thetable, and crammed it into the stove, and a reek of burning woolfilled the room. Then both women turned upon him with a combinationof anger to which his wrath was wildfire. 

Andrew caught up little Ellen, who was beginning to look scared, wrapped the first thing he could seize around her, and fairly fledacross the yard to his mother's. Then he sat down and wept like aboy, and his pride left him at last. "Oh, mother, " he sobbed, "if itwere not for the child, I would go away, for my home is a hell!"

Mrs. Zelotes stood clasping little Ellen, who clung to her, trembling. "Well, come over here with me, " she said, "you andEllen. "

"Live here in the next house!" said Andrew. "Do you suppose Fannywould have the child living under her very eyes in the next house?No, there is no way out of the misery--no way; but if it was not forthe child, I would go!"

Andrew burst out in such wild sobs that his mother released Ellenand ran to him; and the child, trembling and crying with a curioussoftness, as of fear at being heard, ran out of the house and backto her home. "Oh, mother, " she cried, breaking in upon the dialogueof anger which was still going on there with her little tremulousflute--"oh, mother, father is crying!"

"I don't care, " answered her mother, fiercely, her temper causingher to lose sight of the child's agitation. "I don't care. If itwasn't for you, I would leave him. I wouldn't live as I am doing. Iwould leave everybody. I am tired of this awful life. Oh, if itwasn't for you, Ellen, I would leave everybody and start fresh!"

"You can leave _me_ whenever you want to, " said Eva, her handsomeface burning red with wrath, and she went out of the room, which wassuffocating with the fumes of the burning wool, tossing her blackhead, all banged and coiled in the latest fashion. 

Of late years Fanny had sunk her personal vanity further and furtherin that for her child. She brushed her own hair back hard from hertemples, and candidly revealed all her unyouthful lines, and dweltfondly upon the arrangement of little Ellen's locks, which were of afine, pale yellow, as clear as the color of amber. 

She never recut her skirts or her sleeves, but she studied anxiouslyall the slightest changes in children's fashions. After her sisterhad left the room with a loud bang of the door, she sat for a momentgazing straight ahead, her face working, then she burst into such apassion of hysterical wailing as the child had never heard. Ellen, watching her mother with eyes so frightened and full of horror thatthere was no room for childish love and pity in them, grew verypale. She had left the door by which she had entered open; she gazedone moment at her mother, then she turned and slipped out of theroom, and, opening the outer door softly, though her mother wouldnot have heard nor noticed, went out of the house. 

Then she ran as fast as she could down the frozen road, a little, dark figure, passing as rapidly as the shadow of a cloud between theearth and the full moon. 

Chapter II

The greatest complexity in the world attends the motive-power of anyaction. Infinite perspectives of mental mirrors reflect the whys ofall doing. An adult with long practice in analytic introspectionsoon becomes bewildered when he strives to evolve the primary andfundamental reasons for his deeds; a child so striving would be lostin unexpected depths; but a child never strives. A child obeysunquestioningly and absolutely its own spiritual impellings withouta backward glance at them. 

Little Ellen Brewster ran down the road that November night, and didnot know then, and never knew afterwards, why she ran. Lovingrenunciation was surging high in her childish heart, giving anindication of tidal possibilities for the future, and there was alsoa bitter, angry hurt of slighted dependency and affection. Had shenot heard them say, her own mother and father say, that they wouldbe better off and happier with her out of the way, and she theirdearest loved and most carefully cherished possession in the wholeworld? It is a cruel fall for an apple of the eye to the ground, forits law of gravitation is of the soul, and its fall shocks theinfinite. Little Ellen felt herself sorely hurt by her fall fromsuch fair heights; she was pierced by the sharp thorns of selfishinterests which flourish below all the heavenward windows of life. 

Afterwards, when her mother and father tried to make her tell themwhy she ran away, she could not say; the answer was beyond her ownpower. 

There was no snow on the ground, but the earth was frozen in greatribs after a late thaw. Ellen ran painfully between the ridges whicha long line of ice-wagons had made with their heavy wheels earlierin the day. When the spaces between the ridges were too narrow forher little feet, she ran along the crests, and that was precarious. She fell once and bruised one of her delicate knees, then she fellagain, and struck the knee on the same place. It hurt her, and shecaught her breath with a gasp of pain. She pulled up her littlefrock and touched her hand to her knee, and felt it wet, then shewhimpered on the lonely road, and, curiously enough, there was pityfor her mother as well as for herself in her solitary grieving. "Mother would feel pretty bad if she knew how I was hurt, enough tomake it bleed, " she murmured, between her soft sobs. Ellen did notdare cry loudly, from a certain unvoiced fear which she had ofshocking the stillness of the night, and also from a delicate senseof personal dignity, and a dislike of violent manifestations offeeling which had strengthened with her growth in the midst of theturbulent atmosphere of her home. Ellen had the softest childishvoice, and she never screamed or shouted when excited. Instead ofcatching the motion of the wind, she still lay before it, like someslender-stemmed flower. If Ellen had made much outcry with the hurtin her heart and the smart of her knee, she might have been heard, for the locality was thickly settled, though not in the businessportion of the little city. The houses, set prosperously in themidst of shaven lawns--for this was a thrifty and emulative place, and democracy held up its head confidently--were built closely alongthe road, though that was lonely and deserted at that hour. It wasthe hour between half-past six and half-past seven, when people werelingering at their supper-tables, and had not yet started upon theirevening pursuits. The lights shone for the most part from the rearwindows of the houses, and there was a vague compound odor of teaand bread and beefsteak in the air. Poor Ellen had not had hersupper; the wrangle at home had dismissed it from everybody's mind. She felt more pitiful towards her mother and herself when she smeltthe food and reflected upon that. To think of her going away withoutany supper, all alone in the dark night! There was no moon, and thesolemn brilliancy of the stars made her think with a shiver of aweof the Old Testament and the possibility of the Day of Judgment. Suppose it should come, and she all alone out in the night, in themidst of all those worlds and the great White Throne, without hermother? Ellen's grandmother, who was of a stanch orthodox breed, andwas, moreover, anxious to counteract any possible detriment as toreligious training from contact with the degenerate Louds ofLoudville, had established a strict course of Bible study for hergranddaughter at a very early age. All celestial phenomena were inconsequence transposed into a Biblical key for the child, and sheregarded the heavens swarming with golden stars as a Hebrew child ofa thousand years ago might have done. 

She was glad when she came within the radius of a street light fromtime to time; they were stationed at wide intervals in thatneighborhood. Soon, however, she reached the factories, when allmystery and awe, and vague terrors of what beside herself might benear unrevealed beneath the mighty brooding of the night, were over. She was, as it were, in the mid-current of the conditions of her ownlife and times, and the material force of it swept away allsymbolisms and unstable drift, and left only the bare rocks andshores of existence. Always when the child had been taken by one ofher elders past the factories, humming like gigantic hives, withtheir windows alert with eager eyes of toil, glancing out at herover bench and machine, Ellen had seen her secretly cherishedimaginings recede into a night of distance like stars, and she hadfelt her little footing upon the earth with a shock, and had clungmore closely to the leading hand of love. "That's where your poorfather works, " her grandmother would say. "Maybe you'll have to workthere some day, " her aunt Eva had said once; and her mother, who hadbeen with her also, had cried out sharply as if she had been stung, "I guess that little delicate thing ain't never goin' to work in ashoe-shop, Eva Loud. " And her aunt Eva had laughed, and declaredwith emphasis that she guessed there was no need to worry yetawhile. 

"She never shall, while I live, " her mother had cried; and then Eva, coming to her sister's aid against her own suggestion, had declared, with a vehemence which frightened Ellen, that she would burn theshop down herself first. 

As for Ellen's father, he never at that time dwelt upon the child'sfuture as much as his wife did, having a masculine sense of theinstability of houses of air which prevented him from entering themwithout a shivering of walls and roof into naught but star-mediumsby his downrightness of vision. "Oh, let the child be, can't you, Fanny?" he said, when his wife speculated whether Ellen would be ordo this or that when she should be a woman. He resented theconception of the woman which would swallow up, like somemetaphysical sorceress, his fair little child. So when he now andthen led Ellen past the factories it was never with the slightestsurmise as to any connection which she might have with them beyondthe present one. "There's the shop where father works, " he wouldtell Ellen, with a tender sense of his own importance in his child'seyes, and he was as proud as Punch when Ellen was able to point withher tiny pink finger at the window where father worked. "That'swhere father works and earns money to buy nice things for littleEllen, " Andrew would repeat, beaming at her with divine foolishness, and Ellen looked at the roaring, vibrating building as she mighthave looked at the wheels of progress. She realized that her fatherwas very great and smart to work in a place like that, and earnmoney--so much of it. Ellen often heard her mother remark with pridehow much money Andrew earned. 

To-night, when Ellen passed in her strange flight, the factorieswere still, though they were yet blazing with light. The giganticbuildings, after a style of architecture as simple as a child'sblock house, and adapted to as primitive an end, loomed up besidethe road like windowed shells enclosing massive concretenesses ofgolden light. They looked entirely vacant except for light, for theworkmen had all gone home, and there were only the keepers in thebuildings. There were three of them, representing three differentfirms, rival firms, grouped curiously close together, but Lloyd'swas much the largest. Andrew and Eva worked in Lloyd's. 

She was near the last factory when she met a man hastening alongwith bent shoulders, of intent, middle-aged progress. After he hadpassed her with a careless glance at the small, swift figure, shesmelt coffee. He was carrying home a pound for his breakfast supply. That suddenly made her cry, though she did not know why. Thatfamiliar odor of home and the wontedness of life made her isolationon her little atom of the unusual more pitiful. The man turned roundsharply when she sobbed. "Hullo! what's the matter, sis?" he calledback, in a pleasant, hoarse voice. Ellen did not answer; she fled asif she had wings on her feet. The man had many children of his own, and was accustomed to their turbulence over trifles. He kept on, thinking that there was a sulky child who had been sent on an errandagainst her will, that it was not late, and she was safe enough onthat road. He resumed his calculation as to whether his income wouldadmit of a new coal-stove that winter. He was a workman in afactory, with one accumulative interest in life--coal-stoves. Hebought and traded and swapped coal-stoves every winter with keenestenthusiasm. Now he had one in his mind which he had just viewed in awindow with the rapture of an artist. It had a little nickelstatuette on the top, and that quite crowded Ellen out of his mind, which had but narrow accommodations. 

So Ellen kept on unmolested, though her heart was beating loud withfright. When she came into the brilliantly lighted stretch of MainStreet, which was the business centre of the city, her childish mindwas partly diverted from herself. Ellen had not been down town manytimes of an evening, and always in hand of her hurrying father ormother. Now she had run away and cut loose from all restrictions oftime; there was an eternity for observation before her, with no callin-doors in prospect. She stopped at the first bright shop window, and suddenly the exultation of freedom was over the child. Shetasted the sweets of rebellion and disobedience. She had stoodbefore that window once before of an evening, and her aunt Eva hadbeen with her, and one of her young men friends had come up behind, and they had gone on, the child dragging backward at her aunt'shand. Now she could stand as long as she wished, and stare andstare, and drink in everything which her childish imaginationcraved, and that was much. The imagination of a child is often likea voracious maw, seizing upon all that comes within reach, andproducing spiritual indigestions and assimilations almost endless intheir effects upon the growth. This window before which Ellen stoodwas that of a market: a great expanse of plate-glass framing a crudestudy in the clearest color tones. It takes a child or an artist tosee a picture without the intrusion of its second dimension ofsordid use and the gross reflection of humanity. 

Ellen looked at the great shelf laid upon with flesh and vegetablesand fruits with the careless precision of a kaleidoscope, and didnot for one instant connect anything thereon with the ends ofphysical appetite, though she had not had her supper. What had ameal of beefsteak and potatoes and squash served on the littlewhite-laid table at home to do with those great golden globes whichmade one end of the window like the remove from a mine, thosesatin-smooth spheres, those cuts as of red and white marble? She hadeaten apples, but these were as the apples of the gods, lying in aheap of opulence, with a precious light-spot like a ruby on everyoutward side. The turnips affected her imagination like ivorycarvings: she did not recognize them for turnips at all. She neverafterwards believed them to be turnips; and as for cabbages, theywere green inflorescences of majestic bloom. There is one positionfrom which all common things can be seen with reflections ofpreciousness, and Ellen had insensibly taken it. The window and theshop behind were illuminated with the yellow glare of gas, but theglass was filmed here and there with frost, which tempered it aswith a veil. In the background rosy-faced men in white frocks weremoving to and fro, customers were passing in and out, but they wereall glorified to the child. She did not see them as butchers, and asmen and women selling and buying dinners. 

However, all at once everything was spoiled, for her fairy castle ofillusion or a higher reality was demolished, and that not by anyblow of practicality, but by pity and sentiment. Ellen was awoman-child, and suddenly she struck the rock upon which women sooften wreck or effect harbor, whichever it may be. All at once shelooked up from the dazzling mosaic of the window and saw the deadpartridges and grouse hanging in their rumpled brown mottle ofplumage, and the dead rabbits, long and stark, with their furpointed with frost, hanging in a piteous headlong company, and allher delight and wonder vanished, and she came down to the hardactualities of things. "Oh, the poor birds!" she cried out in herheart. "Oh, the poor birds, and the poor bunnies!"

Just at that moment, when the sudden rush of compassion andindignation had swollen her heart to the size of a woman's, andgiven it the aches of one, when her eyes were so dilated with thesight of helpless injury and death that they reflected the mysteryof it and lost the outlook of childhood, when her pretty baby mouthwas curved like an inverted bow of love with the impulse of tears, Cynthia Lennox came up the street and stopped short when she reachedher. 

Suddenly Ellen felt some one pressing close to her, and, looking up, saw a woman, only middle-aged, but whom she thought very old, because her hair was white, standing looking at her very keenly withclear, light-blue eyes under a high, pale forehead, from which thegray hair was combed uncompromisingly back. The woman had been abeauty once, of a delicate, nervous type, and had a certain beautynow, a something which had endured like the fineness of texture of aweb when its glow of color has faded. Her black garments draped herwith sober richness, and there was a gleam of dark fur when the windcaught her cloak. A small tuft of ostrich plumes nodded from herbonnet. Ellen smelt flowers vaguely, and looked at the lady's hand, but she did not carry any. 

"Whose little girl are you?" Cynthia Lennox asked, softly, and Ellendid not answer. "Can't you tell me whose little girl you are?"Cynthia Lennox asked again. Ellen did not speak, but there was theswift flicker of a thought over her face which told her name asplainly as language if the woman had possessed the skill tointerpret it. 

"Ellen Brewster--Ellen Brewster is my name, " Ellen said to herselfvery hard, and that was how she endured the reproach of her ownsilence. 

The woman looked at her with surprise and admiration that werefairly passionate. Ellen was a beautiful child, with a face like awhite flower. People had always turned to look after her, she was socharming, and had caused her mothers heart to swell with pride. "Theway everybody we met has stared after that child to-day!" she wouldwhisper her husband when she brought Ellen home from some littleexpedition; then the two would look at the little one's face withthe one holy vanity of the world. Ellen wore to-night the littlewhite shawl which her father had caught up when he carried her overto her grandmother's. She held it tightly together under her chinwith one tiny hand, and her face looked out from between the softfolds with the absolute purity of curve and color of a pearl. 

"Oh, you darling!" said the woman, suddenly; "you darling!" andEllen shrank away from her. "Don't be afraid, dear, " said CynthiaLennox. "Don't be afraid, only tell me who you are. What is yourname, dear?" But Ellen remained silent; only, as she shrank aloof, her eyes grew wild and bright with startled tears, and her sweetbaby mouth quivered piteously. She wanted to run, but the habit ofobedience was so strong upon her little mind that she feared to doso. This strange woman seemed to have gotten her in some invisibleleash. 

"Tell me what your name is, darling, " said the woman, but she mightas well have importuned a flower. Ellen was proof against allcommands in that direction. She suddenly felt the furry sweep of thelady's cloak against her cheek, and a nervous, tender arm drawingher close, though she strove feebly to resist. "You are cold, youhave nothing on but this little white shawl, and perhaps you arehungry. What were you looking in this window for? Tell me, dear, where is your mother? She did not send you on an errand, such alittle girl as you are, so late on such a cold night, with no moreon than this?"

A tone of indignation crept into the lady's voice. 

"No, mother didn't send me, " Ellen said, speaking for the firsttime. 

"Then did you run away, dear?" Ellen was silent. "Oh, if you did, darling, you must tell me where you live, what your father's nameis, and I will take you home. Tell me, dear. If it is far, I willget a carriage, and you shall ride home. Tell me, dear. "

There was an utmost sweetness of maternal persuasion in CynthiaLennox's voice; Ellen was swayed by it as a child might have beenswayed by the magic pipe of the Pied Piper of Hamelin. She halfyielded to her leading motion, then she remembered. "No, " she criedout, with a sob of utter desolation. "No, no. "

"Why not, dear?"

"They don't want; they don't want. No, no!"

"They don't want you? Your own father and mother don't want you?Darling, what is the matter?" But Ellen was dumb again. She stoodsobbing, with a painful restraint, and pulling futilely from thelady's persuasive hand. But it ended in the mastery of the child. Suddenly Cynthia Lennox gathered her up in her arms under her greatfur-lined cloak, and carried her a little farther down the street, then across it to a dwelling-house, one of the very few which hadwithstood the march of business blocks on this crowded main streetof the provincial city. A few people looked curiously at the ladycarrying such a heavy, weeping child, but she met no one whom sheknew, and the others looked indifferently away after a secondbackward stare. Cynthia Lennox was one to bear herself with suchdignity over all jolts of circumstances that she might almostconvince others of her own exemption from them. Her mental bearingdisproved the evidence of the senses, and she could have committed acrime with such consummate self-poise and grace as to have held acrowd in abeyance with utter distrust of their own eyes before suchunquestioning confidence in the sovereignty of the situation. Cynthia Lennox had always had her own way except in one respect, andthat experience had come to her lately. 

Though she was such a slender woman, she seemed to have greatstrength in her arms, and she bore Ellen easily and as if she hadbeen used to such a burden. She wrapped her cloak closely around thechild. 

"Don't be afraid, darling, " she kept whispering. Ellen panted inbewilderment, and a terror which was half assuaged by something likefascination. 

She was conscious of a soft smother of camphor, in which thefur-lined cloak had lain through the summer, and of that flowerodor, which was violets, though she did not know it. Only the wildAmerican scentless ones had come in little Ellen's way so far. 

She felt herself carried up steps, then a door was thrown open, anda warm breath of air came in her face, and the cloak was tossedback, and she was set softly on the floor. The hall in which shestood seemed very bright; she blinked and rubbed her eyes. 

The lady stood over her, laughing gently, and when the child lookedup at her, seemed much younger than she had at first, very young inspite of her white hair. There was a soft red on her cheek; her lipslooked full and triumphant with smiles; her eyes were like stars. Anemotion of her youth which had never become dulled by satisfactionhad suddenly blossomed out on her face, and transformed it. Anunassuaged longing may serve to preserve youth as well as anundestroyed illusion; indeed, the two are one. Cynthia Lennox lookedat the child as if she had been a young mother, and she herfirst-born; triumph over the future, and daring for all odds, andperfect faith in the kingdom of joy were in her look. Had she nursedone child like Ellen to womanhood, and tasted the bitter in the cup, she would not have been capable of that look, and would have been asold as her years. She threw off her cloak and took off her bonnet, and the light struck her hair and made it look like silver. A broochin the laces at her throat shone with a thousand hues, and as Ellengazed at it she felt curiously dull and dizzy. She did not resist atall when the lady removed her little white shawl, but stared at herwith the look of some small and helpless thing in too large a graspof destiny to admit of a struggle. "Oh, you darling!" Cynthia Lennoxsaid, and stooped and kissed her, and half carried her into a great, warm, dazzling room, with light reflected in long lines of gold frompicture-frames on the wall, and now and then startling patches oflurid color blazing forth unmeaningly from the dark incline of theircanvases, with gleams of crystal and shadows of bronze in settingsof fretted ebony, with long swayings of rich draperies at doors andwindows, a red light of fire in a grate, and two white lights, oneof piano keys, the other of a flying marble figure in a corner, outlined clearly against dusky red. The light in this room was verydim. It was all beyond Ellen's imagination. The White North wherethe Norway spruces lived would not have seemed as strange to her asthis. Neither would Bluebeard's Castle, nor the House that JackBuilt, nor the Palace of King Solomon, nor the tent in which livedlittle Joseph in his coat of many colors, nor even the Garden ofEden, nor Noah's Ark. Her imagination had not prepared her for aroom like this. She had formed her ideas of rooms upon hergrandmother's and her mother's and the neighbors' best parlors, withtheir glories of crushed plush and gilt and onyx and cheap lace andpicture-throws and lambrequins. This room was such a heterodoxyagainst her creed of civilization that it did not look beautiful toher as much as strange and bewildering, and when she was bidden tosit down in a little inlaid precious chair she put down her tinyhand and reflected, with a sense of strengthening of her householdfaith, that her grandmother had beautiful, smooth, shiny hair-cloth. 

Cynthia Lennox pulled the chair close to the fire, and bade her holdout her little feet to the blaze to warm them well. "I am afraid youare chilled, darling, " she said, and looked at her sitting there inher dainty little red cashmere frock, with her spread of baby-yellowhair over her shoulders. Then Ellen thought that the lady wasyounger than her mother; but her mother had borne her and nursedher, and suffered and eaten of the tree of knowledge, and tasted thebitter after the sweet; and this other woman was but as a child inthe garden, though she was fairly old. But along with Ellen'sconviction of the lady's youth had come a conviction of her power, and she yielded to her unquestioningly. Whenever she came near hershe gazed with dilating eyes upon the blazing circle of diamonds ather throat. 

When she was bidden, she followed the lady into the dining-room, where the glitter of glass and silver and the soft gleam of preciouschina made her think for a little while that she must be in a store. She had never seen anything like this except in a store, when shehad been with her mother to buy a lamp-chimney. So she decided thisto be a store, but she said nothing. She did not speak at all, butshe ate her biscuits, and slice of breast of chicken, andsponge-cake, and drank her milk. 

She had her milk in a little silver cup which seemed as if it mighthave belonged to another child; she also sat in a small high-chair, which made it seem as if another child had lived or visited in thehouse. Ellen became singularly possessed with this sense of thepresence of a child, and when the door opened she would look aroundfor her to enter, but it was always an old black woman with a faceof imperturbable bronze, which caused her to huddle closer into herchair when she drew near. 

There were not many colored people in the city, and Ellen had neverseen any except at Long Beach, where she had sometimes gone to havea shore dinner with her mother and Aunt Eva. Then she always used toshrink when the black waiter drew near, and her mother and auntwould be convulsed with furtive mirth. "See the little gump, " hermother would say in the tenderest tone, and look about to see ifothers at the other tables saw how cunning she was--what a charminglittle goose to be afraid of a colored waiter. 

Ellen saw nobody except the lady and the black woman, but she wasstill sure that there was a child in the house, and after supper, when she was taken up-stairs to bed, she peeped through every opendoor with the expectation of seeing her. 

But she was so weary and sleepy that her curiosity and capacity forany other emotion was blunted. She had become simply a little, tired, sleepy animal. She let herself be undressed; she was not evenmoved to much self-pity when the lady discovered the cruel bruise onher delicate knee, and kissed it, and dressed it with a healingsalve. She was put into a little night-gown which she knew dreamilybelonged to that other child, and was laid in a little bedsteadwhich she noted to be made of gold, with floating lace over thehead. 

She sleepily noted, too, that there were flowers on the walls, andmore floating lace over the bureau. This room did not look sostrange to her as the others; she had somehow from the treasures ofher fancy provided the family of big bears and little bears with asimilar one. Then, too, one of the neighbors, Mrs. George Crocker, had read many articles in women's papers relative to the beautifyingof homes, and had furnished a wonderful chamber with old soap-boxesand rolls of Japanese paper which was a sort of a cousin many timesremoved of this. When she was in bed the lady kissed her, and calledher darling, and bade her sleep well, and not be afraid, she was inthe next room, and could hear if she spoke. Then she stood lookingat her, and Ellen thought that she must be younger than MinnieSwensen, who lived on her street, and wore a yellow pigtail, andwent to the high-school. Then she closed her heavy eyes, and forgotto cry about her poor father and mother; still, there was, afterall, a hurt about them down in her childish heart, though a greatwave of new circumstances had rolled on her shore and submerged forthe time her memory and her love, even, she was so feeble and young. 

She slept very soundly, and awoke only once, about two o'clock inthe morning. Then a passing lantern flashed into the chamber intoher eyes, and woke her up, but she only sighed and stretcheddrowsily, then turned her little body over with a luxurious roll andwent to sleep again. 

It was poor Andrew Brewster's lantern which flashed in her eyes, forhe was out with a posse of police and sympathizing neighbors andfriends searching for his lost little girl. He was frantic, and whenhe came under the gas-lights from time to time the men that saw himshuddered; they would not have known him, for almost the farthestagony of which he was capable had changed his face. 

Chapter III

By the next morning all the city was in a commotion over littleEllen's disappearance. Woods on the outskirts were being searched, ponds were being dragged, posters with a stare of dreadful meaningin large characters of black and white were being pasted all overthe fences and available barns, and already three of the localeditors had been to the Brewster house to obtain particulars andphotographs of the missing child for reproduction in the citypapers. 

The first train from Boston brought two reporters representing greatdailies. 

Fanny Brewster, white-cheeked, with the rasped redness of tearsaround her eyes and mouth, clad in her blue calico wrapper, receivedthem in her best parlor. Eva had made a fire in the best parlorstove early that morning. "Folks will be comin' in all day, Iexpect, " said she, speaking with nervous catches of her breath. Eversince the child had been missed, Eva's anxiety had driven her frompoint to point of unrest as with a stinging lash. She had peltedbareheaded down the road and up the road; she had invaded all theneighbors' houses, insisting upon looking through their farthest andmost unlikely closets; she had even penetrated to the woods, andjoined wild-eyed the groups of peering workers on the shore of thenearest pond. That she could not endure long, so she had rushed hometo her sister, who was either pacing her sitting-room withinarticulate murmurs and wails of distress in the sympathizing earsof several of the neighboring women, or else was staring withhaggard eyes of fearful hope from a window. When she looked from theeastern window she could see her mother-in-law, Mrs. ZelotesBrewster, at an opposite one, sitting immovable, with her Bible inher lap, prayer in her heart, and an eye of grim holding to faithupon the road for the fulfilment of promise. She felt all hermuscles stiffen with anger when she saw the wild eyes of the child'smother at the other window. "It is all her fault, " she said toherself--"all her fault--hers and that bold trollop of a sister ofhers. " When she saw Eva run down the road, with her black hairrising like a mane to the morning wind, she was an embodiment of animprecatory psalm. When, later on, she saw the three editorscoming--Mr. Walsey, of _The Spy_, and Mr. Jones, of _The Observer_, and young Joe Bemis, of _The Star_, on his bicycle--she watchedjealously to see if they were admitted. When Fanny's headdisappeared from the eastern window she knew that Eva had let themin and Fanny was receiving them in the parlor. "She will tell themall about the words they had last night, that made the dear childrun away, " she thought. "All the town will know what doings thereare in our family. " Mrs. Zelotes made up her mind to a course ofaction. Each editor was granted a long audience with Fanny and Eva, who entertained them with hysterical solemnity and displayed Ellen'sphotographs in the red plush album, from the last, taken in her bestwhite frock, to one when she was three weeks old, and seeming weaklyand not likely to live. This had been taken by a photographersummoned to the house at great expense. "Her father has never sparedexpense for Ellen, " said Fanny, with an outburst of grief. "That'sso, " said Eva. "I'll testify to that. Andrew Brewster never thoughtanything was too good for that young one. " Then she burst out witha sob louder than her sister's. Eva had usually a coarselywell-kempt appearance, her heavy black hair being securely twisted, and her neck ribbons tied with smart jerks of neatness; but to-dayher hair was still in the fringy braids of yesterday, and her cottonblouse humped untidily in the back. Her face was red and her lipsswollen; she looked like a very bacchante of sorrow, and as if shehad been on some mad orgy of grief. 

Mr. Walsey, of _The Spy_, who had formerly conducted a paper in acollege town and was not accustomed to the feminine possibilities ofmanufacturing localities, felt almost afraid of her. He had neverseen a woman of that sort, and thought vaguely of the FrenchRevolution and fish-wives when she gave vent to her distress overthe loss of the child. He fairly jumped when she cut short aquestion of his with a volley of self-recriminatory truths, accompanied with fierce gesturing. He stood back involuntarily outof reach of those powerful, waving arms. "Do I know of any reasonfor the child to run away?" shrieked Eva, in a voice shrilly hideouswith emotion, now and then breaking into hoarseness with the strainof tears. "I guess I know why, I guess I do, and I wish I had beensix foot under ground before I did what I did. It was all my fault, every bit of it. When I got home, and found that Fan had been makingthat precious young one a dress out of my old blue one, I pitchedinto her for it, and she gave it back to me, and then we jawed, andkept it up, till Andrew, he grabbed the dress and flung it into thefire, and did just right, too, and took Ellen and run over to oldlady Brewster's with her; then Ellen, she see him cryin', and itscared her 'most to death, poor little thing, and she heard him saythat if it wasn't for her he'd quit, and then she come runnin' hometo her mother and me, and her mother said the same thing, and thenthat poor young one, she thought she wa'n't wanted nowheres, and sherun. She always was as easy to hurt as a baby robin; it didn't takenothing to set her all of a flutter and a twitter; and now she'sjust flown out of the nest. Oh my God, I wish my tongue had beentorn out by the roots before I'd said a word about her blessedlittle dress; I wish Fan had cut up every old rag I've got; I'd godressed in fig-leaves before I'd had it happen. Oh! oh! oh!"

Young Joe Bemis, of _The Star_, was the first to leave, whirlingmadly and precariously down the street on his wheel, which wasdizzily tall in those days. Mrs. Zelotes, hailing him from her openwindow, might as well have hailed the wind. Her family dissensionswere well aired in _The Star_ next morning, and she always kept thecutting at the bottom of a little rosewood work-box where she storedaway divers small treasures, and never looked at the box without aswift dart of pain as from a hidden sting and the consciousness asof the presence of some noxious insect caged therein. 

Mrs. Zelotes was more successful in arresting the progress of theother editors, and (standing at the window, her Bible on the littletable at her side) flatly contradicted all that had been told themby her daughter-in-law and her sister. "The Louds always give way, no matter what comes up. You can always tell what kind of a familyanybody comes from by the way they take things when anything comesacross them. You can't depend on anything she says this morning. Myson did not marry just as I wished; everybody knows that; the Loudsweren't equal to our family, and everybody knows it, and I havenever made any secret as to how I felt, but we have always got alongwell enough. The Brewsters are not quarrelsome; they never havebeen. There were no words whatever last night to make mygranddaughter run away. Eva and Fanny are all wrong about it. Ellenhas been stolen; I know it as well as if I had seen it. Astrange-looking woman came to the door yesterday afternoon; she wasthe tallest woman I ever saw, and she took the widest steps; shemeasured her dress skirt every step she took, and she spoke gruff. Isaid then I knew she was a man dressed up. Ellen was playing out inthe yard, and she saw the child as she went out, and I see her stoopand look at her real sharp, and my blood run kind of cold then, andI called Ellen away as quick as I could; and the woman, she turnedround and gave me a look that I won't ever forget as long as I live. My belief is that that woman was laying in wait when Ellen was goingacross the yard home from here last night, and she has got her safesomewhere till a reward is offered. Or maybe she wants to keep her, Ellen is such a beautiful child. You needn't put in your papers thatmy grandchild run away because of quarrelling in our family, becauseshe didn't. Eva and Fanny don't know what they are talking about, they are so wrought up; and, coming from the family they do, theydon't know how to control themselves and show any sense. I feel itas much as they do, but I have been sitting here all the morning; Iknow I can't do anything to help, and I am working a good dealharder, waiting, than they are, rushing from pillar to post andtaking on, and I'm doing more good. I shall be the only one fit todo anything when they find the poor child. I've got blankets warmingby the fire, and my tea-kettle on, and I'm going to be the one todepend on when she's brought home. " Mrs. Zelotes gave a glance ofdefiant faith from the window down the road as she spoke. Then shesettled back in her chair and resumed her Bible, and dismissed thetall and forbidding woman whom she had summoned to save the honor ofher family resolutely from her conscience. The editors of _The Spy_and _The Observer_ had a row of ingratiating photographs of littleEllen from three weeks to seven years of age; and their opinions asto the cause of her disappearance, while fully agreeing in allpoints of sensationalism with those of young Bemis, of _The Star_, differed in detail. 

Young Bemis read about the mysterious kidnapper, and wondered, andthe demand for _The Star_ was chiefly among the immediate neighborsof the Brewsters. Both _The Observer_ and _The Spy_ doubled theircirculation in one day, and every face on the night cars was hiddenbehind poor little Ellen's baby countenances and the fairy-story ofthe witch-woman who had lured her away. Mothers kept their childrencarefully in-doors that evening, and pulled down curtains, fearfullest She look in the windows and be tempted. Mrs. Zelotes alsowaylaid both of the Boston reporters, but with results upon whichshe had not counted. One presented her story and Fanny's and Eva'swith impartial justice; the other kept wholly to the latter version, with the addition of a shrewd theory of his own, deduced from thecircumstances which had a parallel in actual history, and boldlystated that the child had probably committed suicide on account offamily troubles. Poor Fanny and Eva both saw that, when night wasfalling and Ellen had not been found. Eva rushed out and secured thepaper from the newsboy, and the two sisters gasped over thestartling column together. 

"It's a lie! oh, Fanny, it's a lie!" cried Eva. "She never would;oh, she never would! That little thing, just because she heard youand me scoldin', and you said that to her, that if it wasn't for heryou'd go away. She never would. "

"Go away?" sobbed Fanny--"go away? I wouldn't go away from hell ifshe was there. I would burn; I would hear the clankin' of chains, and groans, and screeches, and devils whisperin' in my ears what Ihad done wrong, for all eternity, before I'd go where they wereplayin' harps in heaven, if she was there. I'd like it better, Iwould. And I'd stay here if I had twenty sisters I didn't get alongwith, and be happier than I would be anywhere else on earth, if shewas here. But she couldn't have done it. She didn't know how. It'sawful to put such things into papers. "

Eva jumped up with a fierce gesture, ran to the stove, and crammedthe paper in. "There!" said she; "I wish I could serve all thepapers in the country the same way. I do, and I'd like to put allthe editors in after 'em. I'd like to put 'em in the stove withtheir own papers for kindlin's. " Suddenly Eva turned with a swishof skirts, and was out of the room and pounding up-stairs, shakingthe little house with every step. When she returned she bore overher arm her best dress--a cherished blue silk, ornate with ribbonsand cheap lace. "Where's that pattern?" she asked her sister. 

"She wouldn't ever do such a thing, " moaned Fanny. 

"Where's that pattern?"

"What pattern?" Fanny said, faintly. 

"That little dress pattern. Her little dress pattern, the one youcut over my dress for her by. "

"In the bureau drawer in my room. Oh, she wouldn't. "

Eva went into the bedroom, returned with the pattern, got thescissors from Fanny's work-basket, and threw her best silk dress ina rustling heap upon the table. 

Fanny stopped moaning and looked at her with wretched wonder. "Whatbe you goin' to do?"

"Do?" cried Eva, fiercely--"do? I'm goin' to cut this dress over forher. "

"You ain't. "

"Yes, I be. If I drove her away from home, scoldin' because you cutover that other old thing of mine for her, I'm goin' to make up forit now. I'm goin' to give her my best blue silk, that I paid adollar and a half a yard for, and 'ain't worn three times. Yes, Ibe. She's goin' to have a dress cut out of it, an' she's comin' backto wear it, too. You'll see she is comin' home to wear it. "

Eva cut wildly into the silk with mad slashes of her gleamingshears, while two neighboring women, who had just come into theroom, stared aghast, and even Fanny was partly diverted from hersorrow. 

"She's crazy, " whispered one of the women, backing away as shespoke. 

"Oh, Eva, don't; don't do so, " pleaded Fanny, tremulously. 

"I be, " said Eva, and she cut recklessly up the front breadth. 

"You ain't cutting it right, " said the other neighbor, who wasskilful in such matters, and never fully moved from her ownhousehold grooves by any excitement. "If you are a-goin' to cut itat all, you had better cut it right. "

"I don't care how I cut it, " returned Eva, thrusting the woman away. "Oh, I don't care how I cut it; I want to waste it. I will wasteit. "

The other neighbor backed entirely out of the room, then turned andfled across the yard, her calico wrapper blowing wildly and lashingabout her slender legs, to her own house, the doors of which shelocked. Presently the other woman followed her, stepping with theponderous leisure which results from vastness of body and philosophyof mind. The autumn wind, swirling in impetuous gusts, had littleeffect upon her broadside of woollen shawl. She had not come out onthat raw evening with nothing upon her head. She shook the kitchendoor of her friend, and smiled with calm reassurance when it wascautiously set ajar to disclose a wide-eyed and open-mouthed face ofterror. "Who is it?"

"It's me. What have you got your door locked for?"

"I think that Eva Loud is raving crazy. I'm afraid of her. "

"Lord! you 'ain't no reason to be 'fraid of her. She ain't crazy. She's only lettin' the birds that fly over your an' my heads settledown to roost. You and me, both of us, if we was situated jest asshe is, might think of doin' jest what she's a-doin', but we won'tneither of us do it. We'd let our best dresses hang in the closet, safe and sound, while we cut them up in our souls; but Eva, she'sdifferent. "

"Well, I don't care. I believe she's crazy, and I'm going to keep mydoors locked. How do you know she hasn't killed Ellen and put her inthe well?"

"Stuff! Now you're lettin' your birds roost, Hattie Monroe. "

"I read something that wasn't any worse than that in the paper theother day. I should think they would look in the well. Have Mrs. Jones and Miss Cross gone home?"

"No; they are over there. There's poor Andrew coming now; I wonderif he has heard anything?"

Both women eyed hesitatingly poor Andrew Brewster's dejected figurecreeping up the road in the dark. 

"You holler and ask him, " said the woman in the door. 

"I hate to, for I know by his looks he 'ain't heard anything of her. I know he's jest comin' home to rest a minute, so he can startagain. I know he 'ain't eat a thing since last night. Well, Mariahas got some coffee all made, and a nice little piece of steak readyto cook. "

"You holler and ask him. "

"What is the use? Just see the way he walks; I know without askin'. "

However, as Andrew neared his house he involuntarily quickened hispace, and his head and shoulders became suddenly alert. It hadoccurred to him that possibly Fanny and Eva might have had some newsof Ellen during his absence. Possibly she might have come home even. 

Then he was hailed by the stout woman standing at the door of thenext house. "Heard anything yet, Andrew?"

Andrew shook his head, and looked with despairing eyes at thewindows where he used to see Ellen's little face. She had not come, then, for these women would have known it. He entered the house, andFanny greeted him with a tremulous cry. "Have you heard anything;oh, have you heard anything, Andrew?"

Eva sprang forward and clutched him by the arm. 

"Have you?"

[Illustration: Eva sprang forward and clutched him by the arm]

Andrew shook his head, and moved her hand from his arm, and pushedpast her roughly. 

Fanny stood in his way, and threw her arms around him with a wild, sobbing cry, but he pushed her away also with sternness, and went tothe kitchen sink to wash his hands. The four women--his wife, hersister, and the two neighbors--stood staring at him; his face wasterrible as he dipped the water from the pail on the sink corner, and the terribleness of it was accentuated by the homely andevery-day nature of his action. 

They all stared, then Fanny burst out with a loud and desperatewail. "He won't speak to me, he pushes me away, when it is our childthat's lost--his as well as mine. He hasn't any feelings for me thatbore her. He only thinks of himself. Oh, oh, my own husband pushesme away. "

Andrew went on washing his hands and his ghastly face, and made noreply. He had actually at that moment not the slightest sympathywith his wife. All his other outlets of affection were choked by hisconcern for his lost child; and as for pity, he kept reflecting, with a cold cruelty, that it served her right--it served both herand her sister right. Had not they driven the child away betweenthem?

He would not eat the supper which the neighbors had prepared forhim; finally he went across the yard to his mother's. It seemed tohim at that time that his mother could enter into his state of mindbetter than any one else. 

When he went out, Fanny called after him, frantically, "Oh, Andrew, you ain't going to leave me?"

When he made no response, she gazed for a second at his retreatingback, then her temper came to her aid. She caught her sister's arm, and pulled her away out of the kitchen. "Come with me, " she said, hoarsely. "I've got nobody but you. My own husband leaves me when heis in such awful trouble, and goes to that old woman, that hasalways hated me, for comfort. "

The sisters went into Fanny's bedroom, and sat down on the edge ofthe bed, with their arms round each other. "Oh, Fanny!" sobbed Eva;"poor, poor Fanny! if Andrew turns against you, I will stand by youas long as I live. I will work my fingers to the bone to support youand Ellen. I will never get married. I will stay and work for youand her. And I will never get mad with you again as long as I live, Fanny. Oh, it was all my fault, every bit my fault, but, but--"Eva's voice broke; suddenly she clasped her sister tighter, and thenshe went down on her knees beside the bed, and hid her tangled headin her lap. "Oh, Fanny, " she sobbed out miserably, "there ain't muchexcuse for me, but there's a little. When Jim Tenny stopped goin'with me last summer, my heart 'most broke. I don't care if you doknow it. That's what made me so much worse than I used to be. Oh, myheart 'most broke, Fanny! He's treated me awful, but I can't getover it; and now little Ellen's gone, and I drove her away!"

Fanny bent over her sister, and pressed her head close to her bosom. "Don't you feel so bad, Eva, " said she. "You wasn't any more toblame than I was, and we'll stand by each other as long as we live. "

"I'll work my fingers to the bone for you and Ellen, and I'll neverget married, " said Eva again. 

Chapter IV

Ellen Brewster was two nights and a day at Cynthia Lennox's, and noone discovered it. All day the searching-parties passed the house. Once Ellen was at the window, and one of the men looked up and sawher, and since his solicitude for the lost child filled his heartwith responsiveness towards all childhood, he waved his hand andnodded, and bade another man look at that handsome little kid in thewindow. 

"Guess she's about Ellen's size, " said the other. 

"Shouldn't wonder if she looked something like her, " said the first. 

"Answers the description well enough, " said the other, "same lighthair. "

Both of the men waved their hands to Ellen as they passed on, butshe shrank back afraid. That was about ten o'clock of the morning ofthe day after Miss Lennox had taken her into her house. She hadwaked at dawn with a full realization of the situation. Sheremembered perfectly all that had happened. She was a child for whomthere were very few half-lights of life, and no spiritual twilightsconnected her sleeping and waking hours. She opened her eyes andlooked around the room, and remembered how she had run away and howher mother was not there, and she remembered the strange lady withthat same odd combination of terror and attraction and docility withwhich she had regarded her the night before. It was a very coldmorning, and there was a delicate film of frost on the windowsbetween the sweeps of the muslin curtains, and the morning sun gaveit a rosy glow and a crusting sparkle as of diamonds. The sight ofthe frost had broken poor Andrew Brewster's heart when he saw it, and reflected how it might have meant death to his little tenderchild out under the blighting fall of it, like a littlehouse-flower. 

Ellen lay winking at it when Cynthia Lennox came into the room andleaned over her. The child cast a timid glance up at the tall, slender figure clad in a dressing-gown of quilted crimson silk whichdazzled her eyes, accustomed as she was to morning wrappers ofdark-blue cotton at ninety-eight cents apiece; and she was filledwith undefined apprehensions of splendor and opulence which mightoverwhelm her simple grasp of life and cause her to lose all her oldstandards of value. 

She had always thought her mother's wrappers very beautiful, but nowlook at this! Cynthia's face, too, in the dim, rosy light, lookedvery fair to the child, who had no discernment for those ravages oftime of which adults either acquit themselves or by which theymeasure their own. She did not see the faded color of the woman'sface at all; she did not see the spreading marks around mouth andeyes, or the faint parallels of care on the temples; she saw onlythat which her unbiased childish vision had ever sought in a humanface, love and kindness, and tender admiration of herself; and herconviction of its beauty was complete. But at the same time a bitterand piteous jealousy for her mother and home, and all that she hadever loved and believed in, came over her. What right had thisstrange woman, dressed in a silk dress like that, to be leaning overher in the morning, and looking at her like that--to be leaning overher in the morning instead of her own mother, and looking at her inthat way, when she was not her mother? She shrank away towards theother side of the bed with that nestling motion which is the naturalone of all young and gentle children even towards vacancy, butsuddenly Cynthia was leaning close over her, and she was consciousagain of that soft smother of violets, and Cynthia's arms wereembracing all her delicate little body with tenderest violence, folding her against the soft red silk over her bosom, and kissingher little, blushing cheeks with the lightest and carefulest kisses, as though she were a butterfly which she feared to harm with heradoring touch. 

"Oh, you darling, you precious darling!" whispered Cynthia. "Don'tbe afraid, darling; don't be afraid, precious; you are very safe;don't be afraid. You shall have such a little, white, new-laid eggfor your breakfast, and some slices of toast, such a beautifulbrown, and some honey. Do you love honey, sweet? And some chocolate, all in a little pink-and-gold cup which you shall have for your veryown. "

"I want my mother!" Ellen cried out suddenly, with an exceedinglybitter and terrified and indignant cry. 

"There, there, darling!" Cynthia whispered; "there is a beautifulred-and-green parrot down-stairs in a great cage that shines likegold, and you shall have him for your own, and he can talk. Youshall have him for your very own, sweetheart. Oh, you darling! youdarling!"

Ellen felt herself overborne and conquered by this tide of love, which compelled like her mother's, though this woman was not hermother, and her revolt of loyalty was subdued for the time. Afterall, whether we like it or not, love is somewhat of an impersonalquality to all children, and perhaps to their elders, and it may bein such wise that the goddess is evident. 

She did not shrink from Cynthia any more then, but suffered her tolift her out of bed as if she were a baby and set her on a white furrug, into which her feet sank, to her astonishment. Her mother hadonly drawn-in rugs, which Ellen had watched her make. She was alittle afraid of the fur rug. 

Ellen was very small, and seemed much younger than she was by reasonof her baby silence and her little clinging ways. Then, too, she hadalways been so petted at home, and through never going to school hadnot been in contact with other children. Often the bloom ofchildhood is soonest rubbed off by friction with its own kind. Diamond cut diamond holds good in many cases. 

Cynthia did not think she was more than six years old, and neverdreamed of allowing her to dress herself, and indeed the child hadalways been largely assisted in so doing. Cynthia washed her anddressed her, and curled her hair, and led her down-stairs into thedining-room of the night before, which Ellen still regarded withwise eyes as the store. Then she sat in the tall chair which musthave been vacated by that mysterious other child, and had herbreakfast, eating her new-laid egg, which the black woman broke forher, while she leaned delicately away as far as she could with atimid shrug of her little shoulder, and sipping her chocolate out ofthe beautiful pink-and-gold cup. That, however, Ellen decided withinherself was not nearly as pretty as one with "A Gift of Friendship"on it in gilt letters which her grandmother kept on the whatnot inher best parlor. This had been given to her aunt Ellen, who diedwhen she was a young girl, and was to be hers when she grew up. Shedid not care as much for the egg and toast either as for thegriddle-cakes and maple syrup at home. All through breakfast Cynthiatalked to her, and in such manner as the child had never heard. Thatfine voice, full of sweetest modulations and cadences, which usedthe language with the precision of a musician, was as different fromthe voices at home with their guttural slurs and maimed terminals asthe song of a spring robin from the scream of the parrot which Ellencould hear in some distant room. And what Cynthia said was asdifferent from ordinary conversation to the child as a fairy tale, being interspersed with terms of endearment which her mother andgrandmother would have considered high-flown, and have beenshamefaced in employing, and full of a whimsical playfulness whichhad an undertone of pathos in it. Cynthia was not still for aminute, and seemed to feel that much of her power lay in her speechand voice, like some enchantress who cast her spell by means of hersilver tongue. Nobody knew how she dreaded that outcry of Ellen's, "I want my mother!" It gave her the sensations of a murderess, evenwhile she persisted in her crime. So she talked, diverting thechild's mind from its natural channel by sheer force of eloquence. She told a story about the parrot, which caused Ellen's eyes towiden with thoughtful wonder; she promised her treasures andpleasures which made her mouth twitch into smiles in spite ofherself; but with all her efforts, when after breakfast they wentinto another room, Ellen broke out again, "I want my mother!"

Cynthia turned white and struggled with herself for a moment, thenshe spoke. That which she was doing of the nature of a crime was inreality more foreign to her nature than virtue, and her instinct wasto return to her narrow and straight way in spite of its cramping oflove and natural longings. "Who is your mother, darling?" she asked. "And what is your name?"

But Ellen was silent, except for that one cry, "I want my mother!"The persistency of the child, in spite of her youth and herdistress, was almost invulnerable. She came of a stiff-necked familyon one side at least, and sometimes stiff-neckedness is morepronounced in a child than in an adult, in whom it may be temperedby experience and policy. "I want my mother! I want my mother!"Ellen repeated in her gentle wail as plaintively inconsequent as thenote of a bird, and would say no more. 

Then Cynthia displayed the parrot, but a parrot was too fine andfierce a bird for Ellen. She would have preferred him as a subjectfor her imagination, which could not be harmed by his beak andclaws, and she liked Cynthia's story about him better than thegorgeous actuality of the bird himself. She shrank back from thatshrieking splendor, clinging with strong talons to his cage wires, against which he pressed cruelly his red breast and beat hisgold-green wings, and through which he thrust his hooked beak, andglared with his yellow eyes. 

Ellen fairly sobbed at last when the parrot thrust out a wicked anddeceiving claw towards her, and said something in his unearthlyshriek which seemed to have a distinct reference to her, and firedat her a volley of harsh "How do's" and "Good-mornings, " and"Good-nights, " and "Polly want a cracker's, " then finished with awild shriek of laughter, her note of human grief making a curiouschord with the bird's of inhuman mirth. "I want my mother!" shepanted out, and wept, and would not be comforted. Then Cynthia tookher away from the parrot and produced the doll. Then truly did thesentiment of emulative motherhood in her childish breast console herfor the time for her need of her own mother. Such a doll as that shehad never seen, not even in the store-windows at Christmas-time. Still, she had very fine dolls for a little girl whose relativeswere not wealthy, but this doll was like a princess, and nearly aslarge as Ellen. 

Ellen held out her arms for this ravishing creature in a Frenchgown, looked into its countenance of unflinching infantile grace andamiability and innocence, and her fickle heart betrayed her, and shelaughed with delight, and the tension of anxiety relaxed in herface. 

"Where is her mother?" she asked of Cynthia, having a very firmbelief in the little girl-motherhood of dolls. She could not imaginea doll without her little mother, and even in the cases of thestore-dolls, she wondered how their mothers could let them be sold, and mothered by other little girls, however poor they might be. Butshe never doubted that her own dolls were her very own children evenif they had been bought in a store. So now she asked Cynthia with anindescribably pitying innocence, "Where is her mother?"

Cynthia laughed and looked adoringly at the child with the doll inher arms. "She has no mother but you, " said she. "She is yours, butonce she belonged to a dear little boy, who used to live with me. "

Ellen stared thoughtfully: she had never seen a little boy with adoll. The lady seemed to read her thought, for she laughed again. 

"This little boy had curls, and he wore dresses like a little girl, and he was just as pretty as a little girl, and he loved to playwith dolls like a little girl, " said she. 

"Where is he?" asked Ellen, in a small, gentle voice. "Don't he wanther now?"

"No, darling, " said Cynthia; "he is not here; he has been gone awaytwo years, and he had left off his baby curls and his dresses, andstopped playing with her for a year before that. " Cynthia sighedand drew down her mouth, and Ellen looked at her lovingly andwonderingly. 

"Be you his mother?" she asked, piteously; then, before Cynthiacould answer, her own lip quivered and she sobbed out again, evenwhile she hugged her doll-child to her bosom, "I want my mother! Iwant my mother!"

All that day the struggle went on. Cynthia Lennox, leading herlittle guest, who always bore the doll, traversed the fine old housein search of distraction, for the heart of the child was sore forits mother, and success was always intermittent. The music-boxplayed, the pictures were explained, and even old trunks oflaid-away treasures ransacked. Cynthia took her through thehot-houses and gave her all the flowers she liked to pick, to stillthat longing cry of hers. Cynthia Lennox had fine hot-houses kept byan old colored man, the husband of her black cook. Her establishmentwas very small; her one other maid she had sent away early thatmorning to make a visit with a sick sister in another town. The oldcolored couple had lived in her family since she was born, and wouldhave been silent had she stolen a whole family of children. Ellencaught a glimpse of a bent, dark figure at one end of the pink-houseas they entered; he glanced up at her with no appearance ofsurprise, only a broad, welcoming expansion of his whole face, whichcaused her to shrink; then he shuffled out in response to an orderof his mistress. 

Ellen stared at the pinks, swarming as airily as butterflies inmotley tints of palest rose to deepest carmine over the blue-greenjungle of their stems; she sniffed the warm, moist, perfumedatmosphere; she followed Cynthia down the long perspective of bloom, then she said again that she wanted her mother; and Cynthia led herinto the rose-house, then into one where the grapes hung lowoverhead and the air was as sweet and strong as wine, but even thereEllen wanted her mother. 

But it was not until the next morning when she was eating herbreakfast that the climax came. Then the door-bell rang, andpresently Cynthia was summoned into another room. She kissed Ellen, and bade her go on with her breakfast and she would return shortly;but before she had quite left the room a man stood unexpectedly inthe door-way, a man who looked younger than Cynthia. He had a fairmustache, a high forehead scowling over near-sighted blue eyes, andstood with a careless slouch of shoulders in a gray coat. 

"Good-morning, " he began. Then he stopped short when he saw Ellen inher tall chair staring shyly around at him through her soft goldenmist of hair. "What child is that?" he demanded; but Cynthia with asharp cry sprang to him, and fairly pulled him out of the room, andclosed the door. 

Then Ellen heard voices rising higher and higher, and Cynthia say, in a voice of shrill passion: "I cannot, Lyman. I cannot give herup. You don't know what I have suffered since George married andtook little Robert away. I can't let this child go. "

Then came the man's voice, hoarse with excitement: "But, Cynthia, you must; you are mad. Think what this means. Why, if people knowwhat you have done, kept this child, while all this search has beengoing on, and made no effort to find out who she was--"

"I did ask her, and she would not tell me, " Cynthia said, miserably. 

"Good Lord! what of that? That is nothing but a subterfuge. You musthave seen in the papers--"

"I have not looked at a paper since she came. "

"Of course you have not. You were afraid to. Why, good God! CynthiaLennox, I don't know but you will stand in danger of lynching ifpeople ever find this out, that you have taken in this child andkept her in this way--I don't know what people will do. "

Ellen waited for no more; she rose softly, she gathered up her greatdoll which sat in a little chair near by, she gathered up herpink-and-gold cup which had been given her, and the pinks which hadbeen brought from the hot-house the day before, which Cynthia hadarranged in a vase beside her plate, then she stole very softly outof the side door, and out of the house, and ran down the street asfast as her little feet could carry her. 

Chapter V

That morning, after the street in front of Lloyd's factory had beencleared of the flocking employés with their little dinner-boxes, andthe great broadside of the front windows had been set with faces ofthe workers, a distracted figure came past. A young fellow at awindow of the cutting-room noticed her first. "Look at that, JimTenny, " said he, with a shove of an elbow towards his next neighbor. 

"Get out, will ye?" growled Jim Tenny, but he looked. 

Then three girls from the stitching-room came crowding up behindwith furtively tender pressings of round arms against the shouldersof the young men. "We come in here to see if that was Eva Loud, "said one, a sharp-faced, alert girl, not pretty, but a favoriteamong the male employés, to the constant wonder of the other girls. 

"Yes, it's her fast enough, " rejoined another, a sweet-faced blondewith an exaggeratedly fashionable coiffure and a noticeablesmartness in the tie of her neck-ribbon and the set of her cottonwaist. "Just look at the poor thing's hair. Only see how frowsly itis, and she has come out without her hat. "

"Well, I don't wonder, " said the third girl, who was elderly andwhose complexion was tanned and weather-beaten almost to the colorof the leather upon which she worked. Yet through this seamed anddiscolored face, with thin grayish hair drawn back tightly from thetemples, one could discern, as through a transparent mask, a pastprettiness and an exceeding gentleness and faithfulness. "If mysister's little Helen was to be lost I shouldn't know whether my hatwas on or not, " said she. "I believe I should go raving mad. "

"You wouldn't have to slave as you have done supportin' it eversince your sister's husband died, " said the pretty girl. "Only lookhow Eva's waist bags in the back and she 'ain't got any belt on. Iwouldn't come out lookin' so. "

"I should die if I didn't have something to work for. That's thedifference between being a worker and a slave, " said the other girl, simply. "Poor Eva!"

"Well, it was a pretty young one, " said the first girl. 

"Looks to me as if Eva Loud's skirt was comin' off, " said the prettygirl. She pressed close to Jim Tenny with a familiar air ofproprietorship as she spoke, but the young man did not seem to heedher. He was looking over his bench at the figure on the streetbelow, and his heavy black eyebrows were scowling, and his mouthset. 

Jim Tenny was handsome after a swarthy and grimy fashion, for thetint of the leather seemed to have become absorbed into his skin. His black mustache bristled roughly, but his face was freer thanusual from his black beard-stubble, because the day before had beenSunday and he had shaved. His black right hand with its squatdiscolored nails grasped his cutting-knife with a hard clutch, hisleft held the piece of leather firmly in place, while he stared outwith that angry and anxious scowl at Eva, who had paused on thestreet below, and was staring up at the windows, as if she meditateda wild search in the factory for the lost child. There was a curiouslikeness between the two faces; people had been accustomed to saythat Eva Loud and her gentleman looked more like brother and sisterthan a courting couple, and there was, moreover, a curious spirit ofcomradeship between the two. It asserted itself now with the youngman, in opposition to the more purely sexual attraction of thepretty girl who was leaning against him, and for whom he haddeserted Eva. 

After all, friendship and good comradeship are a steadier force thanlove, if not as overwhelming, and it may be that tortoise of theemotions which outruns the hare. 

"Well, for my part, I think a good deal more of Eva Loud than if shehad come out all frizzed and ruffled--shows her heart is in theright place, " said the man who had spoken first. He spoke with aguttural drawl, and kept on with his work, but there was a meaningin his words for the pretty girl, who had coquetted with him beforetaking up with Jim Tenny. 

"That is so, " said another man at Jim Tenny's right. "She is rightto come out as she has done when she is so anxious for the child. "This man was a fair-haired Swede, and he spoke English with acurious and careful precision, very different from the hurried, slurring intonations of the other men. He had been taught thelanguage by a philanthropic young lady, a college graduate, in whosefather's family he had lived when he first came to America, and inconsequence he spoke like a gentleman and had some considerabledifficulty in understanding his companions. 

"Eva Loud has had a damned hard time, take it all together, " spokeout another man, looking over is bench at the girl on the street. Hewas small and thin and wiry, a mass of brown-coated muscles underhis loose-hanging gingham shirt. He plied feverishly hiscutting-knife with his lean, hairy hands as he spoke. He wasaccounted one of the best and swiftest cutters in Lloyd's, and heworked unceasingly, for he had an invalid wife and four children tosupport. Now and then he had to stop to cough, then he workedfaster. 

"That's so, " said the first man. 

"Yes, that is so, " said the Swede, with a nod of his fair head. 

"And now to lose this young one that she set her life by, " said thefirst girl, with an evident point of malice in her tone, and acovert look at the pretty girl at Jim Tenny's side. Jim Tenny paledunder his grime; the hand which held the knife clinched. 

"What do you s'pose has become of the young one?" said the firstgirl. "There's a good many out from the shop huntin' this mornin', ain't there?"

"Fifty, " said the first man, laconically. 

"You three were out all day yesterday, wa'n't you?"

"Yes, Jim and Carl and me were out till after midnight. "

"Well, I wonder whether the poor little young one is alive? Don'tseem as if she could be--but--"

"Look there! look there!" screamed the elderly girl suddenly. "Lookat _there!_" She began to dance, she laughed, she sobbed, she wavedher lean hands frantically out of the window, leaning far over thebench. "Look at there!" she kept crying. Then she turned and ran outof the room, with the other girls and half the cutting-room afterher. 

"Damn it, she's got the child!" said the thin man. He kept onworking, his dark, sinewy hands flying over the sheets of leather, but the tears ran down his cheeks. Lloyd's emptied itself into thestreet, and surrounded Eva Loud and Ellen, who, running aimlessly, had come straight to her aunt. Jim Tenny was first. 

Eva stood clasping the child, who was too frightened to cry, and wasbreathing in hushed gasps, her face hidden on her aunt's broadbosom. Eva had caught her up at the first sight of her, and now shestood clasping her fiercely, and looking at them all as if shethought they wanted to rob her of the child. Even when a great cheerwent up from the crowd, and was echoed by another from the factory, with an accompaniment of waving bare, leather-stained arms andhands, that expression of desperate defiance instead of the joy ofrecovery did not leave her face, not until she saw Jim Tenny's faceworking with repressed emotion and met his eyes full of the memoryof old comradeship. Then her bold heart and her pride all melted andshe burst out in a great wail before them all. 

"Oh, Jim!" she cried out. "Oh, Jim, I lost you, and then I thoughtI'd lost her! Oh, Jim!"

Then there was a chorus of feminine sobs, for Eva's wild weeping hadprecipitated the ready sympathy of half the girls present. The menstarted a cheer to cover a certain chivalrous shamefacedness whichwas upon them at the sight of the girl's grief, and another cheerfrom the factory echoed it. Then came another sound, the greatsteam-whistle of Lloyd's; then the whistles of the other neighboringfactories responded, and people began to swarm out of them, and thewindows to fill with eager faces. Jim Tenny grasped Eva's arm with agrasp like a vise. "Come this way, " said he, sharply. "Come thisway, Eva. "

"Oh, Jim! oh, Jim!" Eva sobbed again; but she followed him, littleEllen's golden fleece tossing over her shoulder. 

"She's got her; she's got her!" shouted the people. 

[Illustration: 'She's got her!' Shouted the people]

Then the leather-stained hands gyrated, the cheers went up, andagain the whistles blew. 

Jim Tenny, with his hand on Eva's arm, pushed his way through thecrowd. 

"Where you goin', Jim?" asked the pretty girl at his elbow, but hepushed past her roughly, and did not seem to hear. Eva's face wasall inflamed and convulsed with sobs, but she did not dream ofcovering it--she was full of the holy shamelessness of grief andjoy. "Let me see her! let me see her! Oh, the dear little thing, only look at her! Where have you been, precious? Are you hungry? Oh, Nellie, she is hungry, I know! She looks thin. Run over to thebakery and buy her some cookies, quick! Are you cold? Give her thissacque. Only look at her! Kate, only look at her! Are you hurt, darling? Has anybody hurt you? If anybody has, he shall be hung! Oh, you darling! Only see her, 'Liza. "

But Jim Tenny, his mouth set, his black brows scowling, his hardgrasp on Eva's arm, pushed straight through the gathering crowduntil they came to Clarkson's stables at the rear of Lloyd's, wherehe kept his horse and buggy--for he lived at a distance from hiswork, and drove over every morning. He pointed to a chair which ahostler had occupied, tilted against the wall, for a morning smoke, after the horses were fed and watered, and which he had vacated tojoin the jubilant crowd. "Sit down there, " he said to Eva. Then hehailed a staring man coming out of the office. "Here, help me inwith my horse, quick!" said he. 

The man stared still, with slowly rising indignation. He was portlyand middle-aged, the senior partner of the firm, who seldom touchedhis own horses of late years, and had a son at Harvard. "What's topay? What do you mean? Anybody sick?" he asked. 

"Help me into the buggy with my horse!" shouted Jim Tenny. "I tellyou the child is found, and I've got to take it home to its folks. "

"Don't they know yet? Is that it?"

"Yes, I tell you. " Jim was backing out his horse as he spoke. 

Mr. Clarkson seized a harness and threw the collar over the horse'shead, while Jim ran out the buggy. When Mr. Clarkson lifted Eva andEllen into the buggy he gave the child's head a pat. "God bless it!"he said, and his voice broke. 

The horse was restive. Jim took a leap into the buggy at Eva's side, and they were out with a dash and a swift rattle. The crowd partedbefore them, and cheer after cheer went up. The whistles soundedagain. Then all the city bells rang out. They were signalling theother searchers that the child was found. Jim and Eva and Ellen madea progress of triumph down the street. The crowd pursued them withcheers of rejoicing; doors and windows flew open; the house-yardswere full of people. Jim drove as fast as he could, scowling hard tohide his tenderness and pity. Eva sat by his side, weeping in herterrible candor of grief and joy, and Ellen's golden locks tossed onher shoulder. 

Chapter VI

As Jim Tenny, with Eva Loud and the child, drove down the roadtowards the Brewster house, his horse and buggy became the nucleusof a gathering procession, shouting and exclaiming, with voices alltuned to one key of passionate sympathy. There were even many womenof the poorer class who had no sense of indecency in following theutmost lead of their tender emotions. Some of them bore children oftheir own in their arms, and were telling them with passionatecroonings to look at the other little girl in the carriage who hadbeen lost, and gone away a whole day and two nights from her mother. They often called out fondly to Ellen and Eva, and ordered Jim towait a moment that they might look at the poor darling. But Jimdrove on as fast as he was able, though he had sometimes to rein hishorse sharply to avoid riding down some lean racing boys, who wouldnow and then shoot ahead of him with loud whoops of triumph. Once ashe drove he laid one hand caressingly over Eva's. "Poor girl!" hesaid, hoarsely and shamefacedly, and Eva sobbed loudly. When Jimreached Mrs. Zelotes Brewster's house there was a swift displacementof lights and shadows in a window, a door flew open, and the gauntold woman was at the wheel. 

"Stop!" she cried. "Stop! Bring her in here to me! Let me have her!Give her to me; I have got everything ready! Come, Ellen--come tograndmother!"

Then there was a mad rush from the opposite direction, and thechild's mother was there, reaching into the buggy with fierce armsof love and longing. "Give her to me!" she shrieked out. "Give me mybaby, Eva Loud! Oh, Ellen, where have you been?"

Fanny Brewster dragged her child from her sister's arms so forciblythat she seemed fairly to fly over the wheel. Then she strained herto her hungry bosom, covering her with kisses, wetting her soft faceand yellow hair with tears. 

"My baby, mother's darling, mother's baby!" she gasped out withgreat pants of satisfied love; but another pair of lean, wiry oldarms stole around the child's slender body. 

"Give her to me!" demanded Mrs. Zelotes Brewster. "She is my son'schild, and I have a right to her! You will kill her, goin' on soover her. Give her to me! I have everything all ready in my house totake care of her. Give her to me, Fanny Loud!"

"Keep your hands off her!" cried Fanny. "She's my own baby, andnobody's goin' to take her away from me, I guess. "

"Give her to me this minute!" said Mrs. Zelotes Brewster. "You'llkill her, goin' on so. You're frightenin' her to death. Give her tome this minute!"

Ellen, meanwhile, that little tender blossom tossed helplessly bycontending waves of love, was weeping and trembling with joy at thefeel of her mother's arms and with awe and terror at this tempest ofpassion which she had evoked. 

"Give her to me!" demanded Mrs. Zelotes Brewster. 

The crowd who had followed stood gaping with working faces. Themothers wept over their own children. Eva stood at her sister'selbow, with a hand on one of the child's, which was laid overFanny's shoulder. Jim Tenny had his face hidden on his horse's neck. 

"Give her to me!" said Mrs. Zelotes again. "Give her to me, I say! Iam her own grandmother!"

"And I am her own mother!" called out Fanny, with a greatmaster-note of love and triumph and defiance. "I'm her own mother, and I've got her, and nobody but God shall take her from me again. "The tears streamed down her cheeks; she kissed the child with pale, parted lips. She was at once pathetic and terrible. She was humanlove and selfishness incarnate. 

Mrs. Zelotes Brewster stared at her, and her face changed suddenlyand softened. She turned and went back into her own house. Her grayhead appeared a second beside her window, then sank out of sight. She was kneeling there with her Bible at her side, a sudden sweethumility of thankfulness rising from her whole spirit like aperfume, when Fanny, with Eva following, still clinging to thechild's little hand over her sister's shoulder, went across the yardto her own house to tell her husband. The others followed, and stoodabout outside, listening with curiosity sanctified by intensestsympathy. One nervous-faced boy leaped on the slant of the bulkheadto peer in a window of the sitting-room, and when his mother pulledhim back forcibly, rubbed his grimy little knuckles across his eyes, and a dark smooch appeared on his nose and cheeks. He was a youngboy, very small and thin for his age. He whispered to his mother andshe nodded, and he darted off in the direction of his own home. 

Andrew Brewster had just come home after an all-night's search, andhe was in his bedroom in the bitter sleep of utter exhaustion anddespair. Suddenly his heart had failed him and his brain had reeled. He had begun to feel dazed, to forget for a minute what he waslooking for. He had made incoherent replies to the men with him, andfinally one, after a whispered consultation with the others, hadsaid: "Look at here, Andrew, old fellow; you'd better go home andrest a bit. We'll look all the harder while you're gone, and maybeshe'll be found when you wake up. "

"Who will be found?" Andrew asked, with a dazed look. He reeled asif he were drunk. 

"Ain't had anything, has he?" one of the men whispered. 

"Not a drop to my knowledge. "

Andrew's lips trembled perceptibly; his forehead was knitted withvacuous perplexity; his eyes reflected blanks of unreason; his wholebody had an effect of weak settling and subsidence. The man whoworked next to him in the cutting-room at Lloyd's, and had searchedat his side indefatigably from the first, stole a tender hand underhis shoulder. "Come along with me, old man, " he said, and Andrewobeyed. 

When Fanny and Eva came in with the child, he lay prostrate on thebed, and scarcely seemed to breathe. A great qualm of fear shot overFanny for a second. His father had died of heart-disease. 

"Is he--dead?" she gasped to Eva. 

"No, of course he ain't, " said Eva. "He's asleep; he's wore out. Andrew, Andrew, Andrew, wake up! She's found, Andrew; Ellen'sfound. " But Andrew did not stir. 

"He is!" gasped Fanny, again. 

"No, he ain't. Andrew, Andrew Brewster, wake up, wake up! Ellen'shere! She's found!"

Fanny put Ellen down, and bent over Andrew and listened. "No, I canhear him breathe, " she cried. Then she kissed him, and leaned hermouth close to his ear. "Andrew!" she said, in a voice which Eva andEllen had never heard before. "Andrew, poor old man, wake up; she'sfound! Our child is found!"

When Andrew still did not wake, but only stirred, and moanedfaintly, Fanny lifted Ellen onto the bed. "Kiss poor father, andwake him, " she told her. 

Ellen, whose blue eyes were big with fright and wonder, whose lipswere quivering, and whose little body was vibrating with the strainof her nerves, laid her soft cheek against her father's rough, paleone, and stole a little arm under his neck. "Father, wake up!" shecalled out in her little, trembling, sweet voice, and that reachedAndrew Brewster in the depths of his own physical inertness. Heopened his eyes and looked at the child, and the light came intothem, and then the sound of his sobbing filled the house and reachedthe people out in the yard, and an echo arose from them. Graduallythe crowd dispersed. Jim Tenny, before he drove away, went to thedoor and spoke to Eva. 

"Anything I can do?" he asked, with a curious, tender roughness. Hedid not look at her as he spoke. 

"No; thank you, Jim, " replied Eva. 

Suddenly the young man reached out a hand and stroked her roughhair. "Well, take care of yourself, old girl, " he said. 

Eva went to her sister as Jim went out of the yard. Ellen was in thesitting-room with her father, and Fanny had gone to the kitchen toheat some milk for the child, whom she firmly believed to have hadnothing to eat during her absence. 

"Fanny, " said Eva. 

"Well?" said Fanny. "I can't stop; I must get some milk for her; shemust be 'most starved. "

Fanny turned and looked at Eva, who cast down her eyes before her ina very shamefacedness of happiness and contrition. 

"Why, what is it?" repeated Fanny, staring at her. 

"I've got Jim back, I guess, as well as Ellen, " said Eva, "and I'mgoing to be a good woman. "

After all the crowd of people outside had gone, the little nervousboy raced into the Brewster yard with a tin cup of chestnuts in hishand. He knocked at the side door, and when Fanny opened it hethrust them upon her. "They're for her!" he blurted out, and wasgone, racing like a deer. 

"Don't you want the cup back?" Fanny shouted after him. 

"No, ma'am, " he called back, and that, although his mother hadcharged him to bring back the cup or he would get a scolding. 

Chapter VII

Ellen had clung fast all the time to her doll, her bunch of pinks, and her cup and saucer; or, rather, she had guarded them jealously. "Where did you get all these things?" her aunt Eva had asked her, amazedly, when she first caught sight of her, and then had notwaited for an answer in her wild excitement of joy at the recoveryof the child. The great, smiling wax doll had ridden between Jim andEva in the buggy, Eva had held the pink cup and saucer with a kindof mechanical carefulness, and Ellen herself clutched the pinks inone little hand, though she crushed them against her aunt's bosom asshe sat in her lap. Ellen's grandmother and aunt had glanced atthese treasures with momentary astonishment, and so had her mother, but curiosity was in abeyance for both of them for the time; raptureat the sight of the beloved child at whose loss they had sufferedsuch agonies was the one emotion of their souls. But laterinvestigation was to follow. 

When Ellen did not seem to care for her hot milk liberally sweetenedin her own mug, and griddle-cakes with plenty of syrup, her motherlooked at her, and her eyes of love sharpened with inquiry. "Ain'tyou hungry?" she said. Ellen shook her head. She was sitting at thetable in the dining-room, and her father, mother, and aunt were allhovering about her, watching her. Some of the neighbor women werealso in the room, staring with a sort of deprecating tenderness ofcuriosity. 

"Do you feel sick?" Ellen's father inquired, anxiously. 

"You don't feel sick, do you?" repeated her mother. 

Ellen shook her head. 

Just then Mrs. Zelotes Brewster came in with herblack-and-white-checked shawl pinned around her gaunt old face, which had in it a strange softness and sweetness, which made Fannylook at her again, after the first glance, and not know why. 

"We've got our blessing back again, mother, " said her son Andrew, ina broken voice. 

"But she won't eat her breakfast, now mother has gone and cooked itfor her, so nice, too, " said Fanny, in a tone of confidence whichshe had never before used towards Mrs. Zelotes. 

"You don't feel sick, do you, Ellen?" asked her grandmother. 

Ellen shook her head. "No, ma'am, " said she. 

"She says she don't feel sick, and she ain't hungry, " Andrew said, anxiously. 

"I wonder if she would eat one of my new doughnuts. I've got somereal nice ones, " said a neighbor--the stout woman from the nexthouse, whose breadth of body seemed to symbolize a correspondingspiritual breadth of motherliness, as she stood there looking at thechild who had been lost and was found. 

"Don't you want one of Aunty Wetherhed's nice doughnuts?" askedFanny. 

"No; I thank you, " replied Ellen. Eva started suddenly with an airof mysterious purpose, opened a door, ran down cellar, and returnedwith a tumbler of jelly, but Ellen shook her head even at that. 

"Have you had your breakfast?" said Fanny. 

Then Ellen was utterly quiet. She did not speak; she made no sign ormotion. She sat still, looking straight before her. 

"Don't you hear, Ellen?" said Andrew. "Have you had your breakfastthis morning?"

"Tell Auntie Eva if you have had your breakfast, " Eva said. 

Mrs. Zelotes Brewster spoke with more authority, and she wentfurther. 

"Tell grandmother if you have had your breakfast, and where you hadit, " said she. 

But Ellen was dumb and motionless. They all looked at one another. "Tell Aunty Wetherhed: that's a good girl, " said the stout woman. 

"Where are those things she had when I first saw her?" asked Mrs. Zelotes, suddenly. Eva went into the sitting-room, and fetched themout--the bunch of pinks, the cup and saucer, and the doll. Ellen'seyes gave a quick look of love and delight at the doll. 

"She had these, luggin' along in her little arms, when I firstcaught sight of her comin', " said Eva. 

"Where did you get them, Ellen?" asked Fanny. "Who gave them toyou?"

Ellen was silent, with all their inquiring eyes fixed upon her facelike a compelling battery. "Where have you been, Ellen, all the timeyou have been gone?" asked Mrs. Zelotes. "Now you have got backsafe, you must tell us where you have been. "

Andrew stooped his head down to the child's, and rubbed his roughcheek against her soft one, with his old facetious caress. "Tellfather where you've been, " he whispered. Ellen gave him a littlepiteous glance, and her lip quivered, but she did not speak. 

"Where do you s'pose she got them?" whispered one neighbor toanother. 

"I can't imagine; that's a beautiful doll. "

"Ain't it? It must have cost a lot. I know, because my Hattie hadone her aunt gave her last Christmas; that one cost a dollar andninety-eight cents, and it didn't begin to compare with this. That'sa handsome cup and saucer, too. "

"Yes, but you can get real handsome cups and saucers to Crosby's fortwenty-five cents. I don't think so much of that. "

"Them pinks must have come from a greenhouse. "

"Yes, they must. "

"Well, there's lots of greenhouses in the city besides the florists. That don't help much. " Then the first woman inclined her lipsclosely to the other woman's ear and whispered, causing the other tostart back. "No, I can't believe she would, " said she. 

"She came from those Louds on her mother's side, " whispered thefirst woman, guardedly, with dark emphasis. 

"Ellen, " said Fanny, suddenly, and almost sharply, "you didn't takethose things in any way you hadn't ought to, did you? Tell mother. "

"Fanny!" cried Andrew. 

"If she did, it's the first time a Brewster ever stole, " said Mrs. Zelotes. Her face was no longer strange with unwonted sweetness asshe looked at Fanny. 

Andrew put his face down to Ellen's again. "Father knows she didn'tsteal the things; never mind, " he whispered. 

Suddenly the stout woman made a soft, ponderous rush out of the roomand the house. She passed the window with oscillating swiftness. 

"Where's Miss Wetherhed gone?" said one woman to another. 

"She's thought of somethin'. "

"Maybe she left her bread in the oven. "

"No, she's thought of somethin'. "

A very old lady, who had been sitting in a rocking-chair on theother side of the room, rose trembling and came to Ellen and leanedover her, looking at her with small, black, bright eyes throughgold-rimmed spectacles. The old woman was deaf, and her voice wasshrill and high-pitched to reach her own consciousness. "What didsuch a good little girl as you be run away from father and motherfor?" she piped, going back to first principles and the root of thewhole matter, since she had heard nothing of the discussion whichhad been going on about her, and had supposed it to deal with them. 

Ellen gasped. Suddenly all her first woe returned upon herrecollection. She turned innocent, accusing eyes upon her father'sloving face, then her mother's and aunt's. "You said--yousaid--you--" she stammered out, but then her father and mother wereboth down upon their knees before her in her chair embracing her, and Eva, too, seized her little hands. "You mustn't ever think ofwhat you heard father and mother say, Ellen, " Andrew said, solemnly. "You must forget all about it. Father and mother were both verywrong and wicked--"

"And Aunt Eva, too, " sobbed Eva. 

"And they didn't mean what they said, " continued Andrew. "You arethe greatest blessing in this whole world to father and mother;you're all they have got. You don't know what father and mother havebeen through, thinking you were lost and they might never see theirlittle girl again. Now you mustn't ever think of what they saidagain. "

"And you won't ever hear them say it again, Ellen, " Fanny Brewstersaid, with a noble humbling of herself before her child. 

"No, you won't, " said Eva. 

"Mother is goin' to try to do better, and have more patience, andnot let you hear such talk any more, " said Fanny, kissing Ellenpassionately, and rising with Andrew's arm around her. 

"I'm going to try, too, Ellen, " said Eva. 

The stout woman came padding softly and heavily into the room, andthere was a bright-blue silken gleam in her hand. She waved a wholeyard of silk of the most brilliant blue before Ellen's dazzled eyes. "There!" said she, triumphantly, "if you will tell Aunty Wetherhedwhere you've been, and all about it, she'll give you all thisbeautiful silk to make a new dress for your new dolly. "

Ellen looked in the woman's face, she looked at the blue silk, andshe looked at the doll, but she was silent. 

"Only think what a beautiful dress it will make!" said a woman. 

"And see how pretty it goes with the dolly's light hair, " saidFanny. 

"Ellen, " whispered Andrew, "you tell father, and he'll buy you awhole pound of candy down to the store. "

"I shouldn't wonder if I could find something to make your dolly acloak, " said a woman. 

"And I'll make her a beautiful little bonnet, if you'll tell, " saidanother. 

"Only think, a whole pound of candy!" said Andrew. 

"I'll buy you a gold ring, " Eva cried out--"a gold ring with alittle blue stone in it. "

"And you shall go to ride with mother on the cars to-morrow, " saidFanny. 

"Father will get you some oranges, too, " said Andrew. 

But Ellen sat silent and unmoved by all that sweet bribery, a littlemartyr to something within herself; a sense of honor, love for thelady who had concealed her, and upon whom her confession might bringsome dire penalty; or perhaps she was strengthened in her silence bysomething less worthy--possibly that stiff-neckedness which haddescended to her from a long line of Puritans upon her father'sside. At all events she was silent, and opposed successfully her onelittle new will to the onslaught of all those older and moreexperienced ones before her, though nobody knew at what cost ofagony to herself. She had always been a singularly docile andobedient child; this was the first persistent disobedience of herwhole life, and it reacted upon herself with a cruel spiritual hurt. She sat clasping the great doll, the pinks, and the pink cup andsaucer before her on the table--a lone little weak child, opposingher single individuality against so many, and to her own hurt andhorror and self-condemnation, and she did not weaken; but all atonce her head drooped on one side, and her father caught her. 

"There! you can all stop tormentin' this blessed child!" he cried. "Ellen, Ellen, look at Father! Oh, mother, look here; she's fainteddead away!"

"Fanny!"

When Ellen came to herself she was on the bed in her mother's room, and her aunt Eva was putting some of her beautiful cologne on herhead, and her mother was trying to make her drink water, and hergrandmother had a glass of her currant wine, and they were callingto her with voices of far-off love, as if from another world. 

And after that she was questioned no more about her mysteriousjourney. 

"Wherever she has been, she has got no harm, " said Mrs. ZelotesBrewster, "and there's no use in trying to drive a child, when itcomes of our family. She's got some notion in her head, and you'vegot to leave her alone to get over it. She's got back safe andsound, and that's the main thing. "

"I wish I knew where she got those things, " Fanny said. Looseness ofprinciple as to property rights was not as strange to herimagination as to that of her mother-in-law. 

For a long time afterwards she passed consciously and uneasily bycups and saucers in stores, and would not look their way lest sheshould see the counterpart of Ellen's, which was Sèvres, and worthmore than the whole counterful, had she only known it, and shehurried past the florists who displayed pinks in their windows. Thedoll was evidently not new, and she had not the same anxiety withregard to that. 

No one was allowed to ask Ellen further questions that day, not eventhe reporters, who went away quite baffled by this infantilepertinacity in silence, and were forced to draw upon theirimaginations, with results varying from realistic horrors to Alicein Wonderland. Ellen was kissed and cuddled by some women and younggirls, but not many were allowed to see her. The doctor had beencalled in after her fainting-fit, and pronounced it as his opinionthat she was a very nervous child, and had been under a severestrain, and he would not answer for the result if she were to befurther excited. 

"Let her have her own way: if she wants to talk, let her, and if shewants to be silent, let her alone. She is as delicate as that cup, "said the doctor, looking at the shell-like thing which Ellen hadbrought home, with some curiosity. 

Chapter VIII

That evening Lyman Risley came to see Cynthia. He looked at heranxiously and scrutinizingly when he entered the room, and did notrespond to her salutation. 

"Well, I have seen the child, " he said, in a hushed voice, with alook towards the door as he seated himself before the fire andspread out his hands towards the blaze. He looked nervous andchilly. 

"How did she look?" asked Cynthia. 

"Why in the name of common-sense, Cynthia, " he said, abruptly, without noticing her query, "if you had to give that child china fora souvenir, didn't you give her something besides Royal Sèvres?"Lyman Risley undoubtedly looked younger than Cynthia, but his mannereven more than his looks gave him the appearance of comparativeyouth. There was in it a vehemence and impetuosity almost like thatof a boy. Cynthia, with her strained nervous intensity, seemed verymuch older. 

"Why not?" said she. 

"Why not? Well, it is fortunate for you that those people have aknowledge for the most part of the fundamental properties of thedrama of life, such as bread-and-butter, and a table from which toeat it, and a knife with which to cut it, and a bed in which tosleep, and a stove and coal, and so on, and so on, and that theartistic accessories, such as Royal Sèvres, which is no better thancommon crockery for the honest purpose of holding the tea for thesolace of the thirsty mouth of labor, is beneath their attention. "

"How does the child look, Lyman?" asked Cynthia Lennox. She wasleaning back in a great crimson-covered chair before the fire, along, slender, graceful shape, in a clinging white silk gown whichwas a favorite of hers for house wear. The light in the room wassubdued, coming mostly through crimson shades, and the faint, wornlines on Cynthia's face did not show; it looked, with her soft crownof gray hair, like a cameo against the crimson background of thechair. The man beside her looked at her with that impatience of hismasculine estate and his superior youth, and yet with the adorationwhich nothing could conquer. He had passed two-thirds of his life, metaphorically, at this woman's feet, and had formed a habit ofadmiration and lovership which no facts nor developments could everalter. He was frowning, he replied with a certain sharpness, and yethe leaned towards her as he spoke, and his eyes followed her long, graceful lines and noted the clear delicacy of her features againstthe crimson background. "How the child looked--how the child looked;Cynthia, you do not realize what you did. You have not the faintestrealization of what it means for a woman to keep a lost child hiddenaway as you did, when its parents and half the city were hunting forit. I tell you I did not know what the consequences might be to youif it were found out. There is wild blood in a city like this, andeven the staid old New England stream is capable of erraticcurrents. I tell you I have had a day of dreadful anxiety, and itwas worse because I had to be guarded. I dared scarcely speak to anyone about the matter. I have listened on street corners; I have madeerrands to newspaper offices. I meant to get you away if-- Well, never mind--I tell you, you do not realize what you did, Cynthia. "

Cynthia glanced at him without moving her head, then she lookedaway, her face quivering slightly, more as if from a reflection ofhis agitation than from her own. "You say you saw her, " she said. 

"This afternoon, " the man went on, "I got fairly desperate. Iresolved to go to the fountain-head for information, and take mychances. So down I went to Maple Street, where the Brewsters live, and I rang the front-door bell, and the child's aunt, a handsome, breathless kind of creature, came and ushered me into the bestparlor, and went into the next room--the sitting-room--to call theothers. I caught sight of enough women for a woman's club in thesitting-room. Then Andrew Brewster came in, and I offered my legalservices out of friendly interest in the case, and in that way Ifound out what I wanted to. Cynthia, that child has not told. "

Cynthia raised herself and sat straight, and her face flashed like awhite flame. "Were they harsh to her?" she demanded. "Were theycruel? Did they question her, and were they harsh and cruel becauseshe would not tell? Why did you not tell them yourself? Why did younot, Lyman Risley? Why did you not tell the whole story rather thanhave that child blamed? Well, I will go myself. I will go thisminute. They shall not blame that darling. What do you think I carefor myself? Let them lynch me if they want to. I will go thisminute!" Cynthia sprang to her feet, but Risley, with a hoarseshout under his breath, caught hold of her and forced her back. 

"For God's sake, sit down, Cynthia!" he said. "Didn't you hear thedoor-bell? Somebody is coming. "

The door-bell had in fact rung, and Cynthia had not noticed it. Shelay back in her chair as the door opened, and Mrs. Norman Lloydentered. "Good-evening, Cynthia, " she said, beamingly. "I thought Iwould stop a few minutes on my way to meeting. I'm rather early. No, don't get up, " as Cynthia rose. "Don't get up; I can only stay aminute. Never mind about giving me a chair, Mr. Risley--thank you. Yes, this is a real comfortable chair. " Mrs. Lloyd, seated wherethe firelight played over her wide sweep of rich skirts, and hervelvet fur-trimmed cloak and plumed bonnet, beamed upon them with anexpansive benevolence and kindliness. She was a large, handsome, florid woman. Her grayish-brown hair was carefully crimped, andlooped back from her fat, pink cheeks, a fine shell-and-gold combsurmounted her smooth French twist, and held her bonnet in place. She unfastened her cloak, and a diamond brooch at her throat caughtthe light and blazed red like a ruby. She was the wife of NormanLloyd, the largest shoe-manufacturer in the place. There was betweenher and Cynthia a sort of relationship by marriage. Norman Lloyd'sbrother George had married Cynthia's sister, who had died ten yearsbefore, and of whose little son, Robert, Cynthia had had the charge. Now George, who was a lawyer in St. Louis, had married again. Mrs. Norman had sympathized openly with Cynthia when the child was takenfrom Cynthia at his father's second marriage. "I call it a shame, "she had said, "giving that child to a perfect stranger to bring up, and I don't see any need of George's marrying again, anyway. I don'tknow what I should do if I thought Norman would marry again if Idied. I think one husband and one wife is enough for any man orwoman if they believe in the resurrection. It has always seemed tome that the answer to that awful question in the New Testament, asto whose wife that woman who had so many husbands would be in theother world, meant that people who had done so much marrying onearth would have to be old maids and old bachelors in heaven. Georgeought to be ashamed of himself, and Cynthia ought to keep thatchild. "

Ever since she had been very solicitously friendly towards Cynthia, who had always imperceptibly held herself aloof from her, owing to adifference in degree. Cynthia had no prejudices of mind, but many ofnerves, and this woman was distinctly not of her sort, though shehad a certain liking for her. Every time she was brought in contactwith her she had a painful sense of a grating adjustment as ofpoints of meeting which did not dovetail as they should. NormanLloyd represented one of the old families of the city, distinguishedby large possessions and college training, and he was the first ofhis race to engage in trade. His wife came from a vastly differentstock, being the daughter of a shoe-manufacturer herself, and thegranddaughter of a cobbler who had tapped his neighbor's shoes inhis little shop in the L of his humble cottage house. Mrs. NormanLloyd was innocently unconscious of any reason for concealing thefact, and was fond, when driving out to take the air in her finecarriage, of pointing out to any stranger who happened to be withher the house where her grandfather cobbled shoes and laid thefoundation of the family fortune. "That all came from that littleshop of my grandfather, " she would say, pointing proudly at Lloyd'sgreat factory, which was not far from the old cottage. "Mr. Lloyddidn't have much of anything when I married him, but I hadconsiderable, and Mr. Lloyd went into the factory, and he has beenblessed, and the property has increased until it has come to this. "Mrs. Lloyd's chief pride was in the very facts which othersdeprecated. When she considered the many-windowed pile of Lloyd's, and that her husband was the recognized head and authority over allthose throngs of grimy men, walking with the stoop of daily labor, carrying their little dinner-boxes with mechanical clutches ofleather-tanned fingers, she used to send up a prayer for humility, lest evil and downfall of pride come to her. She was a pious woman, a member of the First Baptist Church, and active in charitable work. Mrs. Norman Lloyd adored her husband, and her estimate of him wasalmost ludicrously different from that of the grimy men who flockedto his factory, she seeing a most kindly spirited and amiable man, devoting himself to the best interests of his employés, and strivingever for their benefit rather than his own, and the others seeing anaristocrat by birth and training, who was in trade because of shrewdbusiness instincts and a longing for wealth and power, but whodespised, and felt himself wholly superior to, the means by which itwas acquired. 

"We ain't anything but the rounds of the ladder for Norman Lloyd toclimb by, and he only sees and feels us with the soles of hispatent-leathers, " one of the turbulent spirits in his factory said. Mrs. Norman Lloyd would not have believed her ears had she heardhim. 

Mrs. Lloyd had not sat long before Cynthia's fire that eveningbefore she opened on the subject of the lost child. "Oh, Cynthia, have you heard--" she began, but Risley cut her short. 

"About that little girl who ran away?" he said. "Yes, we have; wewere just talking about her. "

"Did you ever hear anything like it?" said Mrs. Lloyd. "They saythey can't find out where she's been. She won't tell. Don't youbelieve somebody has threatened her if she does?"

Cynthia raised herself and began to speak, but a slight, almostimperceptible gesture from the man beside her stopped her. 

"What did you say, Cynthia?"

"There is no accounting for children's freaks, " said Risley, shortlyand harshly. Mrs. Lloyd was not thin-skinned; such a current ofexuberant cordiality emanated from her own nature that she was notvery susceptible to any counter-force. Now, however, she feltvaguely and wonderingly, as a child might have done, that for somereason Lyman Risley was rude to her, and she had a sense ofbewildered injury. Mrs. Lloyd was always, moreover, somewhat anxiousas to the relations between Cynthia and Lyman Risley. She heard adeal of talk about it first and last; and while she had no word ofunkind comment herself, yet she felt at times uneasy. "Folks do talkabout Cynthia and Lyman Risley keeping company so long, " she toldher husband; "it's as much as twenty years. It does seem as if theyought to get married, don't you think so, Norman? Do you suppose itis because the property was left that way--for you know Lyman hasn'tgot anything besides what he earns--or do you suppose it is becauseCynthia doesn't want to marry him? I guess it is that. Cynthia neverseemed to me as if she would ever care enough about any man to marryhim. I guess that's it; but I do think she ought to stop his comingthere quite so much, especially when people know that about herproperty. "

Cynthia's property was hers on condition that her husband took hername if she married, otherwise it was forfeited to her sister'schild. "Catch a Risley ever taking his wife's name!" said Mrs. Lloyd. "Of course Cynthia would be willing to give up the money ifshe loved him, but I don't believe she does. It seems as if LymanRisley ought to see it would be better for him not to go there somuch if they weren't going to be married. "

So it happened when Risley caught up her question to Cynthia in thatperemptory fashion, Mrs. Lloyd felt in addition to the present causesome which had gone before for her grievance. She addressed herselfthereafter entirely and pointedly to Cynthia. "Did you ever see thatlittle girl, Cynthia?" said she. 

"Yes, " replied Cynthia, in a voice so strange that the other womanstared wonderingly at her. 

"Ain't you feeling well, Cynthia?" she asked. 

"Very well, thank you, " said Cynthia. 

"When did you see her?" asked Mrs. Lloyd. Cynthia opened her mouthas if to speak, then she glanced at Risley, whose eyes held her, andlaughed instead--a strange, nervous laugh. Happily, Mrs. Lloyd didnot wait for her answer. She had her own important information toimpart. She had in reality stopped for that purpose. "Well, I haveseen her, " she said. "I met her in front of Crosby's one day lastsummer. And she was so sweet-looking I stopped and spoke to her--Icouldn't help it. She had beautiful eyes, and the softest lightcurls, and she was dressed so pretty, and the flowers on her hatwere nice. The embroidery on her dress was very fine, too. Usually, you know, those people don't care about the fineness, as long as itis wide, and showy, and bright-colored. I asked her what her namewas, and she answered just as pretty, and her mother told me how oldshe was. Her mother was a handsome woman, though she had anup-and-coming kind of way with her. But she seemed real pleased tohave me notice the child. Where do you suppose she was all thattime, Cynthia?"

"She was in some safe place, undoubtedly, " said Risley, and againMrs. Lloyd felt that she was snubbed, though not seeing how nor why, and again she rebelled with that soft and gentle persistency in herown course which was the only rebellion of which she was capable. 

"Where do you suppose she was, Cynthia?" said she. 

"I think some woman must have seen her, and coaxed her in and kepther, she was such a pretty child, " said Cynthia, defiantly anddesperately. But the other woman looked at her in wonder. 

"Oh, Cynthia, I can't believe that, " said she. "It don't seem as ifany woman could be so bad as that when the child's mother was insuch agony over her. " And then she added, "I can't believe it, because it seems to me that if any woman was bad enough to do that, she couldn't have given her up at all, she was such a beautifulchild. " Mrs. Norman Lloyd had no children of her own, and was givento gazing with eyes of gentle envy at pretty, rosy little girls, frilled with white embroidery like white pinks, dancing along inleading hands of maternal love. "It don't seem to me I could everhave given her up, if I had once been bad enough to steal her, " shesaid. "What put such an idea into your head, Cynthia?"

When the church-bell clanged out just then Lyman Risley had neverbeen so thankful in his life. Mrs. Lloyd rose promptly, for she hadto lead the meeting, that being the custom among the sisters in herchurch. "Well, " said she, "I am thankful she is found, anyway; Icouldn't have slept a wink that night if I had known she was lost, the dear little thing. Good-night, Cynthia; don't come to the door. Good-night, Mr. Risley. Come and see me, Cynthia--do, dear. "

When Mrs. Norman Lloyd was gone, Risley looked at Cynthia with along breath of relief, but she turned to him with seemingly noappreciation of it, and repeated her declaration which Mrs. Lloyd'scoming had interrupted: "Lyman, I am going there to-night--thisminute. Will you go with me? No, you must not go with me. I amgoing!" She sprang to her feet. 

"Sit down, Cynthia, " said Risley. "I tell you they were not harsh toher. You don't seem to consider that they love the child--possiblybetter than you can--and would not in the nature of things be harshto her under such circumstances. Sit down and hear the rest of it. "

"But they will be harsh by-and-by, after the first joy of findingher is over, " said Cynthia. "I will go and tell them the first thingin the morning, Lyman. "

"You will do nothing so foolish. They are not only not insistingupon her telling her secret, but announced to me their determinationnot to do so in the future. I wish you could have seen that man'sface when he told me what a delicate, nervous little thing his childwas, and the doctor said she must not be fretted if she had taken anotion not to tell; and I wish you could have seen the mother andthe aunt, and the grandmother, Mrs. Zelotes Brewster. They would allgive each other and themselves up to be torn of wild beasts first. It is easy to see where the child got her extraordinary strength ofwill. They took me out in the sitting-room, and there was a wildflurry of feminine skirts before me. I had previously overheardmyself announced as Lawyer Risley by the aunt, and the response fromvarious voices that they were 'goin' if he was comin' out in thesittin'-room. ' It always made them nervous to see lawyers. Well, Ifollowed the parents and the grandmother and the aunt out. I darednot refuse when they suggested it, and I hoped desperately that thechild would not remember me from that one scared glance she gave atme this morning. But there she sat in her little chair, holding thedoll you gave her, and she looked up at me when I entered, and Ihave never in the whole course of my existence seen such anexpression upon the face of a child. Remember me? Indeed she did, and she promised me with the faithfulest, stanchest eyes of a womanset in a child's head that she would not tell; that I need not fearfor one minute; that the lady who had given her the doll was quitesafe. She knew, and she must have heard what I said to you thismorning. She is the most wonderful child I have ever seen. "

Cynthia had sank back in her chair. Lyman Risley put his cigar backbetween his lips; Cynthia was quite still, her delicate profiletowards him. 

"I assure you there is not the slightest danger of their troublingthe child because of her silence, and you would do an exceedinglyfoolish thing, and its consequences would react not upon yourselfonly, but--upon others, were you to confess the truth to them, " hesaid after a little. "You must think of others--of your friends, andof your sister's boy, whose loss led you into this. Thiswould--well, it would get into the papers, Cynthia. "

"Do you think that the doll continued to please her?" asked Cynthia. 

"Cynthia, I want you to promise, " said her friend, persistently. 

"Very well, I will promise, if you will promise to let me know theminute you hear that they are treating her harshly because of hersilence. "

Suddenly Cynthia turned her face upon him. "Lyman, " said she, "doyou think that I could do anything for her--"

"Do anything for her?" he repeated, vaguely. 

"Yes; they cannot have money. They must be poor: the father works inthe factory. Would they allow me--"

The lawyer laughed. "Cynthia, " he said, "you do not realize thatpride finds its native element in all strata of society, and richesare comparative. Let me inform you that these Brewsters, of whomthis child sprung, claim as high places in the synagogue as any ofyour Lennoxes and Risleys, and, what is more, they believethemselves there. They have seen the tops of their neighbors' headsas often as you or I. The mere fact of familiarity with shoe-knivesand leather, and hand-skill instead of brain-skill, makes nodifference with such inherent confidence of importance as theirs. The Louds, on the other side--the handsome aunt is a Loud--arerather below caste, but they make up for it with defiance. And asfor riches, I would have you know that the Brewsters are as rich intheir own estimation as you in yours; that they have possessionswhich entirely meet their needs and their æsthetic longings; thatnot only does Andrew Brewster earn exceedingly good wages in theshop, and is able to provide plenty of nourishing food and goodclothes, but even by-and-by, if he prospers and is prudent, something rather extra in the way of education--perhaps a piano. Iwould have you know that there is a Rogers group on a littlemarble-topped table in the front window, and a table in the sidewindow with a worked spread, on which reposes a red plush photographalbum; that there is also a set of fine parlor furniture, withvarious devices in the way of silken and lace scarfs over thecorners and backs of the chairs and sofa, and that there is atapestry carpet; that in the sitting-room is a fine crushed-plushcouch, and a multiplicity of rocking-chairs; that there is acomplete dining-set in the next room, the door of which stood open, and even a side-board with red napkins, and a fine display of glass, every whit as elegant in their estimation as your cut glass inyours. The child's father owns his house and land free ofencumbrance. He told me so in the course of his artless boasting asto what he might some day be able to do for the precious littlecreature of his own flesh and blood; and the grandmother owns hercomfortable place next door, and she herself was dressed in blacksilk, and I will swear the lace on her cap was real, and she wore agreat brooch containing hair of the departed, and it was set inpearl. What are you going to do in the face of opulence like this, Cynthia?"

Cynthia did not speak; her face looked as still as if it were carvedin ivory. 

"Cynthia, " said the man, in a harsh voice, "I did not dream you wereso broken up over losing that little boy of your sister's, poorgirl. "

Cynthia still said nothing, but a tear rolled down her cheek. LymanRisley saw it, then he looked straight ahead, scowling over hiscigar. He seemed suddenly to realize in this woman whom he lovedsomething anomalous, yet lovely--a beauty, as it were, of deformity, an over-development in one direction, though a direction of uttergrace and sweetness, like the lip of an orchid. 

Why should she break her heart over a child whom she had never seenbefore, and have no love and pity for the man who had laid his bestat her feet so long?

He saw at a flash the sweet yet monstrous imperfection of her, andhe loved her better for it. 

Chapter IX

After Ellen's experience in running away, she dreamed her dreamswith a difference. The breath of human passion had stained the purecrystal of her childish imagination; she peopled all herair-castles, and sounds of wailing farewells floated from the WhiteNorth of her fancy after the procession of the evergreen trees inthe west yard, and the cherry-trees on the east had found out thatthey were not in the Garden of Eden. In those days Ellen grew tallerand thinner, and the cherubic roundness of her face lengthened intoa sweet wistfulness of wonder and pleading, as of one who would lookfarther, since she heard sounds and saw signs in her sky whichindicated more beyond. Andrew and Fanny watched her more anxiouslythan ever, and decided not to send her to school before spring, though all the neighbors exclaimed at their tardiness in so doing. "She'll be two years back of my Hattie gettin' into thehigh-school, " said one woman, bluntly, to Fanny, who retorted, angrily, "I don't care if she's ten years behind, if she don't lose herhealth. "

"You wait and see if she's two years behind!" exclaimed Eva, who hadjust returned from the shop, and had entered the room bringing afresh breath of December air, her cheeks glowing, her black eyesshining. 

Eva was so handsome in those days that she fairly forced admiration, even from those of her own sex whose delicacy of taste she offended. She had a parcel in her hand, which she had bought at a store on herway home, for she was getting ready to be married to Jim Tenny. "Itell you there don't nobody know what that young one can do, "continued Eva, with a radiant nod of triumph. "There ain't manygrown-up folks round here that can read like her, and she's studiedgeography, and she knows her multiplication-table, and she can spellbetter than some that's been through the high-school. You jest waittill Ellen gets started on her schoolin'--she won't stay in thegrammar-school long, I can tell you that. She'll go ahead of somethat's got a start now and think they're 'most there. " Eva pulledoff her hat, and the coarse black curls on her forehead sprang uplike released wire. She nodded emphatically with a good-humoredcombativeness at the visiting woman and at her sister. 

"I hope your cheeks are red enough, " said Fanny, looking at her withgrateful admiration. 

The visiting woman sniffed covertly, and a retort which seemed toher exceedingly witty was loud in her own consciousness. "Them thatlikes beets and pinies is welcome to them, " she thought, but she didnot speak. "Well, " said she, "folks must do as they think best abouttheir own children. I have always thought a good deal of aneducation myself. I was brought up that way. " She looked with eyesthat were fairly cruel at Eva Loud and Fanny, who had been a Loud, who had both stopped going to school at a very early age. 

Then the rich red flamed over Eva's forehead and neck as well as hercheeks. There was nothing covert about her, she would drag anambushed enemy forth into the open field even at the risk ofdamaging disclosures regarding herself. 

"Why don't you say jest what you mean, right out, Jennie Stebbins?"she demanded. "You are hintin' that Fanny and me never had noeducation, and twittin' us with it. "

"It wa'n't our fault, " said Fanny, no less angrily. 

"No, it wa'n't our fault, " assented Eva. "We had to quit school. Folks can live with empty heads, but they can't with empty stomachs. It had to be one or the other. If you want to twit us with bein'poor, you can, Jennie Stebbins. "

"I haven't said anything, " said Mrs. Stebbins, with a scared andinjured air. "I'd like to know what you're making all this fussabout? I don't know. What did I say?"

"If I'd said anything mean, I wouldn't turn tail an' run, I'd stickto it about one minute and a half, if it killed me, " said Eva, scornfully. 

"You know what you was hintin' at, jest as well as we do, " saidFanny; "but it ain't so true as you and some other folks may think, I can tell you that. If Eva and me didn't go to school as long assome, we have always read every chance we could get. "

"That's so, " said Eva, emphatically. "I guess we've read enoughsight more than some folks that has had a good deal more chance toread. Fanny and me have taken books out of the library full as muchas any of the neighbors, I rather guess. "

"We've read every single thing that Mrs. Southworth has everwritten, " said Fanny, "and that's sayin' considerable. "

"And all Pansy's and Rider Haggard's, " declared Eva, with triumph. 

"And every one of The Duchess and Marie Corelli, and Sir WalterScott, and George Macdonald, and Laura Jean Libbey, and CharlesReade, and more, besides, than I can think of. "

"Fanny has read 'most all Tennyson, " said Eva, with loyaladmiration; "she likes poetry, but I don't very well. She has readmost all Tennyson and Longfellow, and we've both read _Queechee_, and _St. Elmo_, and _Jane Eyre_. "

"And we've read the Bible through, " said Fanny, "because we read ina paper once that that was a complete education. We made up ourminds we'd read it through, and we did, though it took us quite awhile. "

"And we take _Zion's Herald_, and _The Rowe Gazette_, and _TheYouth's Companion_, " said Eva. 

"And we've both of us learned Ellen geography and spellin' and'rithmetic, till we know most as much as she does, " said Fanny. 

"That's so, " said Fanny. "I snum, I believe I could get into thehigh-school myself, if I wasn't goin' to git married, " said Eva, with a gay laugh. She was so happy in those days that her power ofcontinued resentment was small. The tide of her own bliss returnedupon her full consciousness and overflowed, and crested, as withglory, all petty annoyances. 

The visiting woman took up her work, and rose to go with a slightlyabashed air, though her small brown eyes were still blanks ofimpregnable defence. "Well, I dunno what I've said to stir you bothso, " she remarked again. "If I've said anythin' that riled you, I'msorry, I'm sure. As I said before, folks must do as they are a mindto with their own children. If they see fit to keep 'em home fromschool until they're women grown, and if they think it's best not topunish 'em when they run away, why they must. I 'ain't got no rightto say anythin', and I 'ain't. "

"You--" began Fanny, and then she stopped short, and Eva beganarranging her hair before the glass. "The wind blew so comin' home, "she said, "that my hair is all out. " The visiting woman stared witha motion of adjustive bewilderment, as one might before a suddenchange of wind, then she looked, as a shadowy motion disturbed theeven light of the room and little Ellen passed the window. She knewat once, for she had heard the gossip, that the ready tongues ofrecrimination were hushed because of the child, and then Ellenentered. 

The winter afternoon was waning and the light was low; the child'sface, with its clear fairness, seemed to gleam out in the room likea lamp with a pale luminosity of its own. 

The three women, the mother, and aunt, and the visiting neighbor, all looked at her, and Ellen smiled up at them as innocently sweetas a flower. There was that in Ellen's smile and regard at that timewhich no woman could resist. Suddenly the visiting neighbor laid afinger softly under her chin and tilted up her little face towardsthe light. Then she said with that unconscious poetry of bereavementwhich sees a likeness in all fair things of earth to the face of thelost treasure, "I do believe she looks like my first little girlthat died. "

After the visiting woman had gone, Fanny and Eva calling after herto come again, they looked at each other, then at Ellen. "Thatlittle girl that died favored the Stebbinses, and was dark as anInjun, " said Fanny, "no more like Ellen--"

"That's so, " acquiesced Eva; "I remember that young one. Lookin'like Ellen--I'd like to see the child that did look like her; thereain't none round these parts. I wish you could have seen folks stareat her when I took her down street yesterday. One woman said, 'Ain'tshe pretty as a picture, ' so loud I heard it, but Ellen didn't seemto. "

"Sometimes I wonder if we'll make her proud, " Fanny said, in ahushed voice, with a look of admiration that savored of worshipat Ellen. 

"She don't ever seem to notice, " said Eva, with a hushed response. Indeed, Ellen had seemed to pay no attention whatever totheir remarks, whether from an innate humility and lack ofself-consciousness, or because she was so accustomed to adulationthat it had become as the breath of her nostrils, to be taken nomore account of. She had seated herself in her favorite place in arocking-chair at a west window, with her chin resting on the sill, and her eyes staring into the great out-of-doors, full of winds andskies and trees and her own imaginings. 

She would sit so, motionless, for hours at a time, and sometimes hermother would rouse her almost roughly. "What be you thinkin' about, settin' there so still?" she would ask, with eyes of vague anxietyfixed upon her, but Ellen could never answer. 

Though it was getting late, it did not seem dark as early as usual, since there was a full moon and there was snow on the ground whichgave forth a pale light in a wide surface of reflection. However, the moon was behind clouds, for it was beginning to snow again quiteheavily, and the white flakes drove in whirlwinds past thestreet-lamp on the corner of the street. Now and then a tramping andmuffled figure came into the radius of light, then passed into thewhite gloom beyond. 

Fanny was preparing supper, and the light from the dining-room shonein where Ellen sat, but the sitting-room was not lighted. Ellenbegan to smell the fragrance of tea and toast, and there was areflection of the dining-room table and lamp outside picturedvividly against the white sheet of storm. 

Ellen knew better, but it amused her to think that her home wasout-of-doors as well as under her father's and mother's roof. Evapassed her with her hands full of kindlings. She was going to make afire in the parlor-stove, for Jim Tenny was coming that evening. Shelaid a tender hand on Ellen's head as she passed, and smoothed herhair. Ellen had a sort of acquiescent wonder over her aunt Eva inthose days. She heard people say Eva was getting ready to bemarried, and speculated. "What is getting ready to be married?" sheasked Eva. 

"Why, getting your clothes made, you little ninny, " Eva answered. 

The next day Ellen had watched her mother at work upon a new littlefrock for herself for some time before she spoke. 

"Mother, " she said. 

"Yes, child. "

"Mother, you are making that new dress for me, ain't you?"

"Of course I am; why?"

"And you made me a new coat last week?"

"Why, you know I did, Ellen; what do you mean?"

"And you are going to make me a petticoat and put that pretty laceon it?"

"You know I am, Ellen Brewster, what be you drivin' at?"

"Be I a-gettin' ready to be married, mother?" asked Ellen, with thestrangest look of wonder and awe and anticipation. 

Fanny had told this saying of the child's to everybody, and thatevening when Jim Tenny came he caught up Ellen and gave her a tossto the ceiling, a trick of his which filled Ellen with a sort offearful delight, the delight of helplessness in the hands ofstrength, and the titillation of evanescent risk. 

"So you are gettin' ready to be married, are you?" Jim Tenny said, with a great laugh, looking at her soberly, with big black eyes. JimTenny was a handsome fellow, and much larger and stronger than herfather. Ellen liked him; he often brought candies in his pocket forher, and they were great friends, but she could never understand whyhe stayed in the parlor all alone with her aunt Eva, instead of inthe sitting-room with the others. 

Ellen had looked back at him as soberly. "Mother says I 'ain't, " shereplied, "but--"

"But what?"

"I am getting most as many new clothes as Aunt Eva, and she is. "

"And you think maybe you are gettin' ready to be married, after all, hey?"

"I think maybe mother wants to surprise me, " Ellen said. 

Jim Tenny had all of a sudden shaken convulsively as if with mirth, but his face remained perfectly sober. 

That evening after the parlor door was closed upon Jim and Eva, Ellen wondered what they were laughing at. 

To-night when she saw Eva enter the room, a lighted lampilluminating her face fairly reckless with happiness, to light thefire in the courting-stove as her sister facetiously called it, shethought to herself that Jim Tenny was coming, that they would beshut up in there all alone as usual, and then she looked out at thestorm and the night again, and the little home picture thrownagainst it. Then she saw her father coming into the yard with hisarms full of parcels, and she was out of her chair and at thekitchen door to meet him. 

Andrew had brought as usual some dainties for his darling. Hewatched Ellen unwrap the various parcels, not smiling as usual, butwith a curious knitting of his forehead and pitiful compression ofmouth. When she had finished and ran into the other room to show agreat orange to her aunt, he drew a heavy sigh that was almost agroan. His wife coming in from the kitchen with a dish heard him, and looked at him with quick anxiety, though she spoke in a merry, rallying way. 

"For the land sake, Andrew Brewster, what be you groanin' that wayfor?" she cried out. 

Andrew's tense face did not relax; he strove to push past herwithout a word, but Fanny stood before him. "Now, look at here, Andrew, " said she, "you 'ain't goin' to walk off with a face likethat, unless I know what the matter is. Are you sick?"

"No, I ain't sick, Fanny, " Andrew said; then in a low voice, "Let mego, I will tell you by-and-by. "

"No, Andrew, you have got to tell me now. I'm goin' to know whateverhas happened. "

"Wait till after supper, Fanny. "

"No, I can't wait. Look here, Andrew, you are my husband, and thereain't no trouble that can come to you in this world that I can'tbear, except not knowin'. You've got to tell me what the matter is. "

"Well, keep quiet till after supper, then, " said Andrew. Thensuddenly he leaned his face close to her and whispered with a hissof tragedy, "Lloyd's shut down. "

Fanny recoiled and looked at him. 

"When?"

"The foreman gave notice to-night. "

"For how long? Did he say?"

"Oh, till business got better--same old story. Unless I'm mistaken, Lloyd's will be shut down all winter. "

"Well, it ain't so bad for us as for some, " said Fanny. Both prideand a wish to cheer her husband induced her to say that. She did notlike to think that, after the fine marriage she had made, she neededto be as distressed at a temporary loss of employment as others. Then, too, that look of overhanging melancholy in Andrew's facealarmed her; she felt that she must drive it away at any cost. 

"Seems to me it's bad enough for anybody, " said Andrew, morosely. 

"Now, Andrew, you know it ain't. Here we own the house clear, andwe've got that money in the savings-bank, and all that's yourmother's is yours in the end. Of course we ain't always thinkin' ofthat, and I'm sure I hope she'll outlive me, but it's so. You knowwe sha'n't starve if you don't have work. "

"We shall starve in the end, and you know I've been--" Andrewstopped suddenly as he heard Ellen and his sister-in-law coming. Heshook his head at his wife with a warning motion that she shouldkeep silence. 

"Don't Eva know?" she whispered. 

"No, she came out early. Do for Heaven's sake keep quiet till aftersupper. "

Eva was sharp-eyed, and all through supper she watched Andrew, andthe lines of melancholy on his face, which did not disappear evenwhen he forced conversation. 

"What in creation ails you, Andrew?" she burst out, finally. "Youlook like a walking funeral. "

Andrew made no reply, and Fanny volunteered an answer. "He's alltired out, " she said; "he's got a little cold. Eat some more of thestew, Andrew; it'll do you good, it's nice and hot. "

"You can't cheat me, " said Eva. "There's something to pay. " Shetook a mouthful, then she stared at Andrew, with a sudden pallor. "It ain't anythin' about Jim, is it?" she gasped out. "Because if itis, there's no use in your waitin' to tell me, you might as wellhave it over at once. You won't make it any easier for me, I cantell you that. "

"No, it ain't anything about Jim, in the way you mean, Eva, " hersister said, soothingly. "Eat your supper and don't worry. "

"What do you mean by that? Jim ain't sick?"

"No, I tell you; don't be a goose, Eva. "

"He ain't been anywhere with--"

"Do keep still, Eva!" Fanny cried, impatiently. "If I didn't haveany more faith than that in a man, I'd give him up. I don't thinkyou're fair to Jim. Of course he ain't been with that girl, whenhe's goin' to marry you next month. "

"I'm just as fair to Jim as he deserves, " Eva said, simply. "I thinkjust as much of him, but what a man's done once he may do again, andI can't help it if I think of it, and he shouldn't be surprised. He's brought it on himself. I've got as much faith in him as anybodycan have, seein' as he's a man. Well, if it ain't that, AndrewBrewster, what is it?"

"Now, you let him alone till after supper, Eva, " Fanny said. "Do lethim have a little peace. "

"Well, I'll get it out of him afterwards, " Eva said. 

As soon as she got up from the table she pushed him into thesitting-room. "Now, out with it, " said she. Ellen, who had followedthem, stood looking at them both, her lips parted, her eyes full ofhalf-alarmed curiosity. 

"Lloyd's has shut down, if you want to know, " Andrew said, shortly. 

"Oh my God!" cried Eva. Andrew shrank from her impatiently. She madethat ejaculation because she was a Loud, and had an off-streak inher blood. Not one of Andrew's pure New England stock would have soexpressed herself. He sat down beside the lamp and took up theevening paper. Eva stood looking at him a minute. She was quitepale, she was weighing consequences. Then she went out to hersister. "Well, you know what's happened, Fan, I s'pose, " she said. 

"Yes, I'm awful sorry, but I tell Andrew it ain't so bad for us asfor some; we sha'n't starve. "

"I don't know as I care much whether I starve or not, " said Eva. "It's goin' to make me put off my weddin'; and if I do put it off, Jim and me will never get married at all; I feel it in my bones. "

"Why, what should you have to put it off for?" asked Fanny. 

"Why? I should think you'd know why without askin'. Ain't I spentevery dollar I have saved up on my weddin' fixin's, and Jim, he'sgot his mother on his hands, and she's been sick, and he ain't savedup anything. If you s'pose I'm goin' to marry him and make him anyworse off than he is now you're mistaken. "

"Well, mebbe Jim can work somewhere else, and mebbe Lloyd's won't beshut up long, " Fanny said, consolingly. "I wouldn't give up so, if Iwas you. "

"I might jest as well, " Eva returned. "It's no use, Jim and me willnever get married. " Eva's face was curiously set; she was not inthe least loud nor violent as was usually the case when she was introuble, her voice was quite low, and she spoke slowly. 

Fanny looked anxiously at her. "It ain't as though you hadn't a roofto cover you, " she said, "for you've got mine and Andrew's as longas we have one ourselves. "

"Do you think I'd live on Andrew long?" demanded Eva. 

"You won't have to. Jim will get work in a week or two, and you'llget married. Don't act so. I declare, I'm ashamed of you, Eva Loud. I thought you had more sense, to give up discouraged at no more thanthis. I don't see why you jump way ahead into trouble before you getto it. "

"I've got to it, and I can feel the steam of it in my face, " Evasaid, with unconscious imagery. Then she lit a lamp, and wentup-stairs to change her dress before Jim Tenny arrived. 

It was snowing hard. Ellen sat in her place by the window andwatched the flakes drive past the radiance of the street-lamp on thecorner, and past the reflection of the warm, bright room. Now shecould see, since the light was in the room where she sat, her fatherbeside the table reading his paper, and shadowy images of all thefamiliar things projecting themselves like a mirage of home into thenight and storm. Ellen could see, even without turning round, thather father looked very sober, and did not seem to be much interestedin his paper, and a vague sense of calamity oppressed her. She didnot know just what might be involved in Lloyd's shutting down, butshe saw that her father and aunt were disturbed, and her imaginingswere half eclipsed by a shadow of material things. Ellen dearlyloved this early evening hour when she could stare out into themystery of the night, herself sheltered under the wing of home, andthe fancies which her childish brain wove were as a garment ofspirit for the future; but to-night she did not dream so much as shewondered and reflected. Pretty soon Ellen saw a man's figureplodding through the fast-gathering snow, and heard her aunt Evamake a soft, heavy rush down the front stairs, and she knew the manwas Jim Tenny, and her aunt had been watching for him. Ellenwondered why she had watched up in her cold room, why she had notsat down-stairs where it was warm, and let Jim ring the door-bell. Ellen liked Jim Tenny, but there was often that in her aunt's eyesregarding him which made Ellen look past him and above him to see ifthere was another man there. Ellen heard the fire crackling in theparlor-stove, and saw the light shining under the parlor threshold, and heard the soft hum of voices. Her mother, having finishedwashing up the supper dishes, came in presently and seated herselfbeside the lamp with her needle-work. 

"You don't feel any wind comin' in the window?" she said, anxiously, to Ellen. 

"No, ma'am, " replied Ellen. 

Andrew looked up quickly. "You're sure you don't?" he said. 

"No, sir. "

Ellen watched her mother sewing out in the snowy yard, then a darkshadow came between the reflection and the window, then another. Twomen treading in the snow in even file, one in the other'sfoot-tracks, came into the yard. 

"Somebody's comin', " said Ellen, as a knock, came on the side door. 

"Did you see who 'twas?" Fanny asked, starting up. 

"Two men. "

"It's somebody to see you, Andrew, " Fanny said, and Andrew tossedhis paper on the table and went to the door. 

When the door was opened Ellen heard a man cough. 

"I should think anybody was crazy to come out such a night as this, coughin' that way, " murmured Fanny. "I do believe it's Joe Atkins;sounds like his cough. " Then Andrew entered with the two menstamping and shaking themselves. 

"Here's Joseph Atkins and Nahum Beals, " Andrew said, in hismelancholy voice, all unstirred by the usual warmth of greeting. Thetwo men bowed stiffly. 

"Good-evenin', " Fanny said, and rose and pushed forward therocking-chair in which she had been seated to Joseph Atkins, who wasa consumptive man with an invalid wife, and worked next Andrew inLloyd's. 

"Keep your settin', keep your settin', " he returned in his quick, nervous way, as if his very words were money for dire need, and sathimself down in a straight chair far from the fire. The other man, Nahum Beals, was very young. He seated himself next to Joseph, andthe two side by side looked with gloomy significance at Andrew andFanny. Then Joseph Atkins burst out suddenly in a rattling volley ofcoughs. 

"You hadn't ought to come out such a night as this, I'm afraid, Mr. Atkins, " said Fanny. 

"He's been out jest as bad weather as this all winter, " said theyoung man, Nahum Beals, in an unexpectedly deep voice. "The workersof this world can't afford to take no account of weather. It's forthe rich folks to look out betwixt their lace curtains and see if itlooks lowery, so they sha'n't git their gold harnesses and theirshiny carriages, an' their silks an' velvets an' ostrich featherswet. The poor folks that it's life and death to have to go outwhether or no, no matter if they've got an extra suit of clothes ornot. They've got to go out through the drenchin' rain and thesnow-drifts, to earn money so that the rich folks can have themgold-plated harnesses and them silks and velvets. Joe's been out allwinter in weather as bad as this, after he's been standin' all dayin a shop as hot as hell, drenched with sweat. One more time won'tmake much difference. "

"It would be 'nough sight better for me if it did, " said JosephAtkins, chokingly, and still with that same seeming of hurry. 

Fanny had gone out to the dining-room, and now she returned stirringsome whiskey and molasses in a cup. 

"Here, " said she, "you take this, Mr. Atkins; it's real good for acough. Andrew cured a cold with it last month. "

"Mine ain't a cold, and it can't be cured in this world, but it'sbetter for me, I guess, " said Joe Atkins, chokingly, but he took thecup. 

"Now, you hadn't ought to talk so, " Fanny said. "You had ought tothink of your wife and children. "

"My life is insured, " said Joseph Atkins. 

"We ain't got no money and no jewelry, and no silver to leave themwe love--all we've got to leave 'em is the price of our own lives, "said Nahum Beals. 

"I wish I had got my life insured, " Andrew said. 

"Don't talk so, Andrew, " Fanny cried, with a shudder. 

"My life is insured for two thousand dollars, " Joe Atkins said, withan odd sort of pride. "I had it done three years ago. My lungs wassound as anybody's then, but that very next summer I worked up underthat tin roof, and came out as wet as if I'd been dipped in theriver, into an east wind, and got a chill. It was the only time Iever struck luck--to get insured before that happened. Nobody'd lookat me now, and I dunno what they'd do. I 'ain't laid up a cent, I'vehad so much sickness in my family. "

"If you hadn't worked that summer in the annex under that tin roof, you'd be as well as you ever was now, " said Nahum Beals. 

"I worked there 'longside of you that summer, " said Andrew to Joe, with bitter reminiscence. "We used to strip like a gang of convicts, and we stood in pools of sweat. It was that awful hot summer, andthe room had only that one row of windows facing the east, and thewind never that way. "

"Not till I came out of the shop that night I took the chill, " saidJoe. 

Suddenly the young man, Nahum Beals, hit his knees a sounding slap, which made Ellen, furtively and timidly attentive at her window, jump. "It seems sometimes as if the Almighty himself was in leaguewith 'em, " he shouted out, "but I tell you it won't last, it won'tlast. "

"I don't see much sign of any change for the better, " Andrew said, gloomily. 

"I tell you, sir, it won't last, " repeated Nahum Beals. "I tell you, the Lord only raises 'em up higher and higher that He may dash 'emlower when the time comes. The same earth is beneath the high placesof this life, and the lowly ones, and the law that governs 'em isthe same, and--the higher the place the longer the fall, and thelonger the fall the sorer the hurt. " Nahum Beals sprang to his feetwith a strange abandon of self-consciousness and a fiery impetus forone of his New England blood. He had a delicate, nervous face, likea woman's, his blue eyes gleamed like blue flames under his overhangof white forehead, he shook his head as if it were maned like alion, and, though he wore his thin, fair hair short, one could seemto see it flung back in glistening lines. He spread his hands as ifhe were addressing an audience, and as he did so the parlor dooropened and Jim Tenny and Eva stood there, listening. 

"I tell you, sir, " shouted Nahum Beals, "the time will come when youwill all thank God that you belong to the poor and down-trodden ofthis earth, and not to the rich and great--the time will come. There's knives to sharpen to-day, and wood for scaffolds as plentyas in the days of the French Revolution, and the hand that marks thetime of day on the clock of men's patience with wrong and oppressionhas near gone round to the same hour and minute. "

Andrew Brewster looked at him, with a curious expression half ofdisgust, half of sympathy. His sense of dignity in the face ofadversity inherited from his New England race was shocked; he wasnot one to be blindly swayed by another's fervor even when his ownwrongs were in question. He would not have made a good follower in arevolution, nor a leader. He would simply have found his own placeof fixed principle and abided there. Then, too, he had a judicialmind which could combine the elements of counsels for and againsthis own cause. 

"Now, look at here, " he said, slowly, "I ain't goin' to say I don'tthink we ain't in a hard place, and that there's somethin' wrongthat's to blame for it, but I dunno but you go most too far, Nahum;or, rather, I dunno as you go far enough. I dunno but we've got todig down past the poor and the rich, farther into the everlastin'foundations of things to get at what's the trouble. "

Jim Tenny, standing in the parlor doorway, with an arm around Eva'swaist, broke in suddenly with a defiant laugh. "I don't care nothin'about the everlastin' foundations of things, and I don't care a darnabout the rich and the poor, " he proclaimed. "I'm willin' to leavethat to lecturers and dynamiters, and let 'em settle it if they can. I don't grudge the rich nothin', and I ain't goin' to call theAlmighty to account for givin' somebody else the biggest piece ofpie; mebbe it would give me the stomach-ache. All I'm concernedabout is Lloyd's shut-down. "

"That's so, " said Eva. 

"I tell you, sir, it ain't the facts of the case, but the reason forthe facts, which we must think of, " maintained Nahum Beals. 

"I don't care a darn for the facts nor the reasons, " said Jim Tenny;"all I care about is I'm out of work maybe till spring, with mymother dependent on me, and not a cent laid up, I've been so darnedcareless, and here's Eva says she won't marry me till I get work. "

"I won't, " said Eva, who was very pale, except for burning spots onher cheeks. 

"She's afraid she won't get frostin' on her cake, and silk dresses, I expect, " Jim Tenny said, and laughed, but his laugh was verybitter. 

"Jim Tenny, you know better than that, " Eva cried, sharply. "I won'tstand that. "

Jim Tenny, with a quick motion, unwound his arm from Eva's waist andstripped up his sleeve. "There, look at that, will you, " he criedout, shaking his lean, muscular arm at them; "look at that muscle, and me tellin' her that I could earn a livin' for her, and sheafraid. I can dig if I can't make shoes. I guess there's work inthis world for them that's willin', and don't pick and choose. "

"There ain't, " declared Nahum, shortly. 

"You can't dig when the ground's froze hard, " Eva said, with literalmeaning. 

"Then I'll take a pickaxe, " cried Jim. 

"You can dig, but who's goin' to pay you for the diggin'?" demandedNahum Beals. 

"The idea of a girl's bein' afraid I wa'n't enough of a man tosupport a wife with an arm like that, " said Jim Tenny, "as if Icouldn't dig for her, or fight for her. "

"The fightin' has got to come first in order to get the diggin', andthe pay for it, " said Nahum. 

"Now, look at here, " Andrew Brewster broke in, "you know I'm in asbad a box as you, and I come home to-night feelin' as if I didn'tcare whether I lived or died; but if it's true what McGrath saidto-night, we've got to use common-sense in lookin' at things even ifit goes against us. If what McGrath said was true, that Lloyd'slosing money keeping on, I dunno how we can expect him or any otherman to do that. "

"Why not he lose money as well as we?" demanded Nahum, fiercely. 

"'Cause we 'ain't got none to lose, " cried Jim Tenny, with a hardlaugh, and Eva and Fanny echoed him hysterically. 

Nahum took no notice of the interruption. Tragedy, to hiscomprehension, never verged on comedy. One could imagine his face ofintense melancholy and denunciation relaxed with laughter no morethan that of the stern prophet of righteous retribution whose namehe bore. 

"Why shouldn't Norman Lloyd lose money?" he demanded again. "Whyshouldn't he lose his fine house as well as I my poor little home?Why shouldn't he lose his purple and fine linen as well as Jim hischances of happiness? Why shouldn't he lose his diamond shirt-studs, and his carriage and horses, as well as Joe his life?"

"Well, he earned his money, I suppose, " Andrew said, slowly, "and Isuppose it's for him to say what he'll do with it. "

"Earned his money? He didn't earn his money, " cried Nahum Beals. "Weearned it, every dollar of it, by the sweat of our brows, and it'sfor us, not him, to say what shall be done with it. Well, the timewill come, I tell ye, the time will come. "

"We sha'n't see it, " said Joe Atkins. 

"It may come sooner than you think, " said Nahum. Then Nahum Beals, with a sudden access of bitterness, broke in. "Look at NormanLloyd, " he cried, "havin' that great house, and horses andcarriages, and dressin' like a dude, and his wife rustlin' in silksso you can hear her comin' a mile off, and shinin' like a jeweller'swindow--look at 'em all--all the factory bosses--livin' like princeson the money we've earned for 'em; and look at their relations, andlook at the rich folks that ain't never earned a cent, that's hadmoney left 'em. Go right up and down the Main Street, here in thiscity. See the Lloyds and the Maguires and the Marshalls and theRisleys and the Lennoxes--"

"There ain't none of the Lennoxes left except that one woman, " saidAndrew. 

"Well, look at her. There she is without chick or child, rollin' inriches, and Norman Lloyd's her own brother-in-law. Why don't shegive him a little money to run the factory this winter, so you andme won't have to lose everythin'?"

"I suppose she's got a right to do as she pleases with her own, "said Andrew. 

"I tell you she ain't, " shouted Nahum. "She ain't the one to say, 'It's the Lord, and He's said it. ' Cynthia Lennox and all the womenlike her are the oppressors of the poor. They are accursed in thesight of the Lord, as were those women we read about in the OldTestament, with their mantles and crisping-pins. Their low voicesand their silk sweeps and their shrinkin' from touchin' shoulderswith their fellow-beings in a crowd don't alter matters a mite. "

"Now, Nahum, " cried Jim Tenny, with one of his sudden turns of basewhen his sense of humor was touched, "you don't mean to say that youwant Cynthia Lennox to give you her money?"

"I'd die, and see her dead, before I'd touch a dollar of her money!"cried Nahum--"before I'd touch a dollar of her money or anythingthat was bought with her money, her money or any other richperson's. I want what I earn. I don't want a gift with a curse onit. Let her keep her fine things. She and her kind are responsiblefor all the misery of the poor on the face of the earth. "

"Seems to me you're reasonin' in a circle, Nahum, " Andrew said, good-humoredly. 

"Look here, Andrew, if you're on the side of the rich, why don't yousay so?" cried Eva. 

"He ain't, " returned Fanny--"you know better, Eva Loud. "

"No, I ain't, " declared Andrew. "You all of you know I'm with theclass I belong to; I ain't a toady to no rich folks; I don't thinkno more of 'em than you do, and I don't want any favors of 'em--allI want is pay for my honest work, and that's an even swap, and Iain't beholden, but I want to look at things fair and square. Idon't want to be carried away because I'm out of work, though, Godknows, it's hard enough. "

"I don't know what's goin' to become of us, " said JosephAtkins--then he coughed. 

"I don't, " Jim Tenny said, bitterly. 

"And God knows I don't, " cried Eva, and she sat down in the nearestchair, flung up her hands before her face, and wept. 

Then Fanny spoke to Ellen, who had been sitting very still andattentive, her eyes growing larger, her cheeks redder withexcitement. Fanny had often glanced uneasily at her, and wished tosend her to bed, but she was in the habit of warming Ellen's littlechamber at the head of the stairs by leaving open the sitting-roomdoor for a while before she went to it, and she was afraid ofcooling the room too much for Joseph Atkins, and had not ventured tointerrupt the conversation. Now, seeing the child's fevered face, she made up her mind. "Come, Ellen, it's your bed-time, " she said, and Ellen rose reluctantly, and, kissing her father, she went to heraunt Eva, who caught at her convulsively and kissed her, and sobbedagainst her cheek. "Oh, oh!" she wailed, "you precious little thing, you precious little thing, I don't know what's goin' to become of usall. "

"Don't, Eva, " said Fanny, sharply; "can't you see she's all wroughtup? She hadn't ought to have heard all this talk. "

Andrew looked anxiously at his wife, rose, and caught up Ellen inhis arms with a hug of fervent and protective love. "Don't youworry, father's darlin', " he whispered. "Don't you worry aboutanythin' you have heard. Father will always have enough to take careof you with. "

Jim Tenny, when Andrew set the child down, caught her up again witha sounding kiss. "Don't you let your big ears ache, you littlepitcher, " said he, with a gay laugh. "Little doll-babies like youhaven't anythin' to worry about if Lloyd's shut down every day inthe year. "

"They're the very ones whom it concerns, " said Nahum Beals, whenEllen and her mother had gone up-stairs. 

"Well, I wouldn't have had that little nervous thing hear all this, if I'd thought, " Andrew said, anxiously. 

Joseph Atkins, whom Fanny had stationed in a sheltered corner nearthe stove when she opened the door, peered around at Andrew. 

"Seems as if she was too young to get much sense of it, " heremarked. "My Maria, that's her age, wouldn't. "

"Ellen hears everything and makes her own sense of it, " said Andrew, "and the Lord only knows what she's made of this. I hope she won'tfret over it. "

"I wish my tongue had been cut off before I said anything beforeher, " cried Eva. "I know just what that child is. She'll find outwhat a hard world she's in soon enough, anyway, and I don't want tobe the one to open her eyes ahead of time. "

Ellen went to bed quietly, and her mother did not think she had paidmuch attention to what had been going on, and said so when she wentdown-stairs after Ellen had been kissed and tucked in bed and thelamp put out. "I guess she didn't mind much about it, after all, "she said to Andrew. "I guess the room was pretty warm, and that waswhat made her cheeks so red. "

But Ellen, after her mother left her, turned her little head towardsthe wall and wept softly, lest some one hear her, but none the lessbitterly that she had no right conception of the cause of her grief. There was over her childish soul the awful shadow of the labor andpoverty of the world. She knew naught of the substance behind theshadow, but the darkness terrified her all the more, and she criedand cried as if her heart would break. Then she, with a suddenresolution, born she could not have told of what strangeunderstanding and misunderstanding of what she had heard thatevening, slipped out of bed, groped about until she found hercherished doll, sitting in her little chair in the corner. She wasaccustomed to take the doll to bed with her, and had undressed herfor that purpose early in the evening, but she had climbed into bedand left her sitting in the corner. 

"Don't you want your dolly?" her mother had asked. 

"No, ma'am; I guess I don't want her to-night, " Ellen had replied, with a little break in her voice. Now, when she reached the doll, she gathered her up in her little arms, and groped her way with herinto the closet. She hugged the doll, and kissed her wildly, thenshe shook her. "You have been naughty, " she whispered--"yes, youhave, dreadful naughty. No, don't you talk to me; you have beennaughty. What right had you to be livin' with rich folks, andwearin' such fine things, when other children don't have anything. What right had that little boy that was your mother before I was, and that rich lady that gave you to me? They had ought to be put inthe closet, too. God had ought to put them all in the closet, theway I'm goin' to put you. Don't you say a word; you needn't cry;you've been dreadful naughty. "

Ellen set the doll, face to the wall, in the corner of the closet, and left her there. Then she crept back into bed, and lay therecrying over her precious baby shivering in her thin night-gown allalone in the dark closet. But she was firm in keeping her there, since, with that strange, involuntary grasp of symbolism which hasalways been maintained by the baby-fingers of humanity for thesatisfying of needs beyond resources and the solving of problemsoutside knowledge, she had a conviction that she was, in suchfashion, righting wrong and punishing evil. But she wept over thepoor doll until she fell asleep. 

Chapter X

When Ellen woke the next morning she had a curious feeling, as ifshe were blinded by the glare of many hitherto unsuspected windowsopening into the greatness outside the little world, just largeenough to contain them, in which she had dwelt all her life with herparents, her aunt, her grandmother, and her doll. She tried toadjust herself to her old point of view with her simple childishrecognition of the most primitive facts as a basis for dreams, butshe remembered what Mr. Atkins, who coughed so dreadfully, had saidthe night before; she remembered what the young man with the bulgingforehead, who frightened her terribly, had said; she remembered thegloomy look in her father's face, the misery in her aunt Eva's; andshe remembered her doll in the closet--and either everything wasdifferent or had a different light upon it. In reality Ellen'sevening in the sound and sight of that current of rebellion againstthe odds of life which has taken the poor off their foot hold ofunderstanding since the beginning of the world had aged her. She hadlost something out of her childhood. She dreaded to go down-stairs;she had a feeling of shamefacedness struggling within her; she wasafraid that her father and mother would look at her sharply, thenlook again, and ask her what the matter was, and she would not knowwhat to say. When she went down, and backed about for her mother tofasten her little frock as was her wont, she was careful to keep herface turned away; but Fanny caught her up and kissed her in herusual way, and then her aunt Eva sung out to know if she wanted togo on a sleigh-ride, and had she seen the snow; and then her fathercame in and that look of last night had gone from his face, andEllen was her old self again until she was alone by herself andremembered. 

Fanny and Andrew and Eva had agreed to say nothing before the childabout the shutting-up of Lloyd's, and their troubles in consequence. "She heard too much last night, " Andrew said; "there's no use in herbotherin' her little head with it. I guess that baby won't suffer. "

"She's jest the child to fret herself most to pieces thinkin' wewere awful poor, and she would starve or somethin', " Fanny said. 

"Well, she sha'n't be worried if I can help it, no matter whathappens to me, " Eva said. 

After breakfast that morning Eva went to work on a little dress ofEllen's. When Fanny told her not to spend her time over that, whenshe had so much sewing of her own to do, Eva replied with a gay, hard laugh, that she guessed she'd wait and finish her weddin'-fixwhen she was goin' to be married. 

"Eva Loud, you ain't goin' to be so silly as to put off yourweddin', " Fanny cried out. 

"I dunno as I've put it off; I dunno as I want to get married, anyhow, " Eva said, still laughing. "I dunno, but I'd rather be oldmaid aunt to Ellen. "

"Eva Loud, " cried her sister; "do you know what you are doin'?"

"Pretty well, I reckon, " said Eva. 

"Do you know that if you put off Jim Tenny, and he not likin' it, ten chances to one Aggie Bemis will get hold of him again?"

"Well, " said Eva, "let her. I won't have been the one to drag himinto misery, anyhow. "

"Well, if you can feel that way, " Fanny returned, looking at hersister with a sort of mixed admiration and pity. 

"I can. I tell you what 'tis, Fanny. When I look at Jim, handsomeand head up in the air, and think how he'd look all bowed down, hairturnin' gray, and not carin' whether he's shaved and has on a cleanshirt or not, 'cause he's got loaded down with debt, and thegrocery-man and the butcher after him, and no work, and me and thechildren draggin' him down, I can bear anything. If another girlwants to do it, she must, though I'd like to kill her when I thinkof it. I can't do it, because--I think too much of him. "

"He might lose his work after he was married, you know. "

"Well, I suppose we'd have to run the risk of that; but I'm goin' tostart fair or not at all. "

"Well, maybe he'll get work, " Fanny said. 

"He won't, " said Eva. She began to sing "Nancy Lee" over Ellen'sdress. 

After breakfast Ellen begged a piece of old brown calico of hermother. "Why, of course you can have it, child, " said her mother;"but what on earth do you want it for? I was goin' to put it in therag-bag. "

"I want to make my dolly a dress. "

"Why, that ain't fit for your dolly's dress. Only think how queerthat beautiful doll would look in a dress made of that. Why, you'ain't thought anything but silk and satin was good enough for her. "

"I'll give you a piece of my new blue silk to make your doll adress, " said Eva. 

But Ellen persisted. When the doll came out of her closet ofvicarious penance she was arrayed like a very scullion among dolls, in the remnant of the dress in which Fanny Brewster had done herhouse-work all summer. 

"There, " Ellen told the doll, when her mother did not hear "you lookmore like the way you ought to, and you ought to be happy, and notever think you wish you had your silk dress on. Think of all thepoor children who never have any silk dresses, or any dresses atall--nothing except their cloth bodies in the coldest weather. Youought to be thankful to have this. " For all which good advice andphilosophy the little mother of the doll would often look at thediscarded beauty of the wardrobe, with tears in her eyes and fondestpity in her heart; but she never flinched. When the young man NahumBeals came in, as he often did of an evening, and raised his voicein fierce denunciation against the luxury and extravagance of therich, Ellen would listen and consider that he would undoubtedlyapprove of what she had done, did he know, and would allow that shehad made her small effort towards righting things. 

"Only think what Mr. Beals would say if he saw you in your silkdress; why, I don't know but he would throw you out of the window, "she told her doll once. 

Ellen did not feel any difference in her way of living after herfather was out of work. "She ain't goin' to be stented in one singlething; remember that, " Andrew told Fanny, with angry emphasis. "Thatlittle, delicate thing is goin' to have everything she needs, if Ispend every cent I've saved and mortgage the place. "

"Oh, you'll get work before it comes to that, " Fanny said, consolingly. 

"Whether I do or not, it sha'n't make any difference, " declaredAndrew. "I'm goin' to hire a horse and sleigh and take hersleigh-ridin' this afternoon. It'll be good, and she's been talkin'about a sleigh-ride ever since snow flew. "

"She could do without that, " Fanny said, doubtfully. 

"Well, she ain't goin' to. "

So it happened that the very day after Lloyd's had shut down, whenevery man out of employment felt poorer than he did later when hehad grown accustomed to the sensation of no money coming in, AndrewBrewster hired a horse and double sleigh, and took Ellen, hermother, grandmother, and aunt out sleigh-riding. Ellen sat on theback seat of the sleigh, full of that radiant happiness felt by achild whose pleasures have not been repeated often enough forsatiety. The sleigh slid over the blue levels of snow followed bylong creaks like wakes of sound, when the livery-stable horse shookhis head proudly and set his bells in a flurry. Ellen drew a longbreath of rapture. These unaccustomed sounds held harmonies ofhappiness which would echo through her future, for no one canestimate the immortality of some little delight of a child. In allher life, Ellen never forgot that sleigh-ride. It was a very coldday, and the virgin snow did not melt at all; the wind blew a soft, steady pressure from the west, and its wings were evident from theglistening crystals which were lifted and borne along. The treesheld their shining boughs against the blue of the sky, and burnedand blazed here and there as with lamps of diamonds. The childlooked at them, and they lit her soul. Her little face, between theswan's-down puffs of her hood, deepened in color like a rose; herblue eyes shone; she laughed and dimpled silently; she was in toomuch bliss to speak. The others kept looking at her, then at oneanother. Fanny nudged her mother-in-law, behind the child's back, and the two women exchanged glances of confidential pride. Andrewand Eva kept glancing around at her, and asking if she were having agood time. Eva was smartly dressed in her best hat, gay with bowsand red wings bristling as sharply as the head-dress of an Indianchief in the old pictures. She had a red coat, and a long fur boawound around her throat; the clear crimson of her cheeks, her greatblack eyes, and her heavy black braids were so striking that peoplewhom they met looked long at her. Eva talked fast to Andrew, andlaughed often and loudly. 

Whenever that strident laugh of hers rang out, Mrs. ZelotesBrewster, on the seat behind, moved her be-shawled shoulders with ashivering hunch of disgust. "Can't you tell that girl not to laughso loud when we're out ridin', " she said to her son that evening; "Isaw folks lookin'. "

"Oh, never mind, mother, " Andrew said; "the poor girl's got a gooddeal on her mind. "

"I suppose you mean that Tinny feller, " said Mrs. Zelotes, alludingto something which had happened that afternoon in the course of thesleigh-ride. 

The sleighing that day was excellent, for there had been an icecoating on the road before, and the last not very heavy snowfall hadbeen just enough. The Brewsters passed and met many others: youngmen out with their sweethearts, whole families drawn by the soberold horse as old as the grown-up children; rakish young men drivingstable teams, leaning forward with long circles of whip over thehorses' backs, leaving the scent of cigars behind them; and often, too, two young ladies in dainty turnouts; and sometimes two girls orfour girls from Lloyd's, who had clubbed together and hired asleigh, taking reckless advantage of their enforced vacation. 

"There's Daisy and Hat Sears, and--and there's Nell White and EaatRyoce in the team behind, " Eva said. 

"I should think they better be savin' their money if Lloyd's hasshut up, " said Mrs. Zelotes, severely. 

"We ain't savin' ours, or Andrew ain't, " Eva retorted, with a laugh. 

"It's different with us, " said Mrs. Zelotes, proudly, "though Ishouldn't think it was right for Andrew to hire a team every day. "

"Sometimes I think folks might just as well have a little as they'regoin' along, for half the time they never seem to get there, " Evasaid, with another hard laugh at her own wit; and just then she sawsomething which made her turn deathly white, and catch her breathwith a gasp in spite of herself, though that was all. She held upher head like a queen and turned her handsome white face fulltowards Jim Tenny and the girl for whom he had jilted her before, asthey drove past, and bowed and smiled in a fashion which made thered flame up over the young man's swarthy cheek, and the pretty girlat his side shrink a little and avert her tousled fair head with anervous giggle. 

Mrs. Zelotes Brewster twisted herself about and looked after them. "There's John Tibbets and his wife in that sleigh; he's thrown outof work as well as you, Andrew, " said Fanny, hastily. "See thatfeather in her bonnet blow; it's standin' up straight. " But Fanny'smanoeuvre to turn the attention of her mother-in-law was of noavail, for nothing short of sudden death could interpose aneffectual barrier between Mrs. Zelotes Brewster's tongue and mindset with the purpose of speech. "Was that the Tinny fellow?" shedemanded. 

"Yes; I guess so. I didn't notice in particular, " Fanny replied, ina low voice. Then she added, pointing to an advancing sleigh. "Goodland, there's that Smith girl. They said she wasn't able to rideout. Seems to me she's taken a queer day for it. "

"Was that that Tinny fellow?" Mrs. Zelotes asked again. She leanedforward and gave Eva a hard nudge on her red-coated elbow. 

"Yes, it was, " Eva answered, calmly. 

"Who was that girl with him?"

"It was Aggie Bemis. "

Mrs. Zelotes gave a sniff, then she settled back, studying Eva'sback with a sort of reflective curiosity. Presently she fumbledunder the sleigh cushion for an extra shawl which she had brought, and handed it up to Eva. "Don't you want this extra shawl?" sheasked, while Fanny stared at her wonderingly. Mrs. Zelotes'scivilities towards her sister had been few and far between. 

"No, thank you, " Eva replied, with a start. 

"Hadn't you better? It must be pretty cold sitting up there. Youmust take all the wind. You can wrap this shawl all around your faceand ears, and I don't want it. "

"No, thank you; I'm plenty warm, " Eva replied. She swallowed hard, and set her mouth hard. There was something about this kindness ofher old disapprover which touched her deeply, and moved her toweakness more than had the sight of her recreant love with anothergirl. Fanny saw the little quiver pass over her sister's face, andleaned over and whispered. 

"I shouldn't be a mite surprised if that girl asked Jim to take her. It would be just like her. "

"It don't make any odds whether she did or not, " returned Eva, withno affectation of secrecy. "I don't care which way 'twas. " She satup straighter than ever, and some men in a passing sleigh turned tolook after her. 

"I s'pose she don't think my shawl looks genteel enough to wear, "Mrs. Zelotes said to Fanny; "but she's dreadful silly. "

They drove through the main street of the city and passed CynthiaLennox's house. Ellen looked at it with the guilt of secrecy. Shethought she saw the lady's head at a front window, and the frontdoor opened and Cynthia came down the walk with a rich sweep ofblack draperies, and the soft sable toss of plumes. "There's CynthiaLennox, " said Fanny. "She's a handsome-lookin' woman, ain't she?"

"She's most as old as Andrew, but you'd never suspect it, " said Mrs. Zelotes. She had used to have a fancy that Andrew and Cynthia mightmake a match. She had seen no reason to the contrary, and she alwayslooked at Cynthia with a curious sense of injury and resentment whenshe thought of what might have been. 

As Cynthia Lennox swept down the walk to-day, the old lady said, sharply:

"I don't see why she should walk any prouder than anybody else. Idon't know why she should, if she's right-minded. The Lennoxeswasn't any grander than the Brewsters way back, if they have got alittle more money of late years. Cynthia's grandfather, old SquireLennox, used to keep the store, and live in one side of it, and hermother's father, Calvin Goodenough, kept the tavern. I dunno as shehas so much to be proud of, though she's handsome enough, and showsher bringin' up, as folks can't that ain't had it. " Fanny winced alittle; her bringing up was a sore subject with her. 

"Well, folks can't help their bringin' up, " she retorted, sharply. 

"There's Lloyd's team, " Andrew said, quickly, partly to avert theimpending tongue-clash between his wife and mother. 

He reined his horse to one side at a respectful distance, and NormanH. Lloyd, with his wife at his side, swept by in his fine sleigh, streaming on the wind with black fur tails, his pair of baysstepping high to the music of their arches of bells. The Brewsterseyed Norman Lloyd's Russian coat with the wide sable collar turnedup around his proud, clear-cut face, the fur-gauntleted hands whichheld the lines and the whip, for Mr. Lloyd preferred to drive hisown blooded pair, both from a love of horseflesh and a greaterconfidence in his own guidance than in that of other people. Mr. Lloyd was no coward, but he would have confided to no man hissensations had he sat behind those furnaces of fiery motion withother hands than his own upon the lines. 

"I should think Mis' Lloyd would be afraid to ride with suchhorses, " said Mrs. Zelotes, as they leaped aside in passing; thenshe bowed and smiled with eager pleasure, and yet with perfectself-respect. She felt herself every whit as good as Mrs. NormanLloyd, and her handsome Paisley shawl and velvet bonnet as genteelas the other woman's sealskins and floating plumes. Mrs. Lloydloomed up like a vast figure of richness enveloped in her bulkywinter wraps; her face was superb with health and enjoyment andgood-humor. Her cheeks were a deep crimson in the cold wind; shesmiled radiantly all the time as if at life itself. She had nothought of fear behind those prancing bays which seemed so frightfulto Mrs. Zelotes, used to the steadiest stable team a few timesduring the year, and driven with a wary eye to railroad crossingsand a sense of one's mortality in the midst of life strong upon her. Mrs. Norman Lloyd had never any doubt when her husband held thelines. She would have smiled behind ostriches and zebras. To hermind Norman Lloyd was, as it were, impregnable to all combinationsof alien strength or circumstances. When she bowed on passing theBrewsters, she did not move her fixed smile until she caught sightof Ellen. Then emotion broke through the even radiance of her face. She moved her head with a flurry of nods; she waved her hand; sheeven kissed it to her. 

"Bow to Mis' Lloyd, Ellen, " said her grandmother; and Ellen duckedher head solemnly. She remembered what she had heard the nightbefore, and the sleigh swept by, Mrs. Lloyd's rosy face smiling backover the black fringe of dancing tails. Eva had shot a swift glanceof utmost rancor at the Lloyds, then sat stiff and upright untilthey passed. 

"I wouldn't ask Ellen to bow to that woman, " said she, fiercely, between her teeth. "I hate the whole tribe. "

No one heard her except Andrew, and he shook the lines over thesteady stable horse, and said, "G'lang!" hoarsely. 

Mrs. Norman Lloyd, in the other sleigh, had turned to her husbandwith somewhat timid and deprecating enthusiasm. "Ain't she a sweetlittle girl?" said she. 

"What little girl?" Lloyd asked, abstractedly. He had not looked atthe Brewsters at all. 

"That little Ellen Brewster who ran away and was gone most threedays a little while ago. She was in that sleigh we just passed. Sheis just the sweetest child I ever laid eyes on, " and Norman Lloydsmiled vaguely and coldly, and cast a glance over his sable-cladshoulders to see how far behind the team whose approaching bells heheard might be. 

"I suppose her father and aunt are out of work on account of theclosing of the factory, " remarked Mrs. Lloyd, and a shadow ofreflection came over her radiant face. 

"Yes, I believe they worked there, " Lloyd replied, shaking loose thereins and speeding the horses, that he might not be overtaken. In afew minutes they reached the factory neighborhood. There were threefactories: two of them on opposite sides of the road, humming withlabor, and puffing with jets of steam at different points; Lloyd's, beyond, was as large as both those standing hushed with windowsblank in the afternoon sunshine. 

"I suppose the poor men feel pretty badly at being thrown out ofwork, " Mrs. Lloyd said, looking up at the windows as she slippedpast in her nest of furs. 

"They feel so badly that I have seen a round dozen since we startedout taking advantage of their liberty to have a sleigh-ride withlivery teams at a good round price, " Lloyd replied, with languidemphasis. He never spoke with any force of argument to his wife, norindeed to any one else, in justification of his actions. His reasonsfor action were in most cases self-evolved and entirelyself-regulated. He had said not a word to any one, not even to hisforeman, of his purpose to close the factory until it was quitefixed; he had asked no advice, explained to no one the course ofreasoning which led to his doing so. Rowe was a city of strikes, butthere had never been a strike at Lloyd's because he had abandonedthe situation in every case before the clouds of rebellion were nearenough for the storm to break. When Briggs and McGuire, the rivalmanufacturers at his right and left, had resorted to cut prices whenbusiness was dull, as a refuge from closing up, Lloyd closed with noattempt at compromise. 

"I suppose they need a little recreation, " Mrs. Lloyd observed, thinking of the little girl's face peeping out between her motherand grandmother in the sleigh they had just passed. 

"Their little recreation is on about the same scale for them as myhiring a special railroad train every day in the week to go toBoston would be for me, " returned Lloyd, setting his handsome faceahead at the track. 

"It does seem dreadful foolish, " said his wife, "when they are outof work, and maybe won't earn any more money to support theirfamilies all winter--" Mrs. Lloyd hesitated a minute. "I wonder, "said she, "if they feel sort of desperate, and think they won't haveenough for their families, anyway--that is, enough to feed them, andthey might as well get a little good time out of it to rememberby-and-by when there ain't enough bread-and-butter. I dunno but wemight do something like that, if we were in their places--don't you, Norman?"

"No, I do not, " replied Lloyd; "and that is the reason why you and Iare not in their places. "

Mrs. Lloyd put her sealskin muff before her face as they turned awindy corner, and reflected that her husband was much wiser thanshe, and that the world couldn't be regulated by women's hearts, pleasant as it would be for the world and the women, since the finaloutcome would doubtless be destruction. 

Mrs. Norman Lloyd was an eminent survival of the purest andoldest-fashioned femininity, a very woman of St. Paul, except thatshe did not keep silence in the sanctuary. 

Just after they had turned the corner they passed an outlyinggrocery store much frequented as a lounging-place by idle men. Therewas a row of them on the wooden platform (backed against the wall), cold as it was, watching the sleighs pass, and two or three knotsgathered together for the purposes of confabulation. Nearly all ofthem were employés of Lloyd's, and they had met at that unseasonablehour on that bitter day, drifting together unconsciously as towardsa common nucleus of trouble, to talk over the situation. 

When these men, huddled up in their shabby great-coats, with capspulled over shaggy brows and sullenly flashing eyes, saw the Lloydsapproaching, the rumble of conversation suddenly ceased. They allstood staring when their employer passed. Only one man, Nahum Beals, looked fairly at Lloyd's face with a denouncing flash of eyes. 

To this man Lloyd, recognizing him and some of the others as hisemployés, bowed. Nahum Beals stood glaring at him in accusingsilence, and his head was as immovable as if carved in stone. Theother men, with their averted eyes, made a curious, motionlesstableau of futile and dumb resistance to power which might have beencarved with truth on the face of the rock from the beginning of theearth. 

Chapter XI

The closing of Lloyd's marked, in some inscrutable way, the close ofthe first period of Ellen Brewster's childhood. Looking back inlater years, she always felt her retrospective thought strike abarrier there, beyond which her images of the past were confused. Yet it was difficult to tell why it was so, for after the first thechild could, it seemed, have realized no difference in her life. Nowand then she heard some of that conversation characterized at onceby the confidence of wrong and injustice, and the logical doubt ofit, by solid reasoning which, if followed far enough, refuteditself, by keen and unanswerable argument, and the wildest and mostfutile enthusiasm. But she had gained nothing except the convictionof the great wrongs of the poor of this earth and the awful tyrannyof the rich, of the everlasting moaning of Lazarus at the gates andthe cry for water later on from the depths of the rich man's hell. Somehow that last never comforted Ellen; she had no conception ofthe joy of the injured party over righteous retribution. She pitiedthe rich man and Lazarus impartially, yet all the time a spirit offierce partisanship with these poor men was strengthening with hergrowth, their eloquence over their wrongs stirred her soul, and sether feet outside her childhood. Still, as before said, there was notangible difference in her daily life. The little petted treasure ofthe Brewsters had all her small luxuries, sweets, and cushions oflife, as well after as before the closing of Lloyd's. And thepreparations for her aunt's wedding went on also. The sight of herlover sleigh-riding with her rival that afternoon had been too muchfor the resolution of Eva Loud's undisciplined nature. She hadherself gone to Jim Tenny's house that evening, and called him toaccount, to learn that he had seriously taken her resolution not tomarry at present to proceed from a fear that he would not provideproperly for her, and that he had in this state of indignation beeneasily led by the sight of Aggie Bemis's pretty face in her frontdoor, as he drove by, to stop. She had told Jim that she would marryhim as she had agreed if he looked at matters in that way, and hadpassed Aggie Bemis's window leaning on Jim's arm with a side stareof triumph. 

"Be you goin' to get married next month after what you said thismornin'?" her sister asked, half joyfully, half anxiously. 

"Yes, I be, " was all Eva replied, and Fanny stared at her; she wasso purely normal in her inconsistency as to seem almost the otherthing. 

The preparations for the wedding went on, but Eva never seemed ashappy as she had done before the closing of Lloyd's. Jim Tenny couldget no more work, and neither could Andrew. 

Fanny lamented that the shop had closed at that time of year, forshe had planned a Christmas tree of unprecedented splendor forEllen, but Mrs. Zelotes was to be depended upon as usual, and Andrewtold his wife to make no difference. "That little thing ain't goin'to be cheated nohow, " he said one night after Ellen had gone to bedand his visiting companions of the cutting-room had happened in. 

"I know my children won't get much, " Joseph Atkins said, coughing ashe spoke; "they wouldn't if Lloyd's hadn't shut down. I never seethe time when I could afford to make any account of Christmas, muchas ever I could manage a turkey Thanksgiving day. "

"The poor that the Lord died for can't afford to keep his birthday;it is the rich that he's going to cast into outer darkness, thatkeep it for their own ends, and it's a blasphemy and a mockery, "proclaimed Nahum Beals. He was very excited that night, and wouldoften spring to his feet and stride across the room. There wasanother man there that night, a cousin of Joseph Atkins, JohnSargent by name. He had recently moved to Rowe, since he hadobtained work at McGuire's, "had accepted a position in thefinishing-room of Mr. H. S. McGuire's factory in the city of Rowe, "as the item in the local paper put it. He was a young man, youngerthan his cousin, but he looked older. He had a handsome face, underthe most complete control as to its muscles. When he laughed he gavethe impression of the fixedness of merriment of a mask. He lookedkeenly at Nahum Beals with that immovable laugh on his face, andspoke with perfectly good-natured sarcasm. "All very well for thestring-pieces of the bridge from oppression to freedom, " he said, "but you need some common-sense for the ties, or you'll slump. "

"What do you mean?"

"We ain't in the Old Testament, but the nineteenth century, andthose old prophets, if they were alive to-day, would have to stepdown out of their flaming chariots and hang their mantles on thebushes, and instead of standing on mountain-tops and tellin' theirenemies what rats they were, and how they would get what theydeserved later on, they would have to tell their enemies what theywanted them to do to better matters, and make them do it. "

"Instead of standing by your own strike in Greenboro, you quit andcome here to work in McGuire's the minute you got a chance, " saidNahum Beals, sullenly, and Sargent responded, with his unrelaxinglaugh, "I left enough strikers for the situation in Greenboro; don'tyou worry about me. "

"I think he done quite right to quit the strike if he got a chanceto work, " Joseph Atkins interposed. "Folks have got to look out forthemselves, labor reform or no labor reform. "

"That's the corner-stone of labor reform, seems to me, " said Andrew. 

"Seems to me sometimes you talk like a damned scab, " cried NahumBeals, fiercely, red spots flickering in his thin cheeks. Andrewlooked at him, and spoke with slow wrath. "Look here, Nahum Beals, "he said, "you're in my house, but I ain't goin' to stand no suchtalk as that, I can tell you. "

John Sargent laid a pacifically detaining hand on Nahum Beals's armas he strode past him. "Oh, Lord, stop rampagin' up and down like awildcat, " he said. "What good do you think you're doin' tearin' andshoutin' and insultin' people? He ain't talkin' like a scab, he'sonly talkin' a tie to your string-piece. "

"That's so, " said Joseph Atkins. Sargent boarded with him, and theboard money was a godsend to him, now he was out of work. JohnSargent had fixed his own price, and it was an unheard-of one forsuch simple fare as he had. His weekly dollars kept the whole poorfamily in food. But John Sargent was a bachelor, and earningremarkably good wages, and Joseph Atkins's ailing wife, whom illnessand privation had made unnaturally grasping and ungrateful, told hercronies that it wasn't as if he couldn't afford it. 

Up-stairs little Ellen lay in her bed, her doll in her arms, listening to the low rumble of masculine voices in the room below. Her mother had gone out, and there were only the men there. Theywere smoking, and the odor of their pipes floated up into Ellen'schamber through the door-cracks. She thought how her grandmotherBrewster would sniff when she came in next day. She could hear hersaying, "Well, for my part, if those men couldn't smoke their oldpipes somewhere else besides in my sittin'-room, I wouldn't have 'emin the house. " But that reflection did not trouble Ellen very long, and she had never been disturbed herself by the odor of the pipes. She thought of them insensibly as the usual atmosphere when men weregathered together in any place except the church. She knew that theywere talking about that old trouble, and Nahum Beals's voice of highwrath made her shrink; but, after all, she was removed from it allthat night into a little prospective paradise of her own, which, asis the case in childhood, seemed to overgild her own future and allthe troubles of the world. Christmas was only a week distant, shewas to have a tree, and the very next evening her mother hadpromised to take her down-town and show her the beautiful, lightedChristmas shops. She wondered, listening to that rumble ofdiscontent below, why grown-up men and women ever fretted when theywere at liberty to go down-town every evening when they chose andlook at the lighted shops, for she could still picture pure delightfor others without envy or bitterness. 

The next day the child was radiant; she danced rather than walked;she could not speak without a smile; she could eat nothing, for herhappiness was so purely spiritual that desires of the flesh were inabeyance. Her heart beat fast; the constantly recurring memory ofwhat was about to happen fairly overwhelmed her as with waves ofdelight. 

"If you don't eat your supper you can't go, and that's all there isabout it, " her mother told her when they were seated at the table, and Ellen sat dreaming before her toast and peach preserve. 

"You must eat your supper, Ellen, " Andrew said, anxiously. Andrewhad on his other coat, and he had shaved, and was going too, as wasMrs. Zelotes Brewster. 

"She 'ain't eat a thing all day, she's so excited about goin', "Fanny said. "Now, Ellen, you must eat your supper, or you can'tgo--you'll be sick. "

And Ellen ate her supper, though exceeding joy as well as exceedingwoe can make food lose its savor, and toast and preserves were asashes on her tongue when the very fragrance of coming happiness wasin her soul. 

When, finally, in hand of her mother, while Andrew walked behindwith her grandmother, she went towards the lights of the town, shehad a feeling as of wings on her feet. However, she walked soberlyenough with wide eyes of amazement and delight at everything--thelong, silver track of the snowy road under the light of the fullmoon, the slants of the house roofs sparkling with crusts ofcrystals, the lighted windows set with house plants, for thedwellers in the outskirts of Rowe loved house plants, and theirfront windows bloomed with the emulative splendor of geraniums fromfall to spring. She saw behind them glimpses of lives and somedoings as real as her own, but mysterious under the locks of otherpersonalities, and therefore as full of possibilities ofpreciousness as the sheet of morning dew over a neighbor's yard; shehad often believed she saw diamonds sparkle in that, though never inher own. She had proved it otherwise too often. So Ellen, seeingthrough a window a little girl of her own age in a red frock, straightway believed it to be satin of the richest quality, and, seeing through another window a tea-table spread, had no doubt thatthe tin teapot was silver. A girl with a crown of yellow braidspulled down a curtain, and she thought her as beautiful as an angel;but of all this she said nothing at all, only walked soberly on, holding fast to her mother's hand. 

When they were half-way to the shops, a door of a white house closeto the road flew open and shut again with a bang, there was a scurryand grating slide on the front walk, then the gate was thrown back, and a boy dashed through with a wild whoop, just escaping contactwith Mrs. Zelotes Brewster. "You'd better be careful, " said she, sharply. "It ain't the thing for boys to come tearin' out of yardsin the evenin' without seein' where they are goin'. "

The boy cast an abashed glance at her. The street-lamp shone full onhis face, which was round and reddened by the frosty winds, with anaimlessly grinning mouth of uncertain youth, and black eyes with abold and cheerful outlook on the unknown. He was only ten, but hewas large for his age. Ellen, when he looked from her grandmotherback at her, thought him almost a man, and then she saw that he wasthe boy who had brought the chestnuts to her the night when she hadreturned from her runaway excursion. The boy recognized her at thesame moment, and his mouth seemed to gape wider, and a moist redoverspread his face down to his swathing woollen scarf. Then he gaveanother whoop significant of the extreme of nervous abashedness andthe incipient defiance of his masculine estate, there was a flourishof heels, followed by a swift glimmering slide of steel, and he wasoff trailing his sled. 

"That's that Joy boy that brought Ellen the chestnuts that time, "Fanny said. "Do you remember him, Ellen?"

"Yes, ma'am, " replied Ellen. The look of the boy in her face hadbewildered and confused her, without her knowing the why of it. Itwas as if she had spelled a word in her reading-book whose meaningshe could not grasp. 

"I don't care who he is, " said Mrs. Zelotes, "he 'ain't no businessracin' out of gates that way, and his folks hadn't ought to let aboy no older than that out alone of nights. "

They kept on, and the boy apparently left them far behind in hiscareer of youthful exuberance, until they came to the factories. Andrew looked up at the windows of Lloyd's, dark except for a faintglimmer in a basement window from the lamp of the solitary watchman, and drew a heavy sigh. 

"It ain't as bad for you as it is for some, " his mother said, sharply, and then she jumped aside, catching her son's arm as theboy sprang out of a covering shadow under the wall of Lloyd's anddashed before them with another wild whoop and another glance ofdefiant bashfulness at Ellen. 

"My land! it's that boy again, " cried Mrs. Zelotes. "Here, youboy!--boy! What's your name?"

"His name is Granville Joy, " Ellen replied, unexpectedly. 

"Why, how did you know, child?" her grandmother asked. "Seems to mehe's got a highfalutin' name enough. Here you, Granville--if that'syour name--don't you know any better than to--" But the boy wasgone, his sled creaking on the hard snow at his heels, and a faintwhoop sounded from the distance. 

"I guess if I had the bringin' up of that boy there wouldn't be suchdoin's, " said Mrs. Zelotes, severely. "His mother's a pretty woman, but I don't believe she's got much force. She wouldn't have givenhim such a name if she had. "

"She named him after the town she came from, " said Fanny. "She toldme once. She's a real smart woman, and she makes that boy standaround. "

"She must; it looks as if he was standin' round pretty lively jestnow, " said Mrs. Zelotes. "Namin' of a boy after a town! They'dbetter wait and name a town after the boy if he amounts toanything. "

"His mother told me he was goin' into the first grammar-school nextyear, " said Fanny. 

"I pity the teacher, " said Mrs. Zelotes, and then she recoiled, forthe boy made another dart from behind a lamp-post, crossed theirpath, and was off again. 

"My land!" gasped Mrs. Zelotes, "you speak to him, Andrew. " ButAndrew laughed. "Might as well speak to a whirlwind, " said he. "Heain't doin' any harm, mother; it's only his boyish antics. ForHeaven's sake, let him enjoy himself while he can, it won't be longbefore the grind-mill in there will get hold of him, and then he'llbe sober enough to suit anybody, " and Andrew pointed at Lloyd's ashe spoke. 

"Boys can be boys, " said Mrs. Zelotes, severely, "and they can havea good time, but they can behave themselves. "

None of them looking after that flying and whooping figure ahead hadthe slightest idea of the true situation. They did not know that theboy was confused by the fires, none the less ardent that they wereso innocent, of a first love for Ellen; that, ever since he had seenher little, fair face on her aunt's shoulder the day when she wasfound, it had been even closer to his heart than his sled and hisjackstones and his ball, and his hope of pudding for dinner. Theydid not know that he had toiled at the wood-pile of a Saturday, andrun errands after school, to earn money to buy Christmas presentsfor his mother and Ellen; that he had at that very minute in hispurse in the bottom of his pocket the sum of eighty-nine cents, mostly in coppers, since his wage was generally payable in thatcoin, and his pocket sagged arduously therefrom. They did not knowthat he was even then bound upon an errand to the grocery store fora bag of flour to be brought home on his sled, and would therebyswell his exchequer by another cent. They did not know what dawningchords of love, and knowledge of love, that wild whoop expressed;and the boy dodged and darted and hid, and appeared before them allthe way to the busy main street of Rowe; and, after they had enteredthe great store where the finest Christmas display was held, hestood before the window staring at Ellen vanishing in a brilliantvista, and whooped now and then, regardless of public opinion. 

Ellen, when once she was inside the store, forgot everything else. She clung more tightly to her mother's hand, as one will cling toany wonted stay of love in the midst of strangeness, even of joy, and she saw everything with eyes which photographed it upon her verysoul. At first she had an impression of a dazzling incoherence ofsplendor, of a blare as of thousands of musical instruments allsounding different notes of delight, of a weaving pattern of colors, too intricate to master, of a mingled odor of paint and varnish, andpine and hemlock boughs, and then she spelled out the letters of thedetails. She looked at those counters set with the miniatureparaphernalia of household life which give the first sweet taste ofdomesticity and housekeeping joys to a little girl. 

There were the sets of dolls' furniture, and the dolls, dishes, andthere was a counter with dolls' cooking-stoves and ranges bristlingwith the most delightful realism of pots and pans, at which shegazed so fixedly and breathlessly that she looked almost stupid. Herelders watched half in delight, half with pain, that they could notpurchase everything at which she looked. Mrs. Zelotes bought somethings surreptitiously, hiding the parcels under her shawl. Andrew, whispering to a salesman, asked the price of a great cooking-stoveat which Ellen looked long. When he heard the amount he sighed. Fanny touched his arm comfortingly. "There would be no sense in yourbuying that, if you had all the money in creation, " she said, in ahushed voice. "There's a twenty-five-cent one that's good enough. I'm going to buy that for her to-morrow. She'll never know thedifference. " But Andrew Brewster, nevertheless, went through thegreat, dazzling shop with his heart full of bitterness. It seemed tohim monstrous and incredible that he had a child as beautiful andaltogether wonderful as that, and could not buy the whole stock forher if she wanted it. He had never in his whole life wanted anythingfor himself that he could not have, enough to give him pain, but hewanted for his child with a longing that was a passion. Her littledesires seemed to him the most important and sacred needs in thewhole world. He watched her with pity and admiration, and shame athis own impotence of love to give her all. 

But Ellen knew nothing of it. She was radiant. She never thought ofwanting all those treasures further than she already had them. Shegazed at the wonders in that department where the toy animals werekept, and which resembled a miniature menagerie, the silence brokenby the mooing of cows, the braying of donkeys, the whistle ofcanaries, and the roars of mock-lions when their powers were invokedby the attendants, and her ears drank in that discordant bable oftiny mimicry like music. There was no spirit of criticism in her. She was utterly pleased with everything. 

When her grandmother held up a toy-horse and said the fore-legs weretoo long, Ellen wondered what she meant. To her mind it was morelike a horse than any real one she had ever seen. 

As she gazed at the decorations, the wreaths, the gauze, the tinsel, and paper angels, suspended by invisible wires over the counters, and all glittering and shining and twinkling with light, a strongwhiff of evergreen fragrance came to her, and the aroma offir-balsam, and it was to her the very breath of all the mysteriousjoy and hitherto untasted festivity of this earth into which she hadcome. She felt deep in her childish soul the sense of a promise ofhappiness in the future, of which this was a foretaste. When shewent into the department where the dolls dwelt, she fairly turnedpale. They swung, and sat, and lay, and stood, as in angelic ranks, all smiling between shining fluffs of hair. It was a chorus ofsmiles, and made the child's heart fairly leap. She felt as if allthe dolls were smiling at her. She clung fast to her mother's hand, and hid her face against her skirt. 

"Why, what is the matter, Ellen?" Fanny asked. Ellen looked up, andsmiled timidly and confusedly, then at the dazzle of waxen faces andgolden locks above skirts of delicate pink and blue and white, likeflower petals. 

"You never saw so many dolls together before, did you, Ellen?" saidAndrew; then he added, wistfully, "There ain't one of 'em any biggerand prettier than your own doll, be they, Ellen?" And that, although he had never recovered from his uneasiness about thatmysterious doll. 

Ellen had not seen Cynthia Lennox since that morning several weeksago when she had run away from her, except one glimpse when she wassleigh-riding. Now all at once, when they had stopped to look atsome wonderful doll-houses, she saw her face to face. Ellen had beengazing with rapture at a great doll-house completely furnished, andAndrew had made one of his miserable side inquiries as to its price, and Fanny had said, quite loud, "Lord, Andrew, you might just aswell ask the price of the store! You know such a thing as that isout of the question for any child unless her father is rich asNorman Lloyd, " and Ellen, who had not noticed what they were saying, looked up, when a faint breath of violets smote her sense with aquick memory, and there was the strange lady who had taken her intoher house and kept her and given her the doll, the strange lady whomthe gentleman said might be punished for keeping her if people wereto know. 

Cynthia Lennox went pale when, without knowing what was going tohappen, she looked down and saw suddenly the child's innocent facelooking into hers. She stood wavering in her trailing, fur-lined, and softly whispering draperies, so marked and set aside by hergrace and elegance and countenance of superiority and proud calmthat people turned to look after her more than after many a youngbeauty, and did not, for a second, know what to say or do. She hadno mind to shrink from a recognition of the child; she had no fearof the result, but there was a distinct shrinking at a scene withthat flashing-eyed and heavy-browed mother of the child in such aplace as that. She would undoubtedly speak very loud. She expectedthe volley of recrimination in a high treble which would follow theannouncement in that sweet little flute which she remembered sowell. 

"Mamma, that is the lady who kept me, and would not let me go home. "

But Ellen, after a second's innocent and startled regard, turnedaway with no more recognition than if she had been a stranger. Sheturned her little back to her, and looked at the doll-house. A greatflush flamed over Cynthia Lennox's face, and a qualm of mortalshame. She took an impetuous glide forward, and was just about tospeak and tell the truth, whatever the consequences, and not beoutdone in magnanimity by that child, when a young girl with asickly but impudent and pretty face jostled her rudely. The utterpertness of her ignorant youth knew no respect for even the richMiss Cynthia Lennox. "Here's your parcel, lady, " she said, in herrough young voice, its shrillness modified by hoarseness from toomuch shouting for cash boys during this busy season, and she thrust, with her absent eyes upon a gentleman coming towards her, a parcelinto Cynthia's hands. Somehow the touch of that parcel seemed tobring Cynthia to her senses. It was a kodak which she had beenpurchasing for the little boy who had lived with her, and whom ithad almost broken her heart to lose. She remembered what her friendLyman Risley had said, that it might make trouble for others besidesherself. She took her parcel with that involuntary meekness whichthe proudest learn before the matchless audacity of youthfulignorance when it fairly asserts itself, and passed out of the storeto her waiting carriage. Ellen saw her. 

"That was Cynthia Lennox, wasn't it?" Fanny said, with somethinglike awe. "Wasn't that an elegant cloak she had on? I guess it wasRussian sable. "

"I don't care if it was, it ain't a mite handsomer than my capelined with squirrel, " said Mrs. Zelotes. 

Ellen looked intently at a game on the counter. It was ten o'clockwhen Ellen went home. She had been into all the principal storeswhich were decorated for Christmas. Her brain resembled akaleidoscope as she hurried along at her mother's hand. Everythought seemed to whirl the disk, and new and more dazzlingcombinations appeared, but the principle which underlay the wholewas that of the mystery of festivity and joy upon the face of theearth, of which this Christmas wealth was the key. 

The Brewsters had scarcely reached the factory neighborhood whenthere was a swift bound ahead of them and the familiar whoop. 

"There's that boy again, " said Mrs. Zelotes. 

She made various remonstrances, and even Andrew, when the boy hadpassed his own home in his persistent dogging of them, called out tohim, as did Fanny, but he was too far ahead to hear. The boyfollowed them quite to their gate, proceeding with wild spurts anddashes from shadow to shadow, and at last reappeared from behind oneof the evergreen trees in the west yard, springing out of its longshadow with strange effect. He darted close to Ellen as she passedin the gate, crammed something into her hand, and was gone. Andrewcould not catch him, though he ran after him. "He ran like arabbit, " he said, coming breathlessly into the house, where theywere looking at the treasure the boy had thrust upon Ellen. It was amarvel of a patent top, which the boy had long desired to own. Hehad spent all his money on it, and his mother was cheated of herChristmas present, but he had given, and Ellen had received, herfirst token of love. 

Chapter XII

The next spring Ellen went to school. When a child who has reignedin undisputed sovereignty at home is thrust among other children atschool, one of two things happens: either she is scorned andrebelled against, and her little crown of superiority rolled in thedust of the common playground, or she extends the territories of herempire. Ellen extended hers, though involuntarily, for there was noconscious thirst for power in her. 

On her first morning at school, she seated herself at her desk andlooked forth from the golden cloud of her curls, her eyes full ofinnocent contemplation, her mouth corners gravely drooping. She knewone little girl who sat not far from her. The little girl's name wasFloretta Vining. Floretta was built on the scale of a fairy, withtiny, fine, waxen features, a little tossing mane of flaxen hair, eyes a most lovely and perfect blue, with no more depth in them thanin the blue of china, and an expression of the sweetest and mostinnocent inanity and irresponsibility. Nobody ever expected anythingof this little Floretta Vining. She was always a negative success. She smiled around from the foot of her curving class, and never hadher lessons, but she never disobeyed the rules, except that ofpunctuality. 

Floretta was late at school. She came daintily up the aisle, twocheap bangles on one wrist slipping over a slim hand, and tinkling. Floretta's mother had a taste for the cheaply decorative. There wasan abundance of coarse lace on Floretta's frock, and she wore asuperfluous sash which was not too fresh. Floretta toed outexcessively, her slender little feet pointing out sharply, almost atright angles with each other, and Ellen admired her for that. Shewatched her coming, planting each foot as carefully and precisely asa bird, her lace frills flouncing up and down, her bangles jingling, and thought how very pretty she was. 

Ellen felt herself very loving towards the teacher and FlorettaVining. Floretta leaned forward as soon as she was seated and gazedat her with astonishment, and that deepening of amiability andgeneral sweetness which one can imagine in the face of a doll afterpersistent scrutiny. Ellen smiled decorously, for she was not surehow much smiling was permissible in school. When she smiledguardedly at Floretta, she was conscious of another face regardingher, twisted slightly over a shabby little shoulder covered with anignominious blue stuff, spotted and faded. This little girl's wispof brown braid was tied with a shoe-string, and she looked poorerthan any other child in the school, but she had an honest light inher eyes, and Ellen considered her to be rather more beautiful thanFloretta. 

She was Maria Atkins, Joseph Atkins's second child. Ellen sat withher book before her, and the strange, new atmosphere of theschool-room stole over her senses. It was not altogether pleasant, although it was considered that the ventilation was after the mostapproved modern system. She perceived a strong odor of peppermints, and Floretta Vining was waving ostentatiously a coarse littlepocket-handkerchief scented with New-mown Hay. There was also astrong effusion of stale dinners and storm-beaten woollen garments, but there was, after all, that savor of festivity which Ellen wasapt to discover in the new. She looked over her book with uttercontent. In a line with her, on the boys' side, there appeared acovertly peeping face under a thatch of light hair, and Ellen, influenced insensibly by the boy's shyly worshipful eyes, looked andsaw Granville Joy. She remembered the Christmas top, and blushedvery pink without knowing why, and flirted all her curls towards theboys' side. 

Ellen, from having so little acquaintance with boys, had had no verywell-defined sentiments towards them, but now, on being set apartwith her feminine element, and separated so definitely by the middleaisle of the school-room, she began to experience sensations both ofshyness and exclusiveness. She did not think the boys, in theircoarse clothes, with their cropped heads, half as pretty as thegirls. 

The teacher coming down the aisle laid a caressing hand on Ellen'scurls, and the child looked up at her with that confidence which isexquisite flattery. 

After she had passed, Ellen heard a subtle whisper somewhere at herback; it was half audible, but its meaning was entirely plain. Itsignified utmost scorn and satirical contempt. It was fine-pointedand far-reaching. A number looked around. It was as expressive as awhole sentence, and, being as concentrated, was fairly explosivewith meaning. 

"H'm, ain't you pretty? Ain't you dreadful pretty, littledolly-pinky-rosy. H'm, teacher's partial. Ain't you pretty? Ain'tyou stuck up? H'm. "

Ellen, not being used to the school vernacular, did not fairlyapprehend all this, and least of all that it was directed towardsherself. She cast a startled look around, then turned to her book. She leaned back in her seat and held her book before her face withboth hands, and began to read, spelling out the words noiselessly. All at once, she felt a fine prick on her head, and threw back onehand and turned quickly. The little girl behind was engrossed instudy, and all Ellen could see was the parting in her thick blackhair, for her head was supported by her two hands, her elbows wereresting on her desk, and she was whispering the boundaries of theState of Massachusetts. 

Ellen turned back to her reading-book, and recommenced studying withthe painful faithfulness of the new student; then came again thatsmall, fine, exasperating prick, and she thrust her face aroundquickly to see that same faithfully intent little girl. 

Ellen rubbed her head doubtfully, and tried to fix her attentionagain upon her book, but presently it came again; a prick so smalland fine that it strained consciousness; an infinitesimal point oftorture, and this time Ellen, turning with a swift flirt of herhead, caught the culprit. It was that faithful little girl, who helda black-headed belt-pin in her hand; she had been carefullyseparating one hair at a time from Ellen's golden curls, andtweaking it out. 

Ellen looked at her with a singular expression compounded ofbewilderment, of injury, of resentment, of alarm, and of a readinessto accept it all as a somewhat peculiar advance towardsgood-fellowship and a merry understanding. But the expression onthat dark, somewhat grimy little face, looking out at her from ajungle of coarse, black locks, was fairly impish, almost malicious. There was not merriment in it so much as jibing; instead of thatsoft regard and worshipful admiration which Ellen was accustomed tofind in new eyes, there was resentful envy. 

Then Ellen shrank, and bristled with defiance at the same time, forshe had the spirit of both the Brewsters and the Louds in her, inspite of her delicacy of organization. She was a fine instrument, capable of chords of tragedy as well as angelic strains. She sawthat the little girl who was treating her so was dressed verypoorly, that her dress was not only shabby, but actually dirty; thatshe, as well as the other girl whom she noticed, had her braid tiedwith an old shoe-string, and that a curious smell of leatherpervaded her. Ellen continued to regard the little girl, thensuddenly she felt a hand on her shoulder, and the teacher, MissRebecca Mitchell, was looking down at her. "What is the trouble?"asked Miss Mitchell. That look of half-wondering admiration to whichEllen was accustomed was in the teacher's eyes, and Ellen againthought her beautiful. 

One of the first, though a scarcely acknowledged principle ofbeauty, is that of reflection of the fairness of the observer. Ellenbeing as innocently self-seeking for love and admiration as anyyoung thing for its natural sustenance, was quick to recognize it, though she did not understand that what she saw was herself in theteacher's eyes, and not the teacher. She gazed up in that roseateface with the wide mouth set in an inverted bow of smile, curtained, as it were, with smoothly crinkled auburn hair clearly outlinedagainst the cheeks, at the palpitating curve of shiny black-silkbosom, adorned with a festoon of heavy gold watch-chain, and thoughtthat here was love, and beauty, and richness, and elegance, andgreat wisdom, calling for reverence but no fear. She answered notone word to the teacher's question, but continued to gaze at herwith that look of wide-eyed and contemplative regard. 

"What is the trouble, Ellen?" repeated Miss Mitchell. "Why were youlooking around so?" Ellen said nothing. The little girl behind hadher head bent over her book so low that the sulky curves of hermouth did not show. The teacher turned to her--"Abby Atkins, " saidshe, "what were you doing?"

Abby Atkins did not raise her studious head. She did not seem tohear. 

"Abby Atkins, " said the teacher, sharply, "answer me. What were youdoing?" Then the little girl answered, with a sulky note, halfgrowl, half whimper, like some helpless but indomitable littletrapped animal, "Nothin'. "

"Ellen, " said the teacher, and her voice changed indescribably. "What was she doing?" Ellen did not answer. She looked up in theteacher's face, then cast down her eyes and sat there, her littlehands folded in tightly clinched fists in her lap, her mouth a pinkline of resistance. "Ellen, " repeated the teacher, and she tried tomake her voice sharp, but in spite of herself it was caressing. Herheart had gone out to the child the moment she had seen her enterthe school-room. She was as helpless before her as before a lover. She was wild to catch her up and caress her instead of pestering herwith questions. "Ellen, you must answer me, " she said, but Ellen satstill. 

Half the scholars were on their feet, reaching and craning theirnecks. The teacher turned on them, and there was no lack ofsharpness in her tone. "Sit down this moment, every one of you, " shecalled. "Abby Atkins, if there is any more disturbance, I shall knowwhat is at the root of the matter. If I see you turning aroundagain, Ellen, I shall insist upon knowing why. " Then the teacherplaced a caressing hand upon Ellen's yellow head, and passed downthe aisle to her desk. 

Ellen had no more trouble during the session. Abby Atkins wascommendably quiet and studious, and when called out to recitationmade the best one in her class. She was really brilliant in adefiant, reluctant fashion. However, though she did not againdisturb Ellen's curls, she glowered at her with furtive butunrelaxed hostility over her book. Especially a blue ribbon whichconfined Ellen's curls in a beautiful bow fired her eyes ofanimosity. She looked hard at it, then she pulled her black braidover her shoulder and felt of the hard shoe-string knot, and frownedwith an ugly frown of envy and bitterest injury, and asked herselfthe world-wide and world-old question as to the why of inequality, and, though it was based on such trivialities as blue ribbons andshoe-strings, it was none the less vital to her mind. She would haveloved, have gloried, to pull off that blue ribbon, put it on her ownblack braid, and tie up those yellow curls with her own shoe-stringwith a vicious yank of security. But all the time it was not so muchbecause she wanted the ribbon as because she did not wish to beslighted in the distribution of things. Abby Atkins cared no morefor personal ornament than a wild cat, but she wanted her justallotment of the booty of the world. So at recess she watched herchance. Ellen was surrounded by an admiring circle of big girls, gushing with affection. "Oh, you dear little thing, " they said. "Only look at her beautiful curls. Give me a kiss, won't you, darling?" Little reverent fingers twined Ellen's golden curls, redapples were thrust forward for her to take bites, sticky morsels ofcandy were forced secretly into her hands. Abby Atkins stood aloof. "You mean little thing, " one of the big girls said suddenly, catching hold of her thin shoulder and shaking her--"you mean littlething, I saw you. "

"So did I, " said another big girl, "and I was a good mind to tell onyou. "

"Yes, you had better look out, and not plague that dear littlething, " said the other. 

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, " chimed in still another biggirl. "Only look how pretty she is, the little darling--the idea ofyour tormenting her. You deserve a good, hard whipping, AbbyAtkins. "

This big girl was herself a beauty and wore a fine and preciseblue-ribbon bow, and Abby Atkins looked at her with a scowl ofhatred. 

"She's an ugly little thing, " said the big girls among themselves asthey went edging gently and imperceptibly away towards a knot of bigboys, and then Abby Atkins's chance had come. She advanced with aspring upon Ellen Brewster, and she pulled that blue ribbon off herhead so cruelly and fiercely that she pulled out some of the goldenhairs with it and threw it on the ground, and stamped on it. Thenshe seized Ellen by the shoulders and proceeded to shake her forwearing a blue ribbon when she herself wore a shoe-string, but shereckoned without Ellen. One would as soon have expected to meetfight in a little child angel as in this Ellen Brewster, but she didnot come of her ancestors for nothing. 

Although she was so daintily built that she looked smaller, she wasin reality larger than the other girl, and as she straightenedherself in her wrath she seemed a head taller and proportionatelybroad. She tossed her yellow head, and her face took on anexpression of noble courage and indignation, but she never said aword. She simply took Abby Atkins by the arms and lifted her off herfeet and seated her on the ground. Then she picked up her blueribbon, and walked off, and Abby scrambled to her feet and lookedafter her with a vanquished but untamed air. Nobody had seen whathappened except Abby's younger sister Maria and Granville Joy. Granville pressed stealthily close to Ellen as she marched away andwhispered, his face blazing, his voice full of confidence andcongratulation, "Say, if she'd been a boy, I'd licked her for you, and you wouldn't hev had to tech her yourself;" and Maria walked upand eyes her prostrate but defiantly glaring sister--"I ain't sorryone mite, Abby Atkins, " she declared--"so there. "

"You go 'long, " returned Abby, struggling to her feet, and shakingher small skirts energetically. 

"Your dress is jest as wet as if you'd set down in a puddle, andyou'll catch it when you get home, " Maria said, pitilessly. 

"I ain't afraid. "

"What made you touch her, anyhow; she hadn't done nothin'?"

"If you want to wear shoe-strings when other folks wear ribbons, youcan, " said Abby Atkins. She walked away, switching, with unabateddignity in the midst of defeat, the draggled tail of her poor littledress. She had gone down like a cat; she was not in the least hurtexcept in her sense of justice; that was jarred to a still greaterlack of equilibrium. She felt as if she had been floored byProvidence in conjunction with a blue bow, and her very soul rose infutile rebellion. But, curiously enough, her personal ire againstEllen vanished. 

At the afternoon recess she gave Ellen the sound half of an old redBaldwin apple which she had brought for luncheon, and watched herbite into it, which Ellen did readily, for she was not a child tocherish enmity, with an odd triumph. "The other half ain't fit toeat, it's all wormy, " said Abby Atkins, flinging it away as shespoke. 

"Then you ought to have kept this, " Ellen cried out, holding towardsher the half, minus one little bite. But Abby Atkins shook her headforcibly. "That was why I gave it to you, " said she. "Say, didn'tyou never have to tie up your hair with a shoe-string?" Ellen shookher head, looking at her wonderingly. Then with a sudden impulse shetore off the blue ribbon from her curls. "Say, you take it, " shesaid, "my mother won't care. I'd just as lief wear the shoe-string, honest. "

"I don't want your blue ribbon, " Abby returned, stoutly; "ashoe-string is a good deal better to tie the hair with. I don't wantyour blue ribbon; I don't want no blue ribbon unless it's mine. "

"It would be yours if I give it to you, " Ellen declared, with blueeyes of astonishment and consternation upon this very strange littlegirl. 

"No, it wouldn't, " maintained Abby Atkins. 

But it ended in the two girls, with that wonderful and inexplicableadjustment of childhood into one groove after harsh grating ondifferent levels, walking off together with arms around each other'swaist, and after school began Ellen often felt a soft, cat-like paton her head, and turned round with a loving glance at Abby Atkins. 

Ellen talked more about Abby Atkins than any other of the childrenwhen she got home, and while her mother looked at it all easily, hergrandmother was doubtful. "There's others that I should rather haveEllen thick with, " said she. "I 'ain't nothin' against the Atkinses, but they can't have been as well brought up as some, they have hadso little to do with, and their mother's been ailin' so long. "

"Ellen may as well begin as she can hold out, and be intimate withthem that will be intimate with her, " Eva said, rather bitterly. Evawas married by this time, and living with Jim and his mother. Shewore in those days an expression of bitterly defiant triumph andhappiness, as of one who has wrested his sweet from fate under theban of the law, and is determined to get the flavor of it though theskies fall. "I suppose I did wrong marrying Jim, " she often told hersister, "but I can't help it. "

"Maybe Jim will get work before long, " her sister would say, consolingly. 

"I have about given up, " Eva would reply. "I guess Jim will have toroost on a flour-barrel at Munsey's store the rest of his days; butas long as he belongs to me, it don't make so much difference. "

Eva had taken up an agency for a cosmetic which was manufactured bya woman in Rowe. She had one window of the north parlor in the Tennycottage, which had been given up to her when she married Jim, filledwith the little pink boxes containing the "Fairy Cream, " and a greatsign, but the trade languished. Both Eva and Jim had tried in vainto obtain employment in factories in other towns. 

Lloyd's had not reopened, although it was April, and Andrew wasdrawing on his savings. Fanny had surreptitiously answered anadvertisement purporting to give instructions to women as to theearning of large sums of money at home, and was engaged with a stockof glass and paints which she hurriedly swept out of sight when anyone's shadow passed the window, and later she found herself to bethe victim of a small swindling conspiracy, and lost the dollarwhich she had invested. But Ellen knew nothing of all this. Shelacked none of her accustomed necessaries nor luxuries, and with herschool a new life full of keen, new savors or relish began for her. There were also new affections in it. 

Ellen was as yet too young, and too confident in love, to have newaffections plunge her into anything but a delightful sort ofanti-blossom tumult. There was no suspense, no doubt, no jealousy, only utter acquiescence of single-heartedness, admiration, andtrust. She thought Abby Atkins and Floretta Vining lovely anddependable; she parted from them at night without a pang, and lookedforward blissfully to the meeting next morning. She also hadsentiments equally peaceful and pronounced, though instinctivelymore secret, towards Granville Joy. She used to glance over towardsthe boys' side and meet his side-long eyes without so much aquickening of her pulses as a quickening of her imagination. 

"I know who your beau is, " Floretta Vining, who was in advance ofher years, said to her once, and Ellen looked at her withhalf-stupid wonder. 

"His first name begins with a G and his last with a J, " Florettatittered, and Ellen continued to look at her with the faintestsuspicion of a blush, because she had a feminine instinct that ablush was in order, not because she knew of any reason for it. 

"He is, " said Floretta, with another exceedingly foolish giggle. "My, you are as red as a beet. "

"I ain't old enough to have a beau, " Ellen said, her soft cheeksbecoming redder, and her baby face all in a tremor. 

"Yes, you be, " Floretta said, with authority, "because you are sopretty, and have got such pretty curls. Ben Simonds said the otherday you were the prettiest girl in school. "

"Then do you think he is my beau, too?" asked Ellen, innocently. ButFloretta frowned, and tittered, and hesitated. 

"He said except one, " she faltered out, finally. 

"Well, who was that?" asked Ellen. 

"How do I know?" pouted Floretta. "Mebbe it was me, though I don'tthink I'm so very pretty. "

"Then Ben Simonds is your beau, " said Ellen, reflectively. 

"Yes, I guess he is, " admitted Floretta. 

That night, amid much wonder and tender ridicule, Ellen told hermother and Aunt Eva, and her father, that Ben Simonds was Floretta'sbeau, and Granville Joy was hers. But Andrew laughed doubtfully. 

"I don't want that little thing to get such ideas into her head yeta while, " he told Fanny afterwards, but she only laughed at him, seeing nothing but the childish play of the thing; but he, being aman, saw deeper. 

However, Ellen's fondest new love was not for any of her littlemates, but for her school-teacher. To her the child's heart went outin worship. All through the spring she offered her violets--violetsgathered laboriously after school in the meadow back of hergrandmother's house. She used to skip from hillock to hillock ofmarsh grass with wary steps, lest she might slip and wet her feet inthe meadow ooze and incur her mother's displeasure, for Fanny, inspite of her worship of the child, could speak with no uncertainvoice. She pulled up handfuls of the flowers, gleaming blue in thedark-green hollows. Later she carried roses from the choice bush inthe yard, and, later, pears from her grandmother's tree. She used towatch for Miss Mitchell at her gate and run to meet her, and seizeher hand and walk at her side, blushing with delight. Miss Mitchelllived not far from Ellen, in a tidy white house with a handsomesmoke-tree on one side of the front walk and a willow withupside-down branches on the other. Miss Mitchell had been born andbrought up in this house, but she had been teaching school in adistant town ever since Ellen's day, so they had never beenacquainted before she went to school. Miss Mitchell lived alone withher mother, who was an old friend of Mrs. Zelotes. Ellen privatelythought her rather better-looking than her own grandmother, thoughher admiration was based upon wholly sentimental reasons. Old Mrs. Mitchell might have earned more money in a museum of freaks than herdaughter in a district school. She was a mountain of rotundity, aconjunction of palpitating spheres, but the soul that dwelt in thispainfully ponderous body was as mellow with affection and kindlinessas a ripe pear, and the voice that proceeded from her ever-smilinglips was a hoarse and dove-like coo of love. Ellen at first starteda little aghast at this gigantic fleshliness, this general sloughand slump of outline, this insistency of repellent curves, and thenthe old woman spoke and thrust out a great, soft hand, and the heartof the child overleaped her artistic sense and her reason, and shethought old Mrs. Mitchell beautiful. Mrs. Mitchell never failed toregale her with a superior sort of cooky, and often with a covertpeppermint, and that although the Mitchells were not well off. Theold place was mortgaged, and Miss Mitchell had hard work to pay theinterest. Ellen had the vaguest ideas about the mortgage, and washalf inclined to think it might be a disfiguring patch in theplastering of the sitting-room, which hung down in an unsightlyfashion with a disclosure of hairy edges, and threatened danger tothe heads underneath. 

Often of a Saturday afternoon Ellen went to visit Miss Mitchell andher mother, and really preferred them to friends of her own age. Miss Mitchell had a store of superannuated paper dolls which datedfrom her own childhood. Their quaint costumes, and old-fashionedcoiffures, and simpers were of overwhelming interest to Ellen. Evenat that early age she had a perception of the advantages of anatmosphere to art, and even to the affections. Without understandingit, she loved those obsolete paper-dolls and those women of formergenerations better because they gave her breathing-scope for herimagination. She could love Abby Atkins and Floretta Vining at onebite, as it were, and that was the end of it, but she could sit andponder and dream over Miss Mitchell and her mother, and see wholevistas of them in receding mirrors of affection. 

As for the teacher and her mother, they simply adored the child--asindeed everybody did. She continued at her first school for a year, which was one of the hardest financially ever experienced in Rowe. Norman Lloyd during all that time did not reopen his factory, and inthe autumn two others shut down. The streets were full of thediscontented ranks of impotent labor, and all the public buildingswere props for the weary shoulders of the unemployed. On pleasantdays the sunny sides of the vacant factories, especially, furnishedsettings for lines of scowling faces of misery. 

This atmosphere affected Ellen more than any one realized, since thepersonal bearing of it was kept from her. She did not know that herfather was drawing upon his precious savings for daily needs, shedid not know how her aunt Eva and her uncle Jim were getting intogreater difficulties every day, but she was too sensitive not to beaware of disturbances which were not in direct contact with herself. She never forgot what she had overheard that night Lloyd's had shutdown; it was always like a blot upon the face of her happyconsciousness of life. She often overheard, as then, those loud, dissenting voices of her father and his friends in the sitting-room, after she had gone to bed; and then, too, Abby Atkins, who was notspared any knowledge of hardship, told her a good deal. "It's awfulthe way them rich folks treat us, " said Abby Atkins. "They own theshops and everything, and take all the money, and let our folks doall the work. It's awful. But then, " continued Abby Atkins, comfortingly, "your father has got money saved in the bank, and heowns his house, so you can get along if he don't have work. Myfather 'ain't got any, and he's got the old-fashioned consumption, and he coughs, and it takes money for his medicine. Then mother'ssick a good deal too, and has to have medicine. We have to have moremedicine than most anything else, and we hardly ever have any pie orcake, and it's all the fault of them rich folks. " Abby Atkins woundup with a tragic climax and a fierce roll of her black eyes. 

That evening Ellen went in to see her grandmother, and was presentedwith some cookies, which she did not eat. 

"Why don't you eat them?" Mrs. Zelotes asked. 

"Can I have them to do just what I want to with?" asked Ellen. 

"What on earth do you want to do with a cooky except eat it?" Ellenblushed; she had a shamed-faced feeling before a contemplatedgenerosity. 

"What do you want to do with them except eat them?" her grandmotherasked, severely. 

"Abby Atkins don't have any cookies 'cause her father's out ofwork, " said Ellen, abashedly. 

"Did that Atkins girl ask you to bring her cookies?"

"No, ma'am. "

"You can do jest what you are a mind to with 'em, " Mrs. Zelotessaid, abruptly. 

Ellen never knew why her grandmother insisted upon her drinking alittle glass of very nice and very spicy cordial before she wenthome, but the truth was, that Mrs. Zelotes thought the child soangelic in this disposition to give up the cookies which she lovedto her little friend that she was straightway alarmed and thoughther too good to live. 

The next day she told Fanny, and said to her, with her old facestern with anxiety, that the child was lookin' real pindlin', andEllen had to take bitters for a month afterwards because she gavethe cookies to Abby Atkins. 

Chapter XIII

In all growth there is emulation and striving for precedence betweenthe spiritual and the physical, and this very emulation maydetermine the rate of progression of the whole. Sometimes the one, sometimes the other, may be in advance, but all the time thetendency is towards the distant goal. Sometimes the two keepabreast, and then there is the greatest harmony in speed. In EllenBrewster at twelve and fifteen the spiritual outstripped thephysical, as is often the case. Her eyes grew intense and hollowwith reflection under knitting brows, her thin shoulders stoopedlike those of a sage bent with study and contemplation. She wasslender to emaciation; her clothes hung loosely over her form, whichseemed as sexless as a lily-stem; indeed, her body seemed only madefor the head, which was flower-like and charming, but almost painfulin its delicacy, and with such weight of innocent pondering upon theunknown conditions of things in which she found herself. At times, of course, there were ebullitions of youthful spirit, and the childwas as inconsequent as a kitten. At those times she was neitherchild nor woman; she was an anomalous thing made up not so much ofactualities as of instincts. She romped with her mates as unseen anduncomprehended of herself as any young animal, but the flame of herstriving spirit made everything full of unread meaning. 

Ellen was accounted a most remarkable scholar. She had left MissMitchell's school, and was in one of a higher grade. At fifteen sheentered the high-school and had a master. 

Andrew was growing old fast in those days, though not so old as toyears. Though he was far from old, his hair was gray, his back bent. He moved with a weary shuffle. The men in the shop began to eye himfurtively. "Andrew Brewster will get fired next, " they said. "Theboss 'ain't no use for men with the first snap gone. " Indeed, Andrew was constantly given jobs of lower grades, which did not payso well. Whenever the force was reduced on account of dulness intrade, Andrew was one of the first to be laid aside on waitingorders in the regular army of toil. On one of these occasions, inthe spring after Ellen was fifteen, his first fit of recklessnessseized him. One night, after loafing a week, he came home with feverspots in his cheeks and a curiously bright, strained look in hiseyes. Fanny gazed sharply at him across the supper-table. Finallyshe laid down her knife and fork, rested her elbows on the table, and fixed her eyes commandingly upon him. "Andrew Brewster, what isthe matter?" said she. Ellen turned her flower-like face towards herfather, who took a swallow of tea without saying a word, though heshuffled his feet uneasily. "Andrew, you answer me, " repeated Fanny. 

"There ain't anything the matter, " answered Andrew, with a strangesullenness for him. 

"There is, too. Now, Andrew Brewster, I ain't goin' to be put off. Iknow you're on the shelf on account of hard times, so it ain't that. It's something new. Now I want to know what it is. "

"It ain't anything. "

"Yes, it is. Andrew, you ought to tell me. You know I ain't afraidto bear anything that you have to bear, and Ellen is getting oldenough now, so she can understand, and she can't always be spared. She'd better get a little knowledge of hardships while she has us tohelp her bear 'em. "

"This ain't a hardship, and there ain't anything to spare, Ellen, "said Andrew; and he laughed with a hilarity totally unlike him. 

That was all Fanny could get out of him, but she was half reassured. She told Eva that she didn't believe but he had been buying someChristmas present that he knew was extravagant for Ellen, and wasafraid to tell her because he knew she would scold. But Andrew hadnot been buying Christmas presents, but speculating in miningstocks. He had resisted the temptation long. Year in and year out hehad heard the talk right and left in the shop, on the street, and atthe store of an evening. "I'll give you a point, " he had heard onesay to another during a discussion as to prices and dividends. Hehad heard it all described as a short cross-cut over the fields ofhard labor to wealth and comfort, and he had kept his face straightahead in his narrow track of caution and hereditary instincts untilthen. "The savings bank is good enough for me, " he used to say;"that's where my father kept his money. I don't know anything aboutyour stocks. I'd rather have a little and have it safe. " The mencould not reason him out of his position, not even when Billy Monroemade fifteen hundred dollars on a Colorado mine which had cost himfifteen cents per share, and left the shop, and drove a fast horsein a Goddard buggy. 

It was even reported that fifteen hundred was fifteen thousand, butAndrew was proof against this brilliant loadstar of success, thoughmany of his mates followed it afar, just before the shares droppedbelow par. 

Jim Tenny went with the rest. "Tell you what 'tis, Andrew, old man, "he said, clapping Andrew on the shoulder as they were going out ofthe shop one night, "you'd better go in too. "

"The savings-bank is good enough for me, " said Andrew, with hisgentle doggedness. 

"You can buy a trotter, " urged Jim. 

"I never was much on trotters, " replied Andrew. 

"I ain't going to walk home many times more, you bet, " Jim said toEva when he got home, and then he bent back her tensely set face andkissed it. Eva was crocheting hoods for fifteen cents apiece for aneighboring woman who was a padrone on a small scale, having taken alarge order from a dealer for which she realized twenty centsapiece, and employed all the women in the neighborhood to do thework. 

"Why not?" said she. 

"Oh, " said Jim, gayly, "I've bought some of that 'Golden Hope'mining stock. Billy Monroe has just made fifteen thousand on it, andI'll make as much in a week or two. "

"Oh, Jim, you 'ain't taken all the money out of the bank?"

"Don't you worry, old girl, " replied Jim. "I guess you'll find I cantake care of you yet. "

But the stock went down, and Jim's little venture with it. 

"Guess you were about right, old man, " he said to Andrew. 

Andrew was rather looked up to for his superior caution andsagacity. He was continually congratulated upon it. "Savings-banksare good enough for me, " he kept repeating. But that was four yearsago, and now his turn had come; the contagion of speculation hadstruck him at last. That was the way with Lloyd's failing employés. 

Andrew kept his stock certificate in a little, tin, trunk-shaped boxwhich had belonged to his father. It had a key and a tiny padlock, and he had always stored in it the deed of his house, hissavings-bank book, and his insurance policy. He carried the key inhis pocket. Fanny never opened the box, or had any curiosity aboutit, believing that she was acquainted with its contents; but nowwhen, on coming unexpectedly into the bedroom--the box was alwayskept at the head of the bed--she heard a rattle of papers, andcaught Andrew locking the box with a confused air, she began tosuspect something. She began to look hard at the box, to take it upand shake it when her husband was away. Fanny was crocheting hoodsas well as Eva. Ellen wished to learn, but her mother would notallow that. "You've got enough to do to study your lessons, " shesaid. Andrew watched his wife crochet with ill-concealed impatience. 

"I ain't goin' to have you do that long, " he said--"workin' at thatrate for no more money. That Mrs. William Pendergrass that lets outthese hoods is as bad as any factory boss in the country. "

"Well, she got the chance, " said Fanny, "and they won't let out thework except that way; they can get it done so much cheaper. "

"Well, you sha'n't have it, anyhow, " said Andrew, smilingmysteriously. 

"Why, you ain't goin' to work again, be you, Andrew?"

"You wait. "

"Well, don't you talk the way poor Jim did. Eva wasn't going tocrochet any more hoods, and now Jim's out of work again. Eva told meyesterday that she didn't know where the money was comin' from. Jim's mother owns the place, and it ain't worth much, anyhow, andthey can't take it from her in her lifetime, even if she was willingto let it go. Eva said she was goin' to try again for work herselfin the shop. She thought maybe there might be some kind of a job shecould get. Don't you talk like Jim did about his good-for-nothin'mining stock. I've been glad enough that you had sense enough tokeep what little we had where 'twas safe. "

"Ain't it most time for Ellen to be comin' home?" asked Andrew, toturn the conversation, as he felt somewhat guilty and uncomfortable, though his eyes were jubilant. He had very little doubt about thesuccess of his venture. As it is with a man who yields to love forthe first time in his life, it was with Andrew in his tardysubjection to the hazards of fortune. He was a much more devotedslave than those who had long wooed her. He had always taken nothingbut the principal newspaper published in Rowe, but now he subscribedto a Boston paper, the one which had the fullest financial column, though Fanny exclaimed at his extravagance. 

Along in midsummer, in the midst of Ellen's vacation, the miningstock dropped fast a point or more a day. Andrew's heart began tosink, though he was far from losing hope. He used to talk it overwith the men who advised him to buy, and come home fortified. 

All he had to do was to be patient; the fall meant nothing wrongwith the mine, only the wrangle of speculators. "It's like afootball, first on one side, and then on the other, " said the man, "but the football's there all the same, and if it's that you want, you're all right. "

One night when Nahum Beals and Atkins and John Sargent were in, Andrew repeated this wisdom, concealing the fact of its personalapplication. He was anxious to have some confirmation. 

"I suppose it's about so, " he said. 

Then John Sargent spoke up. "No, it is not so, " he said--"that is, not in many cases. There isn't any football--that's the trouble. There's nothing but the money; a lot of fools have paid for it whenit never existed out of their imagination. "

"About so, " said Nahum Beals. Andrew and Atkins exchanged glances. Atkins was at once sympathizing and triumphant. 

"Lots of those things appear to be doing well, and to be all right, "said Andrew, uneasily. "The directors keep saying that they are in aprosperous condition, even if the stock drops. " He almost betrayedhimself. 

John Sargent laughed that curious, inflexible laugh of his. "Lord, Iknow all about that, " said he. "I had some once. First one thing andthen another came up to hinder the working of the mine and thepayments of dividends. First there wasn't any water, anunprecedented dry season in those parts, oldest inhabitants forevidence. Then there was too much water, no way to mine except theyemployed professional divers, everything under water. Then thetransportation was to pay; then, when that was remedied, the oredidn't come out in shape to transport in the rough and had to beworked up on the premises, and new mills had to be built and newmachinery put in, and a few little Irish dividends were collectedfor that. Then when they got the mills up and the machinery in, theystruck another kind of ore that ought to be transported; then therecame a landslide and carried half the road into a cañon. So it wenton, one thing and another. If ever that darned mine had got intoworking order, right kind of ore, water enough and not too much, roads and machinery all right, and everything swimming, the Day ofJudgment would have come. "

"Did you ever get anything out of it?" inquired Andrew. 

"Anything out of it?" repeated the other. "Yes, I got enough worldlywisdom never to buy any more mining stock, after I had paidassessments on it for two years and the whole thing went to pieces. "

"It may come up yet, " said Andrew. 

"There's nothing to come up, " said John Sargent. He had been awayfrom Rowe a year, but had just returned, and was again boarding withAtkins, and all the family lived on his board money. Andrew andNahum Beals were smoking pipes. Andrew gently, like a philosopher, who smokes that he may dream; Nahum with furious jets and frequentremovals of his pipe for scowling speeches. John Sargent did notsmoke at all. He had left off cigars first, then even his pipe. Hegave the money which he saved thereby to Mrs. Atkins as a bonus onhis board money. 

The lamp burned dimly in the blue fog of tobacco smoke, and thewindows where the curtains were not drawn were blanks of silverymoonlight. Ellen sat on the doorstep outside and heard the talk. Shedid not understand it, nor take much interest in it. Their mindswere fixed upon the way of living, and hers upon life itself. Shecould bring her simplicity to bear upon the world-old question ofriches and poverty and labor, but this temporal adjunct of stocksand markets was as yet beyond her. Her mother had gone to her auntEva's and she sat alone out in the wide mystery of the summer night, watching the lovely shift of radiance and shadows, as she might havewatched the play of a kaleidoscope, seeing the beauty of the newcombinations, and seeing without comprehending the unit whichgoverned them all. The night was full of cries of insistent life andgrowth, of birds and insects, of calls of children, and now and thenthe far-away roar of railroad trains. It was nearly midsummer. Theyear was almost at its height, but had not passed it. Growth andbloom was still in the ascendant, and had not yet attained thatmaturity of perfection beyond which is the slope of death. 

Everywhere about her were the revolutions of those unseen wheels ofnature whose immortal trend is towards the completion of time, andwhose momentum can overlap the grave; and the child was within themand swept onward with the perfecting flowers, and the ripeningfruit, and the insects which were feeling their wings; and allunconsciously, in a moment as it were, she unfolded a little farthertowards her own heyday of bloom. Suddenly from those heights of theprimitive and the eternal upon which a child starts and where shestill lingered she saw her future before her, shining with newlights, and a wonderful conviction of bliss to come was over her. Itwas that conviction which comes at times to all unconquered souls, and which has the very essence of truth in it, since it overleapsthe darkness of life that lies between them and that bliss. SuddenlyEllen felt that she was born to great happiness, and all that was tocome was towards that end. Her heart beat loud in her ears. Therewas a whippoorwill calling in some trees to the left; the moon wasdim under a golden dapple of clouds. She could not feel her hands orher feet; she seemed to feel nothing except her soul. 

Then she heard, loud and sweet and clear, a boy's whistle, one ofthe popular tunes of the day. It came nearer and nearer, and it wasin the same key with the child's thoughts and dreams. Then she saw aslender figure dark against the moonlight stop at a fence, and shejumped up and ran towards it with no hesitation through the dewygrass; and it was the boy, Granville Joy. He stood looking at her. He had a handsome, eager face, and Ellen looked at him, her lipsparted, her face like a lily in the white light. 

"Hulloo, " said the boy. 

"Hulloo, " Ellen responded, faintly. 

Granville extended one rough, brown, boyish hand over the fence, andEllen laid her little, soft hand in it. He pulled her gently close, then Ellen lifted her face, and the boy bent his, and the two kissedeach other over the fence. Then the boy went on down the street, buthe did not whistle, and Ellen went back to the doorstep, and, looking about to be sure that none of the men in the sitting-roomsaw, pulled off one little shoe and drew forth a sprig ofsouthernwood, or boy's-love, which was crushed under her foot. 

That day Floretta Vining had told her that if she would put a sprigof boy's-love in her shoe, the very first boy she met would be theone she was going to marry; and Ellen, who was passing from onegrade of school to another, had tried it. 

Chapter XIV

The high-school master was a distant relative of the Lloyd's, through whom he had obtained the position. One evening when he wastaking tea with them at Cynthia Lennox's, he spoke of Ellen. "I haveone really remarkable scholar, " he said, with a curious air ofself-gratulation, as if he were principally responsible for it; "hername is Brewster--Ellen Brewster. "

"Good land! That must be the child that ran away five or six yearsago, and all the town up in arms over it, " said Mrs. Norman Lloyd. "Don't you remember, Cynthia?"

"Yes, " replied Cynthia, and continued pouring tea. Cynthia was verylittle changed. In some faces time seems to engrave linesdelicately, once for all, and then lay by. She was rather morecharming now than when one had looked at her with any expectancy ofyouth, since there was now no sense of disappointment. 

"I remember that, " said Norman Lloyd. "The child would never tellwhere she had been. A curious case. "

"Well, " said the school-master, "leaving that childish episode outof the question, she has a really remarkable mind. If she were aboy, I should advise a thorough education and a profession. I shouldas it is, if her family were able to bear the expense. She has thatintuitive order of mind which is wonderful enough, though not, afterall, so rare in a girl; but in addition she has the logical, which, according to my experience, is almost unknown in a woman. She oughtto have an education. "

"But, " said Risley, "what is the use of educating that unfortunatechild?"

"What do you mean?"

"What I say. What is the use? There she is in her sphere of life, the daughter of a factory operative, in all probability inafter-years to be the wife of one and the mother of others. Nothingbut a rich marriage can save her, and that she is not likely tomake. Milk-maids are more likely to make rich marriages than factorygirls; there is a certain savor of romance about milk, and the dewymeadows, and the breath of kine, but a shoe factory is brutallyrealistic and illusionary. Now, why do you want to increase the poorchild's horizon farther than her little feet can carry her? Fit herto be a good female soldier in the ranks of labor, to be a good wifeand mother to the makers of shoes, to wash and iron their uniformsof toil, to cook well the food which affords them the requisitenourishment to make shoes, to appreciate book-lore, which is apleasure and a profit to the makers of shoes; possibly in thenon-event of marriage she will make shoes herself. The system ofeducation in our schools is all wrong. It is both senseless andfutile. Look at the children filing past to school, and look attheir fathers, and their mothers too, filing past to the factory. Look at their present, and look at their future. And look at thetrash taught them in their text-books--trash from its utterdissociation with their lives. You might as well teach a Zululace-work, instead of the use of the assagai. "

"Now look here, Mr. Risley, " said the school-master, his faceflushing, "is not--I beg your pardon, of course--this view of yoursa little narrow and ultra-conservative? You do not want to establisha permanent factory-operative class in this country, do you? That iswhat your theory would ultimately tend towards. Ought not thesechildren be given their chance to rise in the ranks; ought they tobe condemned to tread in the same path as their fathers?"

"I would have those little paths which intersect every unoccupiedfield in this locality worn by the feet of these men and theirchildren after them unto the third and fourth generation, " saidRisley. "If not, where is our skilled labor?"

"Oh, Mr. Risley, " said Mrs. Lloyd, anxiously, "you wouldn't want allthose dear little children to work as hard as their fathers, and notdo any better, would you?"

"If they don't, who is going to make our shoes, dear Mrs. Lloyd?"asked Risley. 

Mrs. Lloyd and the school-master stared at him, and Lloyd laughedhis low, almost mirthless laugh. 

"Don't you know, Edward, " he said, "that Mr. Risley is not inearnest, and speaks with the deadly intent of an anarchist with abomb in his bag? He is the most out-and-out radical in the country. If there were a strike, and I did not yield to the demands of theoppressed, and imported foreign labor, I don't know that my lifewould be safe from him. "

"Then you do approve of a higher education?" asked theschool-master, while Mrs. Lloyd stared from one to the other inbewilderment. 

"Yes, if we and our posterity have to go barefoot, " said Risley, laughing out with a sudden undertone of seriousness. 

"I suppose everybody could get accustomed to going barefoot after awhile, " said Mrs. Lloyd. "Do you suppose that dear little thing wasbarefooted when she ran away, Cynthia?"

Risley answered as if he had been addressed. "I can vouch for thefact that she was not, Mrs. Lloyd, " he said. "They would sooner havewalked on red-hot ploughshares themselves than let her. "

"Her father is getting quite an old man, " Norman Lloyd said, with noapparent relevancy, as if he were talking to himself. 

All the time Cynthia Lennox had been quietly sitting at the head ofthe table. When the rest of the company had gone, and she and Risleywere alone, seated in the drawing-room before the parlor fire, forit was a chilly day, she turned her fair, worn face towards him onthe crimson velvet of her chair. "Do you know why I did not speakand tell them where the child was that time?" she asked. 

"Because of your own good sense?"

"No; because of you. "

He looked at her adoringly. She was older than he, her beauty ratherrecorded than still evident on her face; she had been to him fromthe first like a fair, forbidden flower behind a wall ofprohibition, but nothing could alter his habit of loving her. 

"Yes, " said she. "It was more on your account than on my own;confession would be good for the soul. The secret has always rankledin my pride. I would much rather defy opinion than fly before it. But I know that you would mind. However, there was another reason. "

"What?"

She hesitated a little and colored, even laughed a little, embarrassed laugh which was foreign to her. "Well, Lyman, " said she, finally, "one reason why I did not speak was that I see my way clearto making up to that child and her parents for any wrong which I mayhave done them by causing them a few hours' anxiety. When she hasfinished the high-school I mean to send her to college. "

Chapter XV

When Ellen was about sixteen, in her second year at the high-school, her own family never looked at her without a slight shock ofwonder, as before the unexpected. Her mates, being themselvesin the transition state, received her unquestioningly as afellow-traveller, and colored like themselves with the new lights ofthe journey. But Ellen's father and mother and grandmother neverceased regarding her with astonishment and admiration and somethinglike alarm. While they regarded Ellen with the utmost pride, theystill privately regretted this perfection of bloom which was theforerunner of independence of the parent stalk--at least, Andrewdid. Andrew had grown older and more careworn; his mine had not yetpaid any dividends, but he had scattering jobs of work, and with hiswife's assistance had managed to rub along, and his secret was stillsafe. 

One day in February there was a half-holiday. Lloyd's was shut forthe rest of the day, for his brother in St. Louis was dead, and hadbeen brought to Rowe to be buried, and his funeral was at twoo'clock. 

"Goin' to the funeral, old man?" one of Andrew's fellow-workmen hadasked, jostling him as he went out of the shop at noon. BeforeAndrew could answer, another voice broke in fiercely. It belonged toJoseph Atkins, who was ghastly that day. 

"I ain't goin' to no funerals, " he said; "guess they won't shut upshop for mine. " Then he coughed. His daughter Abby, who had beenworking in the factory for some time then, pressed close behind herfather, and the expression in her face was an echo of his. 

"When I strike, that's what I'm going to strike for--to have theshop shut up the day of my funeral, " said she; and the remark had aghastly flippancy, contradicted by her intense manner. A laugh wentaround, and a young fellow with a handsome, unshaven face caught herby the arm. 

"You'd better strike to have the shop shut up the day you'remarried, " said he; but Abby flung away from him. 

"I'll thank you to let me alone, Tom Hardy, " she said, with a snap;and the men laughed harder. 

Abby was attractive to men in spite of her smallness and leannessand incisiveness of manner. She was called mighty smart and dry, which was the shop synonym for witty, and her favors, possiblybecause she never granted them, were accounted valuable. Abby Atkinshad more admirers than many a girl who was prettier and presumablymore winning in every way, and could have married twice to theironce. But Abby had no wish for a lover. "I've got all I can do toearn my own living and the living of them that belong to me, " saidshe. 

That afternoon Andrew Brewster stayed at home. After dinner EvaTenny and her little girl came in, and Ellen went down street on anerrand. 

Mrs. Zelotes Brewster was crossing her yard to her son's house whenshe saw Ellen passing, and paused to gaze at her with that superbpride which pertains to self and is yet superior to it. It was theidealized pride of her own youth. When she proceeded again againstthe February gusts, it was with an unconscious aping of hergranddaughter's freedom of gait. Mrs. Zelotes wore an old redcashmere scarf crossed over her bosom; she held up her black skirtsin front, and they trailed pointedly in the rear; she also stoodwell back on her heels, and when she paused in the wind-swept yardpresented a curious likeness to an old robin pausing forreconnoitre. Fanny and Eva Tenny in the next house saw her coming. 

"Look at her holding up her dress in front and letting it drag inthe back, " said Eva. "It always seemed to me there was somethin'wrong about any woman that held up her dress in front and let itdrag behind. "

Eva retained all the coarse beauty of her youth, but lines ofunalterable hardness were fixed on her forehead and at her mouthcorners, and the fierce flush in her cheeks was as set as paint. Herbeauty had endured the siege; no guns of mishaps could affect it, but that charm of evanescence which awakens tenderness was gone. JimTenny's affection seemed to be waning, and Eva looked at herself inthe glass even when bedecked with tawdry finery, and owned that shedid not wonder. She strained up her hair into the latest perkinessof twist, and crimped it, and curled her feathers, and tied herribbons not as much in hope as in a stern determination to do herpart towards the furbishing of her faded star of attraction. "Jimdon't act as if he thought so much of me, an' I dun'no' as Iwonder, " she told her sister. 

Fanny looked at her critically. "You mean you ain't so good-lookin'as you used to be?" said she. 

Eva nodded. 

"Well, if that is all men care for us, " said Fanny. 

"It ain't, " said Eva, "only it's the key to it. It's like losin' thekey and not bein' able to get in the door in consequence. "

"It wa'n't my husband's key, " said Fanny, with a glance at her ownface, faded as to feature and bloom, but intensified as to love anddaily duty, like that of a dog sharpened to one faithfulness ofexistence. 

"Andrew ain't Jim, " said Eva, shortly. 

"I know he ain't, " Fanny assented, with emphasis. 

"But I wouldn't swap off my husband for a dozen of yours, " said Eva. 

"Well, I wouldn't swap off mine for a thousand of yours, " returnedFanny, sharply; and there might have been one of the old-timetussles between the sisters had not Eva's violent, half-bitter senseof humor averted it. She broke into a hard laugh. 

"Good Lord, " she said, "I dun'no' as I should want a thousand likeJim. Seems to me it would be considerable care. "

Fanny began to speak, but checked herself. She had heard rumorsregarding Jim Tenny of late and had flown fiercely with denial atthe woman who told her, and had not repeated them to her sister. 

She was thinking how she had heard that Jim had been seen driving inWenham with Aggie Morse several times lately. Aggie Morse had beenAggie Bemis, Jim's old sweetheart. She had married a well-to-domerchant in Wenham, who died six months before and left her withconsiderable property. It was her own smart little turn-out in whichshe had been seen with Jim. 

Eva was working in the shop, and Jim had been out of employment fornearly a year, and living on his wife. There was a demand for girlsand not for men just then, so Jim loafed. His old mother cared forthe house as well as she was able, and Eva did the rest nights andmornings. At first Jim had tried to help about the house-work, butEva had interfered. 

"It ain't a man's work, " said she. "Your mother can leave the hardpart of it till I get home. " Eva used to put the money she earnedsurreptitiously into her husband's pockets that he might not feelhis manly pride injured, but she defeated her own ends by her verysolicitude. Jim Tenny began to reason that his wife saw his shameand ignominious helplessness, else she would not have been soanxious to cover it. The stoop of discouragement which Eva used tofear for his shoulders did not come, but, instead, somethingworse--the defiant set-back of recklessness. He took his wife'searnings and despised himself. Whenever he paid a bill, he was surethe men in the store said, the minute his back was turned, "It's hiswife's money that paid for that. " He took to loafing on sunnycorners, and eying the passers-by with the blank impudence of regardof those outside the current of life. When his wife passed by on herway from the shop he nodded to her as if she were a stranger, andpresently followed her home at a distance. He would not be seen onthe street with her if he could avoid it. If by any chance when hewas standing on his corner of idleness his little girl came past, hemelted away imperceptibly. He could not bear it that the childshould see him standing there in that company of futility and openlyavowed inadequacy. The child was a keen-eyed, slender little girl, resembling neither father nor mother, but looking rather like herpaternal grandmother, who was a fair, attenuated woman, with anintelligence which had sharpened on herself for want of anythingmore legitimate, and worn her out by the unnatural friction. Thelittle Amabel, for Eva had been romantic in the naming of her child, was an old-fashioned-looking child in spite of Eva's carefuldecoration of the little figure in the best childish finery whichshe could muster. 

Little Amabel was reading a child's book at another window. WhenMrs. Zelotes entered she eyed her with the sharpness and inscrutableconclusions therefrom of a kitten, then turned a leaf in her book. 

When Mrs. Zelotes had greeted her daughter-in-law and Eva, shelooked with disapproval at Amabel. 

"When I was a little girl I should have been punished if I hadn'tgot up and curtsied and said good-afternoon when company came in, "she remarked, severely. 

Amabel was not a favorite outside of her own family. People used tostare aghast at her unexpected questions and demands delivered in ashrill clarion as from some summit of childish wisdom, and they saidshe was a queer child. She yielded always to command from utterhelplessness, but the why of obedience was strongly alert withinher. The child might have been in some subtle and uncanny fashionthe offspring of her age and generation instead of her naturalparents, she was so unlike either of them, and so much a product ofthe times, with her meekness and slavishness of weakness andfutility, and her unquenchable and unconquerable vitality ofdissent. 

Ellen adored the little Amabel. Presently, when she returned fromher errand down-town, she cried out with delight when she saw her;and the child ran to meet her, and clung to her, with her flaxenhead snuggled close to her cheek. Ellen caught the child up, seatedherself, and sat cuddling her as she used to cuddle her doll. 

"You dear little thing!" she murmured, "you dear little thing! Youdid come to see Ellen, didn't you?" And the child gazed up in theyoung girl's face with a rapt expression. Nothing can express theadmiration, which is almost as unquestionable as worship, of a verylittle girl for a big one. Amabel loved her mother with a ratherunusual intensity for a child, but Ellen was what she herself wouldbe when she was grown up. Through Ellen her love of self and herambition budded into blossom. Ellen could do nothing wrong becauseshe did what she herself would do when she was grown. She neverquestioned Ellen for her reasons. 

Mrs. Zelotes kept looking at the two, with pride in Ellen anddisapproval of her caresses of the child. "Seems to me you mightspeak to your own folks as well as to have no eyes for anybody butthat child, " she said, finally. 

"Why, grandma, I spoke to you just a little while ago, " returnedEllen. "You know I saw you just a few minutes before I wentdown-town. " Ellen straightened the child on her knees, and began totry to twist her soft, straight flaxen locks into curls. Andrewlounged in from the kitchen and sat down and regarded Ellen fondly. The girl's cheeks were a splendid color from her walk in the coldwind, her hair around her temples caught the light from the window, and seemed to wreathe her head with a yellow flame. She tossed thechild about with lithe young arms, whose every motion suggestedreserves of tender strength. Ellen was more beautiful than she hadever been before, and yet something was gone from her face, thoughonly temporarily, since the lines for the vanished meaning was stillthere. All the introspection and dreaminess and poetry of her facewere gone, for the girl was, for the time, overbalanced on thephysical side of her life. The joy of existence for itself alone wasintoxicating her. The innocent frivolities of her sex had seized hertoo, and the instincts which had not yet reached her brain nor gonefarther than her bounding pulses of youth. "Ellen is getting realfond of dress, " Fanny often said to Andrew. He only laughed at that. "Well, pretty birds like pretty feathers, and no wonder, " said he. But he did not laugh when Fanny added that Ellen seemed to thinkmore about the boys than she used to. There was scarcely a boy inthe high-school who was not Ellen's admirer. It was a curioushappening in those days when Ellen was herself in much less degreethe stuff of which dreams are made than she had been and would bethereafter, that she was the object of so many. Every morning whenshe entered the school-room she was reflected in a glorious multipleof ideals in no one could tell how many boyish hearts. FlorettaVining began to imitate her, and kept close to Ellen with supremestdiplomacy, that she might thereby catch some of the crumbs ofattention which fell from Ellen's full table. Often when some happyboy had secured a short monopoly of Ellen, his rival took up withFloretta, and she was content, being one of those purely femininethings who have no pride when the sweets of life are concerned. Floretta dressed her hair like Ellen's, and tied her neck-ribbonsthe same way; she held her head like her, she talked like her, except when the two girls were absolutely alone; then she sometimesrelapsed suddenly, to Ellen's bewilderment, into her own ways, andher blue eyes took on an expression as near animosity as heringratiating politic nature could admit. 

Ellen did not affiliate as much with Floretta as with Maria Atkins. Abby had gone to work in the shop, and so Ellen did not see so muchof her. Maria was not as much a favorite with the boys as she hadbeen since they had passed and not yet returned to that stage whenfeminine comradeship satisfies; so Ellen used to confide in her witha surety of sympathy and no contention. Once, when the girls weresleeping together, Ellen made a stupendous revelation to Maria, having first bound her to inviolable secrecy. "I love a boy, " saidshe, holding Maria's little arm tightly. 

"I know who, " said Maria, with a hushed voice. 

"He kissed me once, and then I knew it, " said Ellen. 

"Well, I guess he loves you, " said Maria. Ellen shivered and drew afluttering sigh of assent. Then the two girls lay in each other'sarms, looking at the moonlight which streamed in through the window. God knew in what realms of pure romance, and of passion sosublimated by innocence that no tinge of earthliness remained, thetwo wandered in their dreams. 

At last, that afternoon in February, Ellen put down little Amabeland got out her needle-work. She was making a lace neck-tie for herown adornment. She showed it to her grandmother at her mother'scommand. "It's real pretty, " said Mrs. Zelotes. "Ellen takes afterthe Brewsters; they were always handy with their needles. "

"Can uncle sew?" asked little Amabel, suddenly, from her corner, ina tone big with wonder. 

Eva and the others chuckled, but Mrs. Zelotes eyed the childseverely. "Little girls shouldn't ask silly questions, " said she. 

Andrew passed his hand with a rough caress over the small flaxenhead. "Uncle Andrew can't sew anything but shoes, " said he. 

Little Amabel's question had aroused in Mrs. Zelotes a carpingspirit even against Ellen. Presently she turned to her. "I heardsomething about you, " said she. "I want to know if it is true. Iheard that you were walking home from school with that Joy boy oneday last week. " Ellen looked at her grandmother without flinching, though the pink was over her face and neck. 

"Yes'm, I did, " said she. 

"Well, I think it's about time it was put a stop to, " said Mrs. Zelotes. "That Joy boy!"

Then Fanny lost her temper. "I can manage my own daughter, GrandmaBrewster, " said she, "and I'll thank you to attend to your ownaffairs. "

"You don't seem to know enough to manage her, " retorted Mrs. Zelotes, "if you let her go traipsin' round with that Joy boy. "

The warfare waged high for a time. Andrew withdrew to the kitchen. Ellen took little Amabel up in her own chamber and showed her herbeautiful doll, which looked not a day older, so carefully had shebeen cherished, than when she first had her. Ellen felt bothresentment and shame, and also a fierce dawning of partisanshiptowards Granville Joy. "Why should my grandmother speak of him soscornfully?" she asked herself. "He is a real good boy. "

That night was very cold, a night full of fierce white glitter offrost and moonlight, and raging with a turbulence of winds. Ellenlay awake listening to them. Presently between the whistle of thewind she heard another, a familiar pipe from a boyish throat. Shesprang out of bed and peeped from her window, and there was a dark, slight figure out in the yard, and he was looking up at her window, whistling. Shame, and mirth, and also exultation, which overpoweredthem both, stirred within the child's breast. She had read of thingslike this. Here was her boy lover coming out this bitter night justfor the sake of looking up at her window. She adored him for it. Then she heard a window raised with a violent rasp across the yard, and saw her grandmother's night-capped head thrust forth. She heardher shrill, imperious voice call out quite distinctly, "Boy, who beyou?"

The lovelorn whistler ceased his pipe, and evidently, had heconsulted his own discretion, would have shown a pair of flyingheels, but he walked bravely up to the window and the night-cappedhead and replied. Ellen could not hear what he said, but shedistinguished plainly enough her grandmother's concluding remarks. 

"Go home, " cried Mrs. Zelotes; "go home just as fast as you can andgo to bed. Go home!" Mrs. Zelotes made a violent shooting motionwith her hands and her white head as if he were a cat, and GranvilleJoy obeyed. However, Ellen heard his brave, retreating whistle fardown the road. She went back to bed, and lay awake with a fervor ofyoung love roused into a flame by opposition swelling high in herheart. But the next afternoon, after school, Ellen, to GranvilleJoy's great bliss and astonishment, insinuated herself, through thecrowd of out-going scholars, close to him, and presently, had he notbeen so incredulous, for he was a modest boy, he would have said itwas by no volition of his own that he found himself walking down thestreet with her. And when they reached his house, which was onlyhalf-way to her own, she looked at him with such a wistful surpriseas he motioned to leave her that he could not mistake it, and hewalked on at her side quite to her own house. Granville Joy was agentle boy, young for his age, which was a year more than Ellen's. He had a face as gentle as a girl's, and really beautiful. Women allloved him, and the school-girls raised an admiring treble chorus inhis praise whenever his name was spoken. He was saved fromeffeminacy by nervous impulses which passed for sustained manlydaring. "He once licked a boy a third bigger than he was, and youneedn't call him sissy, " one girl said once to a decrying friend. To-day, as the boy and girl neared Mrs. Zelotes's house, Granvillewas conscious of an inward shrinking before the remembrance of theterrible old lady. He expected every minute to hear the gratingupward slide of the window and that old voice, which had in it aterrible intimidation of feminine will. Granville had a mother asgentle as himself, and a woman with the strength of her ownconviction upon her filled him with awe as of something anomalous. He wondered uneasily what he should do if the old lady were to hailhim and call him to an account again, whether it would be a moremanly course to face her, or obey, since she was Ellen'sgrandmother. He kept an uneasy eye upon the house, and presently, when he saw the stern old face at the window, he quailed a little. But Ellen for the first time in her life took his arm, and the twomarched past under the fire of Mrs. Zelotes's gaze. Ellen hadretaliated, not nobly, but as naturally under the conditions of herlife at that time as the branch of a tree blows east before the westwind. 

[Illustration: He found himself walking home from school with her]

Chapter XVI

Ellen, when she graduated, was openly pronounced the flower of herclass. Not a girl equalled her, not a boy surpassed her. When Ellencame home one night about two months before her graduation, andannounced that she was to have the valedictory, such a light of purejoy flashed over her mother's face that she looked ten yearsyounger. 

"Well, I guess your father will be pleased enough, " she said. Shewas hard at work, finishing women's wrappers of cheap cotton. Thehood industry had failed some time before, since the hoods had goneout of fashion. The same woman had taken a contract to supply alarge firm with wrappers, and employed many in the neighborhood, paying them the smallest possible prices. This woman was a usurer ona scale so pitiful and petty that it almost condoned usury. Sometimes a man on discovering the miserable pittance for which hiswife toiled during every minute which she could snatch from herhousehold duties and the care of her children, would inveigh againstit. "That woman is cheating you, " he would say, to be met with theargument that she herself was only making ten cents on a wrapper. Looked at in that light, the wretched profit of the workers did notseem so out of proportion. It was usury in a nutshell, soinfinitesimal as almost to escape detection. Fanny worked everyminute which she could secure on these wrappers--the ungainly, slatternly home-gear of other poor women. There was an air ofdejected femininity and slipshod drudgery about every fold of one ofthem when it was hung up finished. Fanny used to keep them on a rowof hooks in her bedroom until a dozen were completed, when shecarried them to her employer, and Ellen used to look at them with asense of depression. She imagined worn, patient faces of the sistersof poverty above the limp collars, and poor, veinous hands danglingfrom the clumsy sleeves. 

Fanny would never allow Ellen to assist her in this work, though shebegged hard to do so. "Wait till you get out of school, " said she. "You've got enough to do while you are in school. "

When Ellen told her about the valedictory, Fanny was so overjoyedthat she lost sight of her work, and sewed in the sleeves wrong. "There, only see what you have made me do!" she cried, laughing withdelight at her own folly. "Only see, you have made me sew in boththese sleeves wrong. You are a great child. Another time you hadbetter keep away with your valedictories till I get my wrapperfinished. " Ellen looked up from the book which she had taken. 

"Let me rip them out for you, mother, " she said. 

"No, you keep on with your study--it won't take me but a minute. Idon't know what your father will say. It is a great honor to bechosen to write the valedictory out of that big class. I guess yourfather will be pleased. "

"I hope I can write a good one, " said Ellen. 

"Well, if you can't, I'd give up my beat, " said the mother, lookingat her with enthusiasm, and speaking with scornful chiding. "Whydon't you go over and tell your grandmother Brewster? She'll betickled 'most to death. "

Ellen had not been gone long when Andrew came home, coming into theyard, bent as if beneath some invisible burden of toil. Just then hehad work, but not in Lloyd's. He had grown too old for Lloyd's, andhad been discharged long ago. 

He had so far been able to conceal from Fanny the fact that he hadwithdrawn all his little savings to invest in that mining stock. Thestock had not yet come up, as he had expected. He very seldom had acircular reporting progress nowadays. When he did have one in thepost-office his heart used to stand still until he had torn open theenvelope and read it. It was uniformly not so hopeful as formerly, while speciously apologetic. Andrew still had faith, although hisheart was sick with its long deferring. He could not actuallybelieve that all his savings were gone, sunken out of sight foreverin this awful shaft of miscalculation and misfortune. What hedreaded most was that Fanny should find out, as she would have towere he long out of employment. 

Andrew, when he entered the house on his return from work, had cometo open a door into the room where his wife was, with a deprecatingand apologetic air. He gained confidence when, after a few minutes, the sore subject had not been broached. 

To-night, as usual, when he came into the sitting-room where Fannywas sewing it was with a sidelong glance of uneasy deprecationtowards her, and an attempt to speak easily, as if he had nothing onhis mind. 

"Pretty warm day, " he began, but his wife cut him short. She facedaround towards him beaming, her work--a pink wrapper--slid from herlap to the floor. 

"What do you think, Andrew?" she said. "What do you s'pose hashappened? Guess. " Andrew laughed gratefully, and with the greatestalacrity. Surely this was nothing about mining-stocks, unless, indeed, she had heard, and the stocks had gone up, but that seemedto much like the millennium. He dismissed that from his mind beforeit entered. He stood before her in his worn clothes. He always worea collar and a black tie, and his haggard face was carefully shaven. Andrew was punctiliously neat, on Ellen's account. He was alwaysthinking, suppose he should meet Ellen coming home from school, withsome young ladies whose fathers were rich and did not have to workin the shop, how mortified she might feel if he looked shabby andunkempt. 

"Guess, Andrew, " she said. 

"What is it?" said Andrew. 

"Oh, you guess. "

"I don't see what it can be, Fanny. "

"Well, Ellen has got the valedictory. What's the matter with you? Beyou deaf? Ellen has got the valedictory out of all them girls andboys. "

"She has, has she?" said Andrew. He dropped into a chair and lookedat his wife. There was something about the intense interchange ofconfidence of delight between these two faces of father and motherwhich had almost the unrestraint of lunacy. Andrew's jaw fairlydropped with his smile, which was a silent laugh rather than asmile; his eyes were wild with delight. "She has, has she?" he keptrepeating. 

"Yes, she has, " said Fanny. She tossed her head with an incomparablepride; she coughed a little, affected cough. "I s'pose you know whata compliment it is?" said she. "It means that she's smarter than allthem boys and girls--the smartest one in her whole class. "

"Yes, I s'pose it does, " said Andrew. "So she has got it! Well!"

"There she comes now, " said Fanny, "and Grandma Brewster. "

Andrew borrowed money to buy a gold watch and chain for a graduatinggift for his daughter. He would scarcely have essayed anything quiteso magnificent, but Fanny innocently tempted him. The two had beensitting in the door in the cool of the evening, one day in June, about two weeks before the graduation, and had just watched Ellen'slight muslin skirts flutter out of sight. She had gone down-town topurchase some ribbon for her graduating dress--she and FlorettaVining, who had come over to accompany her. "I feel kind of anxiousto have her have something pretty when she graduates, " Fanny said, speaking as if she were feeling her way into a mind of opposition. Neither she nor Andrew had ever owned a watch, and the scheme seemedto her breathless with magnificence. 

"Yes, she ought to have something pretty, " agreed Andrew. 

"I don't want her to feel ashamed when she sees the other girls'presents, " said Fanny. 

"That's so, " assented Andrew. 

"Well, " said Fanny, "I've been thinkin'--"

"What?"

"Well, I've been thinkin' that--of course your mother is goin' togive her the dress, and that's all, of course, and it's a realhandsome present. I ain't sayin' a word against that; but thereain't anybody else to give her much except us. Poor Eva 'd like to, but she can't; it takes all she earns, since Jim's out of work, andI don't know what she's goin' to do. So that leaves nobody but us, and I've been thinkin'--I dun'no' what you'll say, Andrew, but I'vebeen thinkin'--s'pose you took a little money out of the bank, and--got Ellen--a watch. " Fanny spoke the last word in a faintwhisper. She actually turned pale in the darkness. 

"A watch?" repeated Andrew. 

"Yes, a watch. I've always wanted Ellen to have a gold watch andchain. I've always thought she could, and so she could if you hadn'tbeen out of work so much. "

"Yes, she could, " said Andrew--"a watch and mebbe a piano. I thoughtI'd be back in Lloyd's before now. Well, mebbe I shall before long. They say there's better times comin' by fall. "

"Well, Ellen will be graduated by that time, " said Fanny, "and sheought to have the watch now if she's ever goin' to. She'll neverthink so much of it. Floretta Vining is goin' to have a watch, too. Mrs. Cross says her mother told her so; said Mr. Vining had it allbought--a real handsome one. I don't believe Sam Vining can affordto buy a gold watch. I don't believe it is all gold, for my part. They 'ain't got as much as we have, if Sam has had work steadier. Idon't believe it's gold. I don't want Ellen to have a watch at allunless it's a real good one. It seems to me you'd better take alittle money out and buy her one, Andrew. "

"Well, I'll see, " said Andrew. He had a terrible sense of guiltbefore Fanny. Suppose she knew that there was no money at all in thebank to take out?

"Well, I'll buy her one if you say so, " said he, in a curious, slow, stern voice. In his heart was a fierce rising of rebellion, that he, hard-working and frugal and self-denying all his life, should bedenied the privilege of buying a present for his darling withoutresorting to deception, and even almost robbery. He did not at thatminute blame himself in the least for his misadventure with hismining stock. Had not the same relentless Providence driven him tothat also? His weary spirit took for the first time a poise of utterself-righteousness in opposition to this Providence, and heblasphemed in his inner closet of self, before the face of the Lord, as he comprehended it. 

"Well, I have a sort of set my heart on it, " said Fanny. 

"She shall have the watch, " repeated Andrew, and his voice wasfairly defiant. 

After Fanny had gone into the house and lighted her lamp, andresumed work on her wrapper, Andrew still sat on the step in thecool evening. There was a full moon, and great masses of shadowsseemed to float and hover and alight on the earth with a giganticbrooding as of birds. The trees seemed redoubled in size from thesoft indetermination of the moonlight which confused shadow andlight, and deceived the eye as with soft loomings out of falsedistances. There was a tall pine, grown from a sapling since Ellen'schildhood, and that looked more like a column of mist than a tree, but the Norway spruces clove the air sharply like silhouettes inink, and outlined their dark profiles clearly against the silverradiance. 

To Andrew, looking at it all, came the feeling of a traveller whopasses all scenes whether of joy or woe, being himself in hispassing the one thing which remains, and somehow he got from it anenormous comfort. 

"We're all travellin' along, " he said aloud, in a strained, solemnvoice. 

"What did you say, Andrew?" Fanny called from the open window. 

"Nothin', " replied Andrew. 

Chapter XVII

Ellen had always had objective points, as it were, in her life, andshe always would have, no matter how long she lived. She came toplaces where she stopped mentally, for retrospection andforethought, wherefrom she could seem to obtain a view of that whichlay behind, and of the path which was set for her feet in advance. She saw the tracked and the trackless. Once, going with Abby Atkinsand Floretta in search of early spring flowers, Ellen had lingeredand let them go out of sight, and had sat down on a springing mat ofwintergreen leaves under the windy outstretch of a great pine, andhad remained there quite deaf to shrill halloos. She had sat therewith eyes of inward scrutiny like an Eastern sage's, motionless ason a rock of thought, while her daily life eddied around her. Ellen, sitting there, had said to herself: "This I will always remember. Nomatter how long I live, where I am, and what happens to me, I willalways remember how I was a child, and sat here this morning inspring under the pine-tree, looking backward and forward. I willnever forget. "

When, finally, Abby and Floretta had run back, and spied her there, they had stared half frightened. "You ain't sick, are you, Ellen?"asked Abby, anxiously. 

"What are you sitting there for?" asked Floretta. 

Ellen had replied that she was not sick, and had risen and run on, looking for flowers, but the flowers for her bloomed always againsta background of the past, and nodded with forward flings offragrance into the future; for the other children, who were whollyof their own day and generation, they bloomed in the simple light oftheir own desire of possession. They picked only flowers, but Ellenpicked thoughts, and they kept casting bewildered side-glances ather, for the look which had come into her eyes as she sat beneaththe pine-tree lingered. 

It was as if a rose had a second of self-consciousness between thebud and the blossom; a bird between its mother's brooding and thesong. She had caught sight of the innermost processes of things, ofher wheels of life. 

Ellen waked up on that June morning, and the old sensation of apause before advance was upon her, and the strange solemnity whichwas almost a terror, from the feeble clutching of her mind at thecomprehension of infinity. She looked at the morning sunlight comingbetween the white slants of her curtains, an airy flutter of her newdress from the closet, her valedictory, tied with a white satinribbon, on the stand, and she saw quite plainly all which had led upto this, and to her, Ellen Brewster; and she saw also theinevitableness of its passing, the precious valedictory being laidaway and buried beneath a pile of future ones; she saw the crowd offuture valedictorians advancing like a flock of white doves in theirwhite gowns, when hers was worn out, and its beauty gone, pressingforward, dimming her to her own vision. She saw how she would cometo look calmly and coldly upon all that filled her with such joy andexcitement to-day; how the savor of the moment would pass from hertongue, and she said to herself that she would always remember thismoment. 

Then suddenly--since she had in herself an impetus of motion whichnothing, not even reflection, could long check--she saw quiteplainly a light beyond, after all this should have passed, and theleaping power of her spirit to gain it. And then, since she washealthy, and given only at wide intervals to these Eastern lapses ofconsciousness from the present, she was back in her day, and aliveto all its importance as a part of time. 

She felt the bounding elation of tossing on the crest of her wave ofsuccess, and the full rainbow glory of it dazzled her eyes. She wasfirst in her class, she was valedictorian, she had a beautifuldress, she was young, she was first. It is a poor spirit, and oneincapable of courage in defeat, who feels not triumph in victory. Ellen was triumphant and confident. She had faith in herself and thelove and approbation of everybody. 

When she was seated with her class on the stage in the city hall, where the graduating exercises were held, she saw herself just asshe looked, and it was with a satisfaction which had nothing weaklyin its vein, and smiled radiantly and innocently at herself as seenin this mirror of love and appreciation of all who knew her. 

[Illustration: The valedictory]

When the band stopped playing, and Ellen, who as valedictorian camelast as the crown and capsheaf of it all, stepped forward from thesemicircle of white-clad girls and seriously abashed boys, there wasa subdued murmur and then a hush all over the hall. Andrew and Fannyand the grandmother, seated directly in front of the stage--for theyhad come early to secure good seats--heard whispers of admiration onevery side. It was admiration with no dissent--such jealous ears astheirs could not be deceived. Fanny's face was blazing with thesweet shame of pride in her child; Andrew was pale; the grandmothersat as if petrified, with a proud toss of her head. They lookedstraight ahead; they dared not encounter each other's eyes, for theywere more self-conscious than Ellen. They felt the attention of thewhole assembly upon them. Andrew was conscious of feeling ill andfaint. His own joy seemed to overwhelm him. He forgot his stocks, heforgot his borrowed money, he forgot Lloyd's; he was perfectly happyat the sight of that beautiful young creature of his own heart, whowas preferred before all others in the sight of the whole city. Intruth, there was about Ellen a majesty and nobility of youth andinnocence and beauty which overawed. The other girls of the classwere as young and as pretty, but none of them had that indescribablequality which seemed to raise her above them all. Ellen still kepther blond fairness, but there was nothing of the doll-like whichoften characterizes the blond type. Although she was small, Ellen'scolor had the firmness and unwavering of tinted marble; she carriedher crown of yellow braids as if it had been gold; she moved andlooked and spoke with decision. The violent and intense temperamentwhich she had inherited from two sides of her family hadcrystallized in her to something more forcible, but also moreimpressive. However, she was, after all, only a young girl, scarcelymore than a child, whatever her principle of underlying charactermight be, and when she stood there before them all--all hertownspeople who represented her world, the human shore upon whichher own little individuality beat--when she saw those attentivefaces, row upon row, all fixed upon her, she felt her heart poundagainst her side; she had no sensation of the roll of paper in herhand; an awful terror as of suddenly discovered depths came overher, as the wild clapping of hands to which her appearance had givenrise died away. Ellen stood still, holding the valedictory as if ithad been a stick. A little wondering murmur began to be heard. Andrew felt as if he were dying. Fanny gripped his arm hard. Mrs. Zelotes had the look of one about to spring. Ellen had the terriblesensation which has in it a nightmare of inability to move, alliedwith the intensest consciousness. She knew that she was to read hervaledictory, she knew that she must raise that white-ribboned rolland read, or else be disgraced forever, and yet she was powerless. But suddenly some compelling glance seemed to arouse her from thislock of nerve and muscle; she raised her eyes, and Cynthia Lennox, on the farther side of the hall, was gazing full at her with anindescribable gaze of passion and help and command. Her own mother'slook could not have influenced her. Ellen raised her valedictory, bowed, and began to read. Andrew looked so pale that people nudgedone another to look at him. Mrs. Zelotes settled back, relaxingstiffly from her fierce attitude. Fanny wiped her forehead with acheap lace-bordered handkerchief. There was a stifled sob fartherback, that came from Eva Tenny, who sat back on account of a breakacross the shoulders in the back of her silk dress. Amabel, anæmicand eager in a little, tawdry, cheap muslin frock, sat beside her, with worshipful eyes on Ellen. "What ailed her?" she whispered, hitting her mother with a sharp little elbow. "Hush up!" whisperedEva, angrily, surreptitiously wiping her eyes. In front, directly inher line of vision, sat the woman of whom she was jealous--the youngwidow, who had been Aggie Bemis, arrayed in a handsome India silkand a flower-laden hat. Eva's hat was trimmed with a draggledfeather and a bunch of roses which she had tried to color withaniline dye. When she got home that night she tore the feather outof the hat and flung it across the room. She wished to do it thatafternoon every time she looked at the other woman's roses againstthe smooth knot of her brown hair, and that repressed impulse, withher alarm at Ellen's silence, had made her almost hysterical. WhenEllen's clear young voice rose and filled the hall she calmedherself. Ellen had not folded back her first page with a flutter ofthe white satin ribbons before people began to sit straight andstare at each other incredulously. The subject of the valedictory, as well as those of the other essays, had been allotted, and Ellen'shad been "Equality, " and she had written a most revolutionaryvaledictory. Ellen had written with a sort of poetic fire, and, crude as it all was, she might have had the inspiration of a Shelleyor a Chatterton as she stood there, raising her fearless young frontover the marshalling of her sentiments on the smooth sheets offoolscap. Her voice, once started, rang out clear and full. She hadhesitated at nothing, she flung all castes into a common heap ofequality with her strong young arms, and she set them all on onelevel of the synagogue. She forced the employer and his employé toone bench of service in the grand system of things; she gave thelaborer, and the laborer only, the reward of labor. As Ellen went onreading calmly, with the steadfastness of one promulgatingprinciples, not the excitement of one carried away by enthusiasm, she began to be interrupted by applause, but she read on, neverwavering, her clear voice overcoming everything. She was quiteinnocently throwing her wordy bomb to the agitation of publicsentiment. She had no thought of such an effect. She was statingwhat she believed to be facts with her youthful dogmatism. She hadno fear lest the facts strike too hard. The school-master's facegrew long with dismay; he sat pulling his mustache in a fashion hehad when disturbed. He glanced uneasily now and then at Mr. Lloyd, and at another leading manufacturer who was present. The othermanufacturer sat quite stolid and unsmiling beside a fidgeting wife, who presently arose and swept out with a loud rustle of silks. Shelooked back once and beckoned angrily to her husband, but he did notstir. He was on the school-board. The school-master trembled when hesaw that imperturbable face of storing recollection before him. Mr. Lloyd leaned towards Lyman Risley, who sat beside him and whisperedand laughed. It was quite evident that he did not consider theflight of this little fledgling in the face of things seriously. Buteven he, as Ellen's clearly delivered sentiments grew more and moredefined--almost anarchistic--became a little grave in spite of theabsurd incongruity between them and the girlish lips. Once he lookedin some wonder at the school-teacher as much as to say, "Why did youpermit this?" and the young man pulled his mustache harder. 

When Ellen finished and made her bow, such a storm of applause aroseas had never before been heard at a high-school exhibition. Theaudience was for the most part composed of factory employés andtheir families, as most of the graduates were of that class of thecommunity. Many of them were of foreign blood, people who had cometo the country expecting the state of things advocated in Ellen'svaledictory, and had remained more or less sullen and dissenting atthe non-fulfilment of their expectation. One tall Swede, with alurid flashing of blue eyes under a thick, blond thatch, led therenewed charges of applause. Red spots came on his cheeks, gauntwith high cheekbones; his cold Northern blood was up. He stoodupreared against a background of the crowd under the balcony; hestamped when the applause died low; then it swelled again and againlike great waves. The Swede brandished his long arms, he shouted, others echoed him. Even the women hallooed in a frenzy of applause, they clapped their hands, they stood up in their seats. Only a fewsat silent and contemptuous through all the enthusiasm. ThomasBriggs, the manufacturer, was one of them. He sat like a rock, hisgreat, red, imperturbable face of dissent fixed straight ahead. Mrs. Lloyd clapped wildly, on account of the girl who had read thevaledictory. She had slept through the greater part of it, for itwas very warm, and the heat always made her drowsy. She kept leaningtowards Cynthia as she clapped, and asking in a loud whisper if shewasn't sweet. Cynthia did not applaud, but her delicate face waspale with emotion. Lyman Risley, beside her, was clappingenergetically. "She may have a bomb somewhere concealed among thoseribbons and frills, " he said to Lloyd when the applause was waxingloudest, and Lloyd laughed. 

As for Ellen, when the storm of applause burst at her feet, shestood still for a moment bewildered. Then she bowed again and turnedto go, then the compelling uproar brought her back. She stood therequite piteous in her confusion. This was too much triumph, and, moreover, she had not the least idea of the true significance of itall. She was like a chemist who had brought together, quiteignorantly and unwittingly, the two elements of an explosive. Shethought that her valedictory must have been well done, that theyliked it, and that was all. She had no sooner finished reading thanthe ushers began in the midst of the storm of applause to approachthe stage with her graduating presents. They were laden with greatbouquets and baskets of flowers, with cards conspicuously attachedto most of them. Cynthia Lennox had sent a basket of roses. Ellentook it on her arm, and wondered when she saw the name attached tothe pink satin bow on the handle. She did not look again towardsCynthia since the old impulse of concealment on her account cameover her. Ellen had great boxes of candy from her boy admirers, that being a favorite token of young affection upon such occasions. She had a gift-book from her former school-teacher, and aninety-eight-cent gilded vase from Eva and Amabel, who had beensaving money to buy it. She heard a murmur of admiration when shehad finally reached her seat, after the storm of applause had atlast subsided, and she unrolled the packages with trembling fingers. 

"My, ain't that handsome!" said Floretta, pressing her muslin-cladshoulder against Ellen's. "My, didn't they clap you, Ellen! What'sthat in that package?"

The package contained Ellen's new watch and chain. Floretta hadalready received hers, and it lay in its case on her lap. Ellenlooked at the package, not hearing in the least the Baptist ministerwho had taken his place on the stage, and was delivering an address. She had felt her aunt Eva's and Amabel's eager eyes on her when sheunrolled the gaudy vase; now she felt her father's and mother's. Thesmall, daintily tied package was inscribed "Ellen Brewster, fromFather and Mother. "

"Why don't you open it?" came in her ear from Floretta. Maria wasleaning forward also, over her lapful of carnations which JohnSargent had presented to her. 

"Why don't she open it?" she whispered to Floretta. They were allquite oblivious of the speaker, who moved nervously back and forthin front of them, so screening them somewhat from the observation ofthe audience. Still Ellen hesitated, looking at the little packageand feeling her father's and mother's eyes on her face. 

Finally she untied the cord and took out the jeweller's case fromthe wrapping-paper. "My, you've got one too, I bet!" whisperedFloretta. Ellen opened the box, and gazed at her watch and chain;then she glanced at her father and mother down in the audience, andthe three loving souls seemed to meet in an ineffable solitude inthe midst of the crowd. All three faces were pale--Ellen's began toquiver. She felt Floretta's shoulder warm through her thin sleeveagainst hers. 

"My! you've got one--I said so, " she whispered. "It isn't chased asmuch as mine, but it's real handsome. My, Ellen Brewster, you ain'tgoing to cry before all these people!"

Ellen smiled against a sob, and she gave her head a defiant toss. Down in the audience Fanny had her handkerchief to her eyes, andAndrew sat looking sternly at the speaker. Ellen said to herselfthat she would not cry--she would not, but she sat gazing down ather flower-laden lap and the presents. The golden disk under herfixed eyes waxed larger and larger, until it seemed to fill herwhole comprehension as with a golden light of a suffering, self-denying love which was her best reward of life and labor on theearth. 

Chapter XVIII

After the exhibition there was a dance. The Brewsters, even Mrs. Zelotes, remained to see the last of Ellen's triumph. Mrs. Zeloteswas firmly convinced that Ellen's appearance excelled any one's inthe hall. Not a girl swung past them in the dance but she eyed herwhite dress scornfully, then her rosy face, and sniffed with highnostrils like an old war-horse. "Jest look at that Vining girl'sdress, coarse enough to strain through, " she said to Fanny, leaningacross Andrew, who was sitting rapt, his very soul dancing with hisdaughter, his eyes never leaving her one second, following her fairhead and white flutter of muslin ruffles and ribbons around thehall. 

"Yes, that's so, " assented Fanny, but not with her usual sharpness. A wistful softness and sweetness was on her coarsely handsome face. Once she reached her hand over Andrew's and pressed it, and blushedcrimson as she did so. Andrew turned and smiled at her. All thatannoyed Andrew was that Ellen danced with Granville Joy often, andalso with other boys. It disturbed him a little, even while itdelighted him, that she should dance at all, that she should havelearned to dance. Andrew had been brought up to look upon dancing asan amusement for Louds rather than for Brewsters. It had not been invogue among the aristocracy of this little New England city when hewas young. 

Mrs. Zelotes watched Ellen dance with inward delight and outwarddisapproval. "I don't approve of dancing, never did, " she said toAndrew, but she was furious once when Ellen sat through a dance. Towards the end of the evening she saw with sudden alertness Ellendancing with a new partner, a handsome young man, who carriedhimself with more assurance than the school-boys. Mrs. Zelotes hitAndrew with her sharp elbow. 

"Who's that dancing with her now?" she said. 

"That's young Lloyd, " answered Andrew. He flushed a little, andlooked pleased. 

"Norman Lloyd's nephew?" asked his mother, sharply. 

"Yes, he's on here from St. Louis. He's goin' into business with hisuncle, " replied Andrew. "Sargent was telling me about it yesterday. Young Lloyd came into the post-office while we were there. " Fannyhad been listening. Immediately she married Ellen to young Lloyd, and the next moment she went to live in a grand new house built in atwinkling in a vacant lot next to Norman Lloyd's residence, whichwas the wonder of the city. She reared this castle in Spain withinconceivable swiftness, even while she was turning her head towardsEva on the other side, and prodding her with an admonishing elbow asMrs. Zelotes had prodded Andrew. "That's Norman Lloyd's nephewdancing with her now, " she said. Eva looked at her, smiling. Directly the idea of Ellen's marriage with the young man with whomshe was dancing established full connections and ran through theline of Ellen's relatives as though an electric wire. 

As for Ellen, dancing with this stranger, who had been introduced toher by the school-master, she certainly had no thought of a possiblemarriage with him, but she had looked into his face with a curious, ready leap of sympathy and understanding of this other soul whichshe met for the first time. It seemed to her that she must haveknown him before, but she knew that she had not. She began toreflect as they were whirling about the hall, she gazed at thatsecret memory of hers, which she had treasured since her childhood, and discovered that what had seemed familiar to her about the youngman was the face of a familiar thought. Ever since Miss CynthiaLennox had told her about her nephew, the little boy who had ownedand loved the doll, Ellen had unconsciously held the thought of himin her mind. "You are Miss Cynthia Lennox's nephew, " she said toyoung Lloyd. 

"Yes, " he replied. He nodded towards Cynthia, who was sitting on theopposite side from the Brewsters, with the Norman Lloyds and LymanRisley. "She used to be like a mother to me, " he said. "You know Ilost my mother when I was a baby. "

Ellen nodded at him with a look of pity of that marvellous scopewhich only a woman in whom the maternal slumbers ready to awake cancompass. Ellen, looking at the handsome face of the young man, sawquite distinctly in it the face of the little motherless child, andall the tender pity which she would have felt for that child was inher eyes. 

"What a beautiful girl she is, " thought the young man. He smiled ather admiringly, loving her look at him, while not in the leastunderstanding it. He had asked to be presented to Ellen fromcuriosity. He had not been at the exhibition, and had heard theschool-master and Risley talking about the valedictory. "I didn'tknow that you taught anarchy in school, Mr. Harris, " Risley hadsaid. He laughed as he said it, but Harris had colored with anuneasy look at Norman Lloyd, whose face wore an expression ofamusement. "Perhaps I should have, " he began, but Lloyd interruptedhim. "My dear fellow, " he said, "you don't imagine that any man inhis senses could take seriously enough to be annoyed by it thatchild's effusion on her nice little roll of foolscap tied with herpretty white satin ribbon?"

"She is just as sweet as she can be, " said Mrs. Norman, "and Ithought her composition was real pretty. Didn't you, Cynthia?"

"Very, " replied Cynthia. 

"What your are worrying about it for, Edward, I don't see, " saidMrs. Norman to the school-master. 

"Well, I am glad if it struck you that way, " said he, "but when Iheard the applause from all those factory people"--he lowered hisvoice, since a number were sitting near--"I didn't know, but--" Hehesitated. 

"That the spark that would fire the mine might be in that prettylittle beribboned roll of foolscap, " said Risley, laughing. "Well, it was a very creditable production, and it was written with theenergy of conviction. The Czar and that little school-girl would notlive long in one country, if she goes on as she has begun. "

It was then that young Lloyd, who had just come in, and was standingbeside the school-master, turned eagerly to him, and asked who thegirl was, and begged him to present him. 

"Perhaps he'll fall in love with her, " said Mrs. Norman, directly, when the two men had gone across the hall in quest of Ellen. Herhusband laughed. 

"You have not seen your aunt for a long time, " Ellen said to youngLloyd, when they were sitting out a dance after their waltztogether. 

"Not since--I--I came on--with my father when he died, " he replied. Again Ellen looked at him with that wonderful pity in her face, andagain the young man thought he had never seen such a girl. 

"I think your aunt is beautiful, " Ellen said, presently, gazingacross at Cynthia. 

"Yes, she must have been a beauty when she was young. "

"I think she is now, " said Ellen, quite fervently, for she was ableto disabuse her mind of associations and rely upon pure observation, and it was quite true that leaving out of the question Cynthia's ageand the memory of her face in stronger lights at closer view, shewas as beautiful from where they sat as some graceful statue. Onlyclear outlines showed at that distance, and her soft hair, which wasquite white, lay in heavy masses around the intense repose of herface. 

"Yes--s, " admitted Robert, somewhat hesitatingly. "She used to thinkeverything of me when I was a little shaver, " he said. 

"Doesn't she now?"

"Oh yes, I suppose she does, but it is different now. I am grown up. A man doesn't need so much done for him when he is grown up. "

Then again he looked at Ellen with eyes of pleading which would havemade of the older woman what he remembered her to have been in hischildhood, and hers answered again. 

Robert did not say anything to her about the valedictory until justbefore the close of the evening, when their last dance together wasover. 

"I am sorry I did not have a chance to hear your valedictory, " hesaid. "I could not come early. "

Ellen blushed and smiled, and made the conventional school-girlresponse. "Oh, you didn't miss anything, " said she. 

"I am sure I did, " said the young man, earnestly. Then he looked ather and hesitated a little. "I wonder if you would be willing tolend it to me?" he said, then. "I would be very careful of it, andwould return it immediately as soon as I had read it. I should be sointerested in reading it. "

"Certainly, if you wish, " said Ellen, "but I am afraid you won'tthink it is good. "

"Of course I shall. I have been hearing about it, how good it was, and how you broke up the whole house. "

Ellen blushed. "Oh, that was only because it was the valedictory. They always clap a good deal for the valedictory. "

"It was because it was you, you dear beauty, " thought the young man, gazing at her, and the impulse to take her in his arms and kiss thatblush seized upon him. "I know they applauded your valedictorybecause it was worthy of it, " said he, and Ellen's eyes fell beforehis, and the blush crept down over her throat, and up to the softtoss of hair on her temples. The two were standing, and the mangazed at Ellen's pink arms and neck through the lace of her dress, those incomparable curves of youthful bloom shared by a young girland a rose; he gazed at that noble, fair head bent not so muchbefore him as before the mystery of life, of which a perception hadcome to her through his eyes, and he said to himself that therenever was such a girl, and he also wondered if he saw aright, hebeing one who seldom entirely lost the grasp of his own leash. Having the fancy and the heart of a young man, he was given likeothers of his kind to looking at every new girl who attracted him inthe light of a problem, the unknown quantity being her possibleinterest for him, but he always worked it out calmly. He kepthimself out of his own shadow, when it came to the question ofemotions, in something the same fashion that his uncle Norman did. Now, looking at Ellen Brewster with the whole of his heart settingtowards her in obedience to that law which had brought him intobeing, he yet was saying quite coolly and loudly in his own innerconsciousness, "Wait, wait, wait! Wait until to-morrow, see how youfeel then. You have felt in much this way before. Wait! Perhaps youdon't see it as it is. Wait!"

He realized his own wisdom all the more clearly when Ellen led himto the settee where her relatives sat guarding her graduationpresents and her precious valedictory. She presented him gracefullyenough. Ellen knew nothing of society etiquette, she had neverintroduced such a young gentleman as this to any one in her life, but her inborn dignity of character kept her self-poise perfect. Still, when young Lloyd saw the mother coarsely perspiring andfairly aggressive in her delight over her daughter, when poor Andrewhoped he saw him well, and Mrs. Zelotes eyed him with sharpapprobation, and Eva, conscious of her shabbiness, bowed with astiff toss of her head and sat back sullenly, and little Amabelsurveyed him with uncanny wisdom divided between himself and Ellen, he became conscious of a slight disappearance of his glamour. Hethanked Ellen most heartily for the privilege which she granted him, when she took the valedictory from the heap of flowers, and took hisleave with a bow which made Fanny nudge Andrew, almost before theyoung man's back was turned. 

Then she looked at Ellen, but she said nothing. A sudden impulse ofdelicacy prevented her. There was something about this beloveddaughter of hers which all at once seemed strange to her. She beganto associate her with the sacred mystery of life as she had neverdone. Then, too, there was the more superficial association with oneof another class which she held in outward despite but inward awe. 

Ellen gathered up her presents into her lap, and sat there a fewminutes through the last dance, which she had refused to GranvilleJoy, who went away with nervous alertness for another girl, andnobody spoke to her. 

When young Lloyd and Cynthia Lennox and the others left, as they diddirectly, Fanny murmured, "They've gone, " and they all knew what shemeant. She was thinking--and so were they all, except Ellen--thatthat was the reason, because he had to go, that he had not askedEllen for the last dance. 

As for Ellen, she sat looking at her gold watch and chain, which shehad taken out of the case. Her face grew intensely sober, and shedid not notice when young Lloyd left. All at once she had reflectedhow her father had never owned a watch in his whole life, though hewas a man, but he had given one to her. She reflected how he had solittle work, how shabby his clothes were, how he must have gonewithout himself to buy this for her, and the girl had such a heartof gold that it rose triumphantly loyal to its first loves andtendernesses, and her father's old, worn face came between her andthat of the young man who might become her lover. 

Chapter XIX

The day after Ellen's graduation there might have been seen atouching little spectacle passing along the main street of Roweabout ten o'clock in the fore-noon. It was touching because it gaveevidence of that human vanity common to all, which strives toperpetuate the few small, good things that come into the hard livesof poor souls, and strives with such utter futility. Ellen held upher fluffy skirts daintily, the wind caught her white ribbons andthe loose locks of her yellow hair under her white hat. She carriedCynthia Lennox's basket of roses on her arm, and each of the otherswas laden with bouquets. Little Amabel clasped both slender armsaround a great sheaf of roses; the thorns pricked through her thinsleeves, but she did not mind that, so upborne with the elation ofthe occasion was she. Her small, pale face gazed over the mass ofbloom with challenging of admiration from every one whom she met. She was jealous lest any one should not look with full appreciationof Ellen. 

Ellen was the one in the little procession who had not unmixeddelight in it. She had a certain shamefacedness about going throughthe streets in such a fashion. She avoided looking at the peoplewhom she met, and kept her head slightly bent and averted, insteadof carrying it with the proud directness which was her habit. Shefelt vaguely that this was the element of purely personal vanitywhich degrades a triumph, and the weakness of delight and gloatingin the faces of her relatives irritated her. It was a sort ofunveiling of love, and the girl was sensitive enough to understandit. "Oh, mother, I don't want to have us all go through the streetwith all these flowers, and me in my white dress, " she had said. Shehad looked at her mother with a shrinking in her eyes which wasincomprehensible to the other coarser-natured woman. 

"Nonsense, " she had said. "Sometimes you have real silly notions, Ellen. " Fanny said it adoringly, for even silliness in this girlwas in a way worshipful to her. Ellen, with her heart still softenedalmost to grief by the love shown her on the day before, hadyielded, but she was glad when they arrived at the photographstudio. She had particularly dreaded passing Lloyd's, for thethought came to her that possibly young Mr. Lloyd might see her. Shesupposed that he was likely to be in the office. When they passedthe office-windows she looked the other way, but before she was wellpast, her aunt Eva hit her violently and laughed loudly. Ellenshrank, coloring a deep crimson. Then her mother also laughed, andeven Amabel, shrilly, with precocious recognition of the situation. Only Mrs. Zelotes stalked along in silent dignity. 

"Don't laugh so loud, he'll hear you, " said she, severely. 

"It was that young man who was at the hall last night, and he waslooking at you awful sharp, " said little Amabel to Ellen, squeezingher warm arm, and sending out that shrill peal of laughter again. 

"Don't, dear, " said Ellen. She felt humiliated, and the more sobecause she was ashamed of being humiliated by her own mother andaunt. "Why should I be so sensitive to things in which they see noharm?" she asked herself, reprovingly. 

As for young Lloyd, he had, ever since he parted with the girl thenight before, that sensation of actual contact which survivesseparation, and had felt the light pressure of her hand in his allnight, and along with it that ineffable pain of longing which woulddraw the substance of a dream to actuality and cannot. He saw herwith her coarsely exultant relatives, the inevitable blur of herenvironments, and felt himself not so much disillusioned asconfirmed. He had been constantly saying to himself, when the girl'sface haunted his eyes, and her hand in his own, that he was a fool, that he had felt so before, that he must have, that there was nosense in it, that he was Robert Lloyd, and she a good girl, abeautiful girl, but a common sort of girl, born of common people toa common lot. "Now, " he said to himself, with a kind of bitterexultation, "there, I told you so. " The inconceivable folly of thatglance of the mother at him, then at Ellen, and the meaninglaughter, repelled him to the point of disgust. He turned his backto the window and resumed his work, but, in spite of himself, thepathos of the picture which he had seen began to force itself uponhim, and he thought almost tenderly and forgivingly that she, thegirl, had not once looked his way. He even wondered, pityingly, ifshe had been mortified and annoyed by her mother's behavior. A greatanger on Ellen's behalf with her mother seized upon him. How prettyshe did look moving along in that little flower-laden procession, hethought, how very pretty. All at once a desire for the photographwhich would be taken seized him, for he divined the photograph. However, he said to himself that he would send back the valedictorywhich he had not yet read by post, with a polite note, and thatwould be the end. 

But it was only the next evening that Robert Lloyd with thevaledictory in hand got off the trolley-car in front of the Brewsterhouse. He had proved to himself that it was an act of actualrudeness to return anything so precious and of so much importance tothe owner by the post, that he ought to call and deliver it inperson. When he regained his equilibrium from the quick sidewiseleap from the car, and stood hesitating a little, as one will dobefore a strange house, for he was not quite sure as to hisbearings, he saw a white blur as of feminine apparel in the frontdoorway. He advanced tentatively up the little path between two rowsof flowering bushes, and Ellen rose. 

"Good-evening, Mr. Lloyd, " she said, in a slightly tremulous voice. 

"Oh, good-evening, Miss Brewster, " he cried, quickly. "So I amright! I was not sure as to the house. "

"People generally tell by the cherry-trees in the yard, " repliedEllen, taking refuge from her timidity in the security ofcommonplace observation, as she had done the night before, givingthereby both a sense of disappointment and elusiveness. 

"Won't you walk in?" she added, with the prim politeness of a childwho accosts a guest according to rule and precept. Ellen had never, in fact, had a young man make a formal call upon her before. Shereflected now, both with relief and trepidation, that her mother wasaway, having gone to her aunt Eva's. She had an instinct which sheresented, that her mother and this young man were on two parallelswhich could never meet. Her father was at home, seated in the southdoor with John Sargent and Nahum Beals and Joe Atkins, but she neverthought of such a thing as her father's receiving a young mancaller, though she would not have doubted so much his assimilatingwith Robert Lloyd. She understood that the young man might look ather mother with dissent, while she resented it, but with her fatherit was different. 

The group of men at the south door were talking in loud, ferventvoices which seemed to rise and fall like waves. Nahum Beals'sstrained, nervous tones were paramount. "Mr. Beals is talking aboutthe labor question, and he gets quite excited, " Ellen remarked, somewhat apologetically, as she ushered young Lloyd into the parlor. 

Lloyd laughed. "It sounds as if he were leading an army, " he said. 

"He is very much in earnest, " said the girl. 

She placed painstakingly for her guest the best chair, which was aspring rocker upholstered with crush-plush. The little parlor wasclose and stuffy, and the kerosene-lamp, with the light dimmed by aglobe decorated with roses, heated the room still further. This lampwas Fanny's pride. It had, in her eyes, the double glory of high artand cheapness. She was fond of pointing at it, and inquiring, "Howmuch do you think that cost?" and explaining with the air of one whoexpects her truth to be questioned that it only cost forty-ninecents. This lamp was hideous, the shape was aggressive, a discordantblare of brass, and the roses on the globe were blasphemous. Somehowthis lamp was the first thing which struck Lloyd on entering theroom. He could not take his eyes from it. As for Ellen, longacquaintance had dulled her eyes. She sat in the full glare of thishideous lamp, and Lloyd considered that she was not so pretty as hehad thought last night. Still, she was undeniably very pretty. Therewas something in the curves of her shoulders, in her pink-and-whitecotton waist, that made one's fingers tingle, and heart yearn, andthere was an appealing look in her face which made him smileindulgently at her as he might have done at a child. After all, itwas probably not her fault about the lamp, and lamps were a minorconsideration, and he was finical, but suppose she liked it? Lloyd, sitting there, began to speculate if it were possible for one'sspiritual nature to be definitely damaged by hideous lamps. Then hecaught sight of a plate decorated with postage-stamps, with aperforated edge through which ribbons were run, and he wondered ifshe possibly made that. 

"They are undoubtedly perfectly moral people, " he told his auntCynthia afterwards, "but I wonder that they keep such an immoralplate. " However, that was before he fell in love with Ellen, whilehe was struggling with himself in his desire to do so, and makingall manner of sport of himself by way of hindrance. 

Ellen at that age could have had no possible conception of thesentiment with which the young man viewed her environment. She wassensitive to spiritual discords which might arise from meeting withanother widely different nature, but when it came to materialthings, she was at a loss. Then, too, she was pugnaciously loyal tothe glories of the best parlor. She was innocently glad that she hadsuch a nice room into which to usher him. She felt that themarble-top table, the plush lambrequin on the mantle-shelf, thegilded vases, the brass clock, the Nottingham lace curtains, theolive-and-crimson furniture, the pictures in cheap gilt frames, theheavily gilded wall-paper, and the throws of thin silk over thepicture corners must prove to him the standing of her family. Shefelt an ignoble satisfaction in it, for a certain measure ofcommonness clung to the girl like a cobweb. She was as yet too youngto bloom free of her environment, her head was not yet over thebarrier of her daily lot; her heart never would be, and that was herglory. Young Lloyd handed her the roll of valedictory as soon as heentered. 

"I am very much obliged to you for allowing me to read it, " he said. 

Ellen took it, blushing. Her heart sank a little. She thought toherself that he probably did not like it. She looked at him proudlyand timidly, like a child half holding, half withdrawing its handfor a sweet. It suddenly came to her that she would rather thisyoung man would praise her valedictory than any one else, that if hehad been present when she read it in the hall, and she had seen himstanding applauding, she could not have contained her triumph andpride. She was not yet in love with him, but she began to feel thatin his approbation lay the best coin of her realm. 

"It is very well written, Miss Brewster, " said Robert, and sheflushed with delight. 

"Thank you, " she said. 

But the young man was looking at her as if he had something besidespraise in mind, and she gazed at him, shrinking a little as before ablow whose motion she felt in the air. However, he laughedpleasantly when he spoke. 

"Do you really believe that?" he asked. 

"What?" she inquired, vaguely. 

"Oh, all that you say in your essay. Do you really believe that allthe property in the world ought to be divided, that kings andpeasants ought to share and share alike?"

She looked at him with round eyes. "Why, of course I do!" she said. "Don't you?"

Robert laughed. He had no mind to enter into an argument with thisbeautiful girl, nor even to express himself forcibly on the oppositeside. 

"Well, there are a number of things to be considered, " he said. "Anddo you really believe that employer and employés should sharealike?"

"Why not?" said she. 

Her blue eyes flashed, she tossed her head. Robert smiled at her. 

"Why not?" she repeated. "Don't the men earn the money?"

"Well, no, not exactly, " said Robert. "There is the capital. "

"The profit comes from the labor, not from the capital, " said Ellen, quickly. "Doesn't it?" she continued, with fervor, and yet there wasa charming timidity, as before some authority. 

"Possibly, " replied Robert, guardedly; "but the question is how farwe should go back before we stop in searching for causes. "

"How far back ought we to go?" asked Ellen, earnestly. 

"I confess I don't know, " said Robert, laughingly. "I have thoughtvery little about it all. "

"But you will have to, if you are to be the head of Lloyd's, " Ellensaid, with a severe accent, with grave, blue eyes full on his face. 

"Oh, I am not the head of Lloyd's yet, " he answered, easily. "Myuncle is far from his dotage. Then, too, you know that I was neverintended for a business man, but a lawyer, like my father, if therehad not been so little for my father's second wife and thechildren--" He stopped himself abruptly on the verge of aconfidence. "I think I saw you on your way to the photographerto-day, " he said, and Ellen blushed, remembering her aunt Eva'sviolent nudge, and wondering if he had noticed. She gave him apiteous glance. 

"Yes, " she said. "All the girls have their pictures taken in theirgraduating dresses with their flowers. "

"You looked to me as if the picture would be a great success, " saidRobert. He longed to ask for one and yet did not, for a reasonunexplained to himself. He knew that this innocent, unsophisticatedcreature would see no reason on earth why he should not ask, and noreason why she should not grant, and on that account he feltprohibited. That night, after he had gone, Ellen wondered why he hadnot asked for one of her pictures, and felt anxious lest he shouldhave seen the nudge. 

"Well, " she said to herself, "if he finds any fault with anythingthat my mother has done, I don't want him to have one. "

Robert stayed a long time. He kept thinking that he ought to go, andalso that he was bored, and yet he felt a singular unwillingness toleave, possibly because of his sense that the visit was in a measureforbidden by prudence. The longer he remained, the prettier Ellenlooked to him. New beauties of line and color seemed to growapparent in the soft glow from the hideous lamp. There was awonderful starry radiance in her eyes now and then, and when sheturned her head her eyeballs gleamed crimson and her hair seemed totoss into flame. When she spoke, he was conscious of unknown depthsof sweetness in her voice, and it was so with her smile and herevery motion. There was about the girl a mystery, not of darknessbut of light, which seemed to draw him on and on and on withoutvolition. And yet she said nothing especially remarkable, for Ellenwas only a young girl, reared in a little provincial city in commonenvironments. She would have been a great genius had she more thanbegun to glimpse the breadth and freedom of the outer world throughher paling of life. She was too young and too unquestioning of whatshe had learned from her early loves. 

"Have you always lived here in Rowe?" asked Lloyd. 

"Yes, " said she. "I was born here, and I have lived here eversince. "

"And you have never been away?"

"Only once. Once I went to Dragon Beach and stayed a fortnight withmother. " She said this with a visible sense of its importance. Dragon Beach was some ten miles from Rowe, a cheap seashore place, built up with flimsy summer cottages of factory hands. Andrew hadhired one for a fortnight once when Ellen was ailing, and it hadbeen the event of a lifetime to the family. They hereafter datedfrom the year "we went to Dragon Beach. "

Lloyd looked with a quick impulse of compassionate tenderness atthis child who had been away from Rowe once to Dragon Beach. He hadhis own impressions of Dragon Beach and also of Rowe. 

"I suppose you enjoyed that?" said he. 

"Very much. The sea is beautiful. "

So, after all, it was the sea which she had cared for at DragonBeach, and not the clam-bakes and merry-go-rounds and women inwrappers in the surf. Robert felt rebuked for thinking of anythingbut the sea in his memory of Dragon Beach; there was a wonderfulwater-view there. 

All the time they sat there in the parlor, the murmur ofconversation at the south door continued, and now and again over itswelled the fervid exhortations of Nahum Beals. Not a word could bedistinguished, but the meaning was beyond doubt. That voice was fullof denunciation, of frenzied appeal, of warning. 

"Who is it?" asked Lloyd, after an unusually loud burst. 

"Mr. Beals, " replied Ellen, uneasily. She wished that he would nottalk so loud. 

"He sounds as if he were preaching fire and brimstone, " said Robert. 

"No, he is talking about the labor question, " replied Ellen. 

Then she looked confused, for she remembered that this young man'suncle was the head of Lloyd's, that he himself would be the head ofLloyd's some day. All at once, along with another feeling whichseemed about to conquer her, came a resentment against this youngman with his fine clothes and his gentle manners. Two men passed thewindows and one of them looked in, and when the electric-lightflashed on his face she saw Granville Joy, and the man with him wasin his shirt-sleeves. She saw those white shirt-sleeves swing intothe darkness, and felt at once antagonized against herself andagainst Robert, and yet she knew that she had never seen a man likehim. 

"I suppose he has settled it, " said Robert. 

"I don't know, " replied Ellen. 

"He sounds dangerous. "

"Oh, no. He is a good man. He wouldn't hurt anybody. He has alwaystalked that way. He used to come here and talk when I was a child. It used to frighten me at first, but it doesn't now. It is only theway that poor people are treated that frightens me. "

Again Robert had a sensation of moving unobtrusively aside from adirect encounter. He looked across the room and started at somethingwhich he espied for the first time. 

"Pardon me, " he said, rising, "but I am interested in dolls. I seeyou still keep your doll, Miss Brewster. "

Ellen sat stupefied. All at once it dawned upon her what mighthappen. In the corner of the parlor sat her beloved doll, stillbeloved, though the mother and not the doll had outgrown her firstcondition of love. The doll, in the identical dress in which she hadcome from Cynthia's so many years ago, sat staring forth with thefixed radiance of her kind, seated stiffly in a tiny rocking-chair, also one of the treasures of Ellen's childhood. It was a curiousfeature for the best parlor, but Ellen had insisted upon it. "Sheisn't going to be put away up garret because I have outgrown her, "said she. "She's going to sit in the parlor as long as she lives. Suppose I outgrew you, and put you up in the garret; you wouldn'tlike it, would you, mother?"

"You are a queer child, " Fanny had said, laughing, but she hadyielded. 

When young Lloyd went close to examine the doll, Ellen's heart stoodstill. Suppose he should recognize it? She tried to tell herselfthat it was impossible. Could any young man recognize a doll afterall those years? How much did a boy ever care for a doll, anyway?Not enough to think of it twice after he had given it up. It wasdifferent with a girl. Her doll meant--God only knew what her dollmeant to her; perhaps it had a meaning of all humanity. But the boy, what had he cared for the doll? He had gone away out West and leftit. 

But Lloyd remembered. He stared down at the doll a moment. Then hetook her up gingerly in her fluffy pink robes of an obsoletefashion. He held her at arm's length, and stared and stared. Suddenly he parted the flaxen wig and examined a place on the head. Then he looked at Ellen. 

"Why, it is my old doll, " he cried, with a great laugh of wonder andincredulity. "Yes, it is my old doll! How in the world did you comeby my doll, Miss Brewster? Account for yourself. Are you a childkidnapper?"

Ellen, who had risen and come forward, stood before him, absolutelystill, and very pale. 

"Yes, it is my doll, " said Lloyd, with another laugh. "I will tellyou how I know. Of course I can tell her face. Dolls look a gooddeal alike, I suppose, but I tell you I loved this doll, and Iremember her face, and that little cast in her left eye, and thatbeautiful, serene smile; but there's something besides. Once Iburned her head with the red-hot end of the poker to see if shewould wake up. I always had a notion when I was a child that it wasonly a question of violence to make her wake up and demonstrate someexistence besides that eternal grin. So I burned her, but it made nodifference; but here is the mark now--see. "

Ellen saw. She had often kissed it, but she made no reply. She wasoccupied with considerations of the consequences. 

"How did you come by her, if you don't mind telling?" said the youngman again. "It is the most curious thing for me to find my old dollsitting here. Of course Aunt Cynthia gave her to you, but I didn'tknow that she was acquainted with you. I suppose she saw a prettylittle girl getting around without a doll after I had gone, and senther, but--"

Suddenly between the young man's face and the girl's flashed a lookof intelligence. Suddenly Robert remembered all that he had heard ofEllen's childish escapade. He _knew_. He looked from her to thedoll, and back again. "Good Lord!" he said. Then he set the dolldown in her little chair all of a heap, and caught Ellen's hand, andshook it. 

"You are a trump, that is what you are, " he said; "a trump. Soshe--" He shook his head, and looked at Ellen, dazedly. She did notsay a word, but looked at him with her lips closed tightly. 

"It is better for you not to tell me anything, " he said; "I don'twant to know. I don't understand, and I never want to, how it allhappened, but I do understand that you are a trump. How old wereyou?" Robert's voice took on a tone of tenderness. 

"Eight, " replied Ellen, faintly. 

"Only a baby, " said the young man, "and you never told! I would liketo know where there is another baby who would do such a thing. " Hecaught her hand and shook it again. "She was like a mother to me, "he said, in a husky voice. "I think a good deal of her. I thankyou. "

Suddenly to the young man looking at the girl a conviction as ofsome subtle spiritual perfume came; he had seen her beauty before, he had realized her charm, but this was something different. Aboundless approbation and approval which was infinitely moreprecious than admiration seized him. Her character began to revealitself, to come in contact with his own; he felt the warmth of itthrough the veil of flesh. He felt a sense of reliance as upon aninexhaustibility of goodness in another soul. He felt somethingwhich was more than love, being purely unselfish, with as yet nodesire of possession. "Here is a good, true woman, " he said tohimself. "Here is a good, true woman, who has blossomed from a good, true child. " He saw a wonderful faithfulness shining in her blueeyes, he saw truth itself on her lips, and could have gone down atthe feet of the little girl in the pink cotton frock. Going home hetried to laugh at himself, but could not succeed. It is easy toshake off the clasp of a hand of flesh, but not the clasp of anothersoul. 

Ellen on her part was at once overwhelmed with delight andconfusion. She felt the fervor of admiration in the young man'sattitude towards her, but she was painfully conscious of herundeservingness. She had always felt guilty about her silence anddisobedience towards her parents, and as for any self-approbationfor it, that had been the farthest from her thoughts. She murmuredsomething deprecatingly, but Lloyd cut her short. 

"It's no use crying off, " said he; "you are one girl in a thousand, and I thank you, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. It mighthave made awful trouble. My aunt Lizzie told me what a commotionthere was over it. "

"I ran away, " said Ellen, anxiously. Suddenly it occurred to her hemight think Cynthia worse than she had been. 

"Never mind, " said Lloyd--"never mind. I know what you did. You heldyour blessed little tongue to save somebody else, and let yourselfbe blamed. "

The door which led into the sitting-room opened, and Andrew lookedin. 

He made a shy motion when he saw Lloyd; still, he came forward. Hisown callers had gone, and he had heard voices in the parlor, and hadfeared Granville Joy was calling upon Ellen. 

As he came forward, Ellen introduced him shyly. "This is Mr. Lloyd, father, " she said. "Mr. Lloyd, this is my father. " Then she added, "He came to bring back my valedictory. " She was very awkward, butit was the charming awkwardness of a beautiful child. She lookedexceedingly childish standing beside her father, looking into hisworn, embarrassed face. 

Lloyd shook hands with Andrew, and said something about thevaledictory, which he had enjoyed reading. 

"She wrote it all herself without a bit of help from the teacher, "said Andrew, with wistful pride. 

"It is remarkably well written, " said Robert. 

"You didn't hear it read at the hall?" said Andrew. 

"No, I had not that good fortune. "

"You ought to have heard them clap, " said Andrew. 

"Oh, father, " murmured Ellen, but she looked innocently at herfather as if she delighted in his pride and pleasure without apersonal consideration. 

The front door opened. "That's your mother, " said Andrew. 

Fanny looked into the lighted parlor, and dodged back with a littlegiggle. 

Ellen colored painfully. "It is Mr. Lloyd, mother, " she said. 

Then Fanny came forward and shook hands with Robert. Her face wasflaming--she cast involuntary glances at Andrew for confirmation ofher opinion. She was openly and shamelessly triumphant, and yet allat once Robert ceased to be repelled by it. Through his insight intothe girl's character, he had seemed to gain suddenly a clearervision for the depths of human love and pity which are beneath thecoarse and the common. When Fanny stood beside her daughter andlooked at her, then at Robert, with the reflection of the beautifulyoung face in her eyes of love, she became at once pathetic andsacred. 

"It is all natural, " he said to himself as he was going home. 

Chapter XX

Robert Lloyd when he came to Rowe was confronted with one of thehardest tasks in the world, that of adjustment to circumstanceswhich had hitherto been out of his imagination. He had not dreamedof a business life in connection with himself. Though he had alwayshad a certain admiration for his successful uncle, Norman Lloyd, yethe had always had along with the admiration a recollection of theold tale of the birthright and the mess of pottage. He had expectedto follow the law, like his father, but when he had finishedcollege, about two years after his father's death, he had to facethe unexpected. The stocks in which the greater part of the elderLloyd's money had been invested had depreciated; some of them werefor the time being quite worthless as far as income was concerned. There were two little children--girls--by his father's secondmarriage, and there was not enough to support them and their motherand allow Robert to continue his reading for the law. So he pursued, without the slightest hesitation, but with bitter regret, the onlycourse which he saw open before him. He wrote to his uncle Norman, and was welcomed to a position in his factory with more warmth thanhe had ever seen displayed by him. In fact, Norman Lloyd, who had noson of his own, saw with a quickening of his pulses the handsomeyoung fellow of his own race who had in a measure thrown himselfupon his protection. He had never shared his wife's longing forchildren as children, and had never cared for Robert when a child;but now, when he was a man grown and bore his name, he appealed tohim. 

Norman Lloyd was supposed to be heaping up riches, and wild storiesof his wealth were told in Rowe. He gave large sums to publicbenefactions, and never stinted his wife in her giving withincertain limits. It would have puzzled any one when faced with factsto understand why he had the name of a hard man, but he had it, whether justly or not. "He's as hard as nails, " people said. Hisemployés hated him--that is, the more turbulent and undisciplinedspirits hated him, and the others regarded him as slaves might astern master. When Robert started his work in his uncle's office hestarted handicapped by this sentiment towards his uncle. He lookedlike his uncle, he talked like him, he had his same gentlestiffness, he was never unduly familiar. He was at once placed inthe same category by the workmen. 

Robert Lloyd did not concern himself in the least as to what theemployés in his uncle's factory thought of him. Nothing was morecompletely out of his mind. He was conscious of standing on a firmbase of philanthropic principle, and if ever these men came directlyunder his control, he was resolved to do his duty by them so far asin him lay. 

Ellen, since her graduation, had been like an animal which circlesabout in its endeavors to find its best and natural place ofsettlement. 

"What shall I do next?" she had said to her mother. "Shall I go towork, or shall I try to find a school somewhere in the fall, orshall I stay here, and help you with some work I can do at home? Iknow father cannot afford to support me always at home. "

"I guess he can afford to support his only daughter at home a littlewhile after she has just got out of school, " Fanny had returnedindignantly, with a keen pain at her heart. 

Fanny mentioned this conversation to Andrew that night after Ellenhad gone to bed. 

"What do you think--Ellen was asking me this afternoon what she hadbetter do!" said she. 

"What she had better do?" repeated Andrew, vaguely. He lookedshrinkingly at Fanny, who seemed to him to have an accusing air, asif in some way he were to blame for something. And, indeed, therewere times when Fanny in those days did blame Andrew, but there wassome excuse for her. She blamed him when her own back was fillingher very soul with the weariness of its ache as she bent over theseams of those grinding wrappers, and when her heart was sore overdoubt of Ellen's future. At those times she acknowledged to herselfthat it seemed to her that Andrew somehow might have gotten onbetter. She did not know how, but somehow. He had not had anexpensive family. "Why had he not succeeded?" she asked herself. Sothere was in her tone an unconscious recrimination when she answeredhis question about Ellen. 

"Yes--what she had better go to work at, " said Fanny, dryly, herblack eyes cold on her husband's face. 

Andrew turned so white that he frightened her. "Go to work!" saidhe. Then all at once he gave an exceedingly loud and bitter groan. It betrayed all his pride in and ambition for his daughter and hisdisgust and disappointment over himself. "Oh! my God, has it come tothis, " he groaned, "that I cannot support my one child!"

Fanny laid down her work and looked at him. "Now, Andrew, " said she, "there's no use in your taking it after such a fashion as this. Itold Ellen that it was all nonsense--that she could stay at home andrest this summer. "

"I guess, if she can't--" said Andrew. He dropped his gray head intohis hands, and began to sob dryly. Fanny, after staring at him amoment, tossed her work onto the floor, went over to him, and drewhis head to her shoulder. 

"There, old man, " said she, "ain't you ashamed of yourself? I toldher there was no need for her to worry at present. Don't do so, Andrew; you've done the best you could, and I know it, if I stop tothink, though I do seem sort of impatient sometimes. You've alwaysworked hard and done your best. It ain't your fault. "

"I don't know whether it is or not, " said Andrew, in a high, querulous voice like a woman's. "It seems as if it must besomebody's fault. If it ain't my fault, whose is it? You can't blamethe Almighty. "

"Maybe it ain't anybody's fault. "

"It must be. All that goes wrong is somebody's fault. It can't bethat it just happens--that would be worse than the other. It isbetter to have a God that is cruel than one that don't care, and itis better to be to blame yourself, and have it your fault, than His. Somehow, I have been to blame, Fanny. I must have. It would havebeen enough sight better for you, Fanny, if you'd married anotherman. "

"I didn't want another man, " replied Fanny, half angrily, halftenderly. "You make me all out of patience, Andrew Brewster. What'sthe need of Ellen going to work right away? Maybe by-and-by she canget an easy school. Then, we've got that money in the bank. "

Andrew looked away from her with his face set. Fanny did not knowyet about his withdrawal of the money for the purpose of investingin mining-stocks. He never looked at her but the guilty secretseemed to force itself between them like a wedge of ice. 

"Then Grandma Brewster has got a little something, " said Fanny. 

"Only just enough for herself, " said Andrew. Then he added, fiercely, "Mother can't be stinted of her little comforts even forEllen. "

"I 'ain't never wanted to stint your mother of her comforts, " Fannyretorted, angrily. 

"She 'ain't got but a precious little, unless she spends herprincipal, " said Andrew. "She 'ain't got more'n a hundred and fiftyor so a year clear after her taxes and insurance are paid. "

"I ain't saying anything, " said Fanny. "But I do say you're dreadfulfoolish to take on so when you've got so much to fall back on, andthat money in the bank. Here you haven't had to touch the interestfor quite a while and it has been accumulating. "

It was agreed between the two that Ellen must say nothing to hergrandmother Brewster about going to work. 

"I believe the old lady would have a fit if she thought Ellen wasgoing to work, " said Fanny. "She 'ain't never thought she ought tolift her finger. "

So Ellen was charged on no account to say anything to hergrandmother about the possible necessity of her going to work. 

"Your grandmother's awful proud, " said Fanny, "and she's alwaysthought you were too good to work. "

"I don't think anybody is too good to work, " replied Ellen, but sheuttered the platitude with a sort of mental reservation. In spite ofherself, the attitude of worship in which she had always seen allwho belonged to her had spoiled her a little. She did look atherself with a sort of compunction when she realized the fact thatshe might have to go to work in the shop some time. School-teachingwas different, but could she earn enough school-teaching? There wasa sturdy vein in the girl. All the time she pitied herself sheblamed herself. 

"You come of working-people, Ellen Brewster. Why are you any betterthan they? Why are your hands any better than their hands, yourbrain than theirs? Why are you any better than the other girls whohave gone to work in the shops? Do you think you are any better thanAbby Atkins?"

And still Ellen used to look at herself with a pitying convictionthat she would be out of place at a bench in the shoe-factory, thatshe would suffer a certain indignity by such a course. Therealization of a better birthright was strong upon her, although shechided herself for it. And everybody abetted her in it. When shesaid once to Abby Atkins, whom she encountered one day going homefrom the shop, that she wondered if she could get a job in her roomin the fall, Abby turned upon her fiercely. 

"Good Lord, Ellen Brewster, you ain't going to work in a shoe-shop?"she said. 

"I don't see why not as well as you, " returned Ellen. 

"Why not?" repeated the other girl. "Look at yourself, and look atus!"

As she spoke, Ellen saw projected upon her mental vision herselfpassing down the street with the throng of factory operatives whichher bodily eyes actually witnessed. She had come opposite Lloyd's asthe six o'clock whistle was blowing. She saw herself in her clean, light summer frock, slight and dainty, with little hands like whiteflowers in the blue folds of her skirt, with her fine, sensitiveoutlook of fair face, and her dainty carriage; and she sawothers--those girls and women in dingy skirts and bagging blouses, with coarse hair strained into hard knots of exigency from patient, or sullen faces, according to their methods of bearing their lots;all of them rank with the smell of leather, their coarse handsstained with it, swinging their poor little worn bags which had heldtheir dinners. There were not many foreigners among them, except theIrish, most of whom had been born in this country, and a sprinklingof fair-haired, ruddy Swedes and keen Polanders, who bore themselvesbetter than the Americans, being not so apparently at odds with thesituation. 

The factory employés in Rowe were a superior lot, men and women. Many of the men had put on their worn coats when they emerged fromthe factory, and their little bags were supposed to disguise thefact of their being dinner satchels. And yet there was a differencebetween Ellen Brewster and the people among whom she walked, and shefelt it with a sort of pride and indignation with herself that itwas so. 

"I don't see why I should be any better than the rest, " said she, defiantly, to Abby Atkins. "My father works in a shop, and you aremy best friend, and you do. Why shouldn't I work in a shop?"

"Look at yourself, " repeated the other girl, mercilessly. "You aredifferent. You ain't to blame for it any more than a flower is toblame for being a rose and not a common burdock. If you've got to doanything, you had better teach school. "

"I would rather teach school, " said Ellen, "but I couldn't earn somuch unless I got more education and got a higher position than adistrict school, and that is out of the question. "

"I thought maybe your grandmother could send you, " said Abby. 

"Oh no, grandma can't afford to. Sometimes I think I could work myown way through college, if it wasn't for being a burden in the meantime, but I don't know. "

Suddenly Abby Atkins planted herself on the sidewalk in front ofEllen, and looked at her sharply, while an angry flush overspreadher face. 

"I want to know one thing, " said she. 

"What?"

"It ain't true what I heard the other day, is it?"

"I don't know what you heard. "

"Well, I heard you were going to be married. "

Ellen turned quite pale, and looked at the other girl with a steadyregard of grave, indignant blue eyes. 

"No, I am not, " said she. 

"Well, don't be mad, Ellen. I heard real straight that you weregoing to marry Granville Joy in the fall. "

"Well, I am not, " repeated Ellen. 

"I didn't suppose you were, but I knew he had always wanted you. "

"Always wanted me!" said Ellen. "Why, he's only just out of school!"

"Oh, I know that, and he's only just gone to work, and he can't beearning much, but I heard it. "

The stream of factory operatives had thinned; many had taken thetrolley-cars, and others had gone to the opposite side of thestreet, which was shady. The two girls were alone, standing before avacant lot grown to weeds, rank bristles of burdock, and slenderspikes of evanescent succory. Abby burst out in a passionate appeal, clutching Ellen's arm hard. 

"Ellen, promise me you never will, " she cried. 

"Promise you what, Abby?"

"Oh, promise me you never will marry anybody like him. I know it'snone of my business--I know that is something that is none ofanybody's business, no matter how much they think of anybody; but Ithink more of you than any man ever will, I don't care who he is. Iknow I do, Ellen Brewster. And don't you ever marry a man likeGranville Joy, just an ordinary man who works in the shop, and willnever do anything but work in the shop. I know he's good, real goodand steady, and it ain't against him that he ain't rich and has towork for his living, but I tell you, Ellen Brewster, you ain't theright sort to marry a man like that, and have a lot of children towork in shops. No man, if he thinks anything of you, ought to askyou to; but all a man thinks of is himself. Granville Joy, or anyother man who wanted you, would take you and spoil you, and thinkhe'd done a smart thing. " Abby spoke with such intensity that itredeemed her from coarseness. Ellen continued to look at her, andtwo red spots had come on her cheeks. 

"I don't believe I'll ever get married at all, " she said. 

"If you've got to get married, you ought to marry somebody likeyoung Mr. Lloyd, " said Abby. 

Then Ellen blushed, and pushed past her indignantly. 

"Young Mr. Lloyd!" said she. "I don't want him, and he doesn't wantme. I wish you wouldn't talk so, Abby. "

"He would want you if your were a rich girl, and your father wasboss instead of a workman, " said Abby. 

Then she caught hold of Ellen's arm and pressed her own thin one inits dark-blue cotton sleeve lovingly against it. 

"You ain't mad with me, are you, Ellen?" she said, with thatindescribable gentleness tempering her fierceness of nature whichgave her caresses the fascination of some little, untamed animal. Ellen pressed her round young arm tenderly against the other. 

"I think more of you than any man I know, " said she, fervently. "Ithink more of you than anybody except father and mother, Abby. "

The two girls walked on with locked arms, and each was possessedwith that wholly artless and ignorant passion often seen between twoyoung girls. Abby felt Ellen's warm round arm against hers with athrobbing of rapture, and glanced at her fair face with adoration. She held her in a sort of worship, she loved her so that she wasfairly afraid of her. As for Ellen, Abby's little, leather-stained, leather-scented figure, strung with passion like a bundle ofelectric wire, pressing against her, seemed to inform her farthestthoughts. 

"If I live longer than my father and mother, we'll live together, Abby, " said she. 

"And I'll work for you, Ellen, " said Abby, rapturously. 

"I guess you won't do all the work, " said Ellen. She gazed tenderlyinto Abby's little, dark, thin face. "You're all worn out with worknow, " said she, "and there you bought that beautiful pin for me withyour hard earnings. "

"I wish it had been a great deal better, " said Abby, fervently. 

She had given Ellen a gold brooch for a graduating-gift, and hadpaid a week's wages for it, and gone without her new dress, andstayed away from the graduation, but that last Ellen never knew;Abby had told her that she was sick. 

That evening Robert Lloyd and his aunt Cynthia Lennox called on theBrewsters. Ellen was under the trees in the west yard when she hearda carriage stop in front of the house and saw the sitting-room lamptravel through the front entry to the front door. She wonderedindifferently who it was. Carriages were not given to stopping attheir house of an evening; then she reflected that it might be someone to get her mother to do some sewing, and remained still. 

It was a bright moonlight night; the whole yard was a lovely dappleof lights and shadows. Ellen had a vivid perception of the beauty ofit all, and also that unrest and yearning which comes often to ayoung girl in moonlight. This beauty and strangeness of familiarscenes under the silver glamour of the moon gave her, as it were, anassurance of other delights and beauties of life besides those whichshe already knew, and along with the assurance came that wildyearning. Ellen seemed to scent her honey of life, and at the sametime the hunger for it leaped to her consciousness. She had begun bythinking of what Abby had said to her that afternoon, and then thetrain of thought led her on and on. She quite ignored all about thesordid ways and means of existence, about toil and privation andchildren born to it. All at once the conviction was strong upon herthat love, and love alone, was the chief end and purpose of life, atonce its source and its result, the completion of its golden ring ofglory. Her thought, started in whatever direction, seemed to slidealways into that one all-comprehending circle--she could not get herimagination away from it. She began to realize that the mind ofmortal man could not get away from the law which produced it. Shebegan to understand dimly, as one begins to understand any greattruth, that everything around her obeyed that unwritten fundamentallaw of love, expressed it, sounded it, down to the leaves of thetrees casting their flickering shadows on the silver field ofmoonlight, and the long-drawn chorus of the insects of the summernight. She thought of Abby and how much she loved her; then thatlove seemed the step which gave her an impetus to another love. Shebegan to remember Granville Joy, how he had kissed her that nightover the fence and twice since, how he had walked home with her fromentertainments, how he had looked at her. She saw the boy's face andhis look as plain as if he stood before her, and her heart leapedwith a shock of pain which was joy. 

Then she thought of Robert Lloyd, and his face came before her. Ellen had not thought as much of Robert as he of her. For some twoweeks after his call she had watched for him to come again; she hadput on a pretty dress and been particular about her hair, and hadstayed at home expecting him; then when he had not come, she had puthim out of mind resolutely. When her mother and aunt had joked herabout him she had been sensitive and half angry. "You know it isnothing, mother, " she said; "he only came to bring back myvaledictory. You know he wouldn't think of me. He'll marry somebodylike Maud Hemingway. " Maud Hemingway was the daughter of theleading physician in Rowe, and regarded with a mixture of spite andadmiration by daughters of the factory operatives. Maud Hemingwaywas attending college, and rode a saddle-horse when home on hervacations. She had been to Europe. 

But that evening in the moonlight Ellen began thinking again ofRobert Lloyd. His face came before her as plainly as GranvilleJoy's. She had arrived at that stage when life began to be as apicture-gallery of love. Through this and that face the goddessmight look, and the look was what she sought; as yet, the man was aminor quantity. 

All at once it seemed to Ellen, looking at her mental picture ofyoung Lloyd, that she could see love in his face yet more plainly, more according to her conception of it, than in the other. She beganto build an air-castle which had no reference whatever to Robert'sposition, and to his being the nephew of the richest factory-ownerin Rowe, and so far as that went he had not a whit the advantage ofGranville Joy in her eyes. But Robert's face wore to her more of theguise of that for which the night and the moonlight, and her youth, had made her long. So she began innocently to imagine a meeting withhim at a picnic which would be held some time at Liberty Park. Sheimagined their walking side by side, through a lovely dapple ofmoonlight like this, and saying things to each other. Then all atonce the man of her dreams touched her hand in a dream, and afaintness swept over her. Then suddenly, gathering shape out of theindetermination of the shadows and the moonlight, came a man intothe yard, and Ellen thought with awe and delight that it was he; butinstead Granville Joy stood before her, lifting his hat above hissoft shock of hair. 

"Hullo!" he said. 

"Good-evening, " responded Ellen, and Granville Joy felt abashed. Helay awake half the night reflecting that he should have greeted herwith a "Good-evening" instead of "Hullo, " as he had been used to doin their school-days; that she was now a young lady, and that Mr. Lloyd had accosted her differently. Ellen rose with a feeling ofdisappointment that Granville was himself, which is the hardestgreeting possible for a guest, involving the most subtle reproach inthe world--the reproach for a man's own individuality. 

"Oh, don't get up, Ellen, " the young man said, awkwardly. "Here--I'll sit down here on the rock. " Then he flung himself downon the ledge of rock which cropped out like a bare rib of the earthbetween the trees, and Ellen seated herself again in her chair. 

"Beautiful night, ain't it?" said Granville. 

Ellen noticed that Granville said "ain't" instead of "isn't, "according to the fashion of his own family, although he was recentlygraduated from the high-school. Ellen had separated herself, although with no disparaging reflections, from the language of herfamily. She also noticed that Granville presently said "wa'n't"instead of "wasn't. " "Hot yesterday, wa'n't it?" said he. 

"Yes, it was very warm, " replied Ellen. That "wa'n't" seemed toinsert a tiny wedge between them. She would have flown at any onewho had found fault with her father and mother for saying "wa'n't, "but with this young man in her own rank and day it was different. Itargued something in him, or a lack of something. An indignation allout of proportion to the offence seized her. It seemed to her thathe had in this simple fashion outraged that which was infinitelyhigher than he himself. He had not lived up to her thought of him, and fallen short by a little slip in English which argued a slip incharacter. She wanted to reproach him sharply--to ask him if he hadever been to school. 

He noticed her manner was cool, and was as far as the antipodes fromsuspecting the cause. He never knew that he said "ain't" and"wa'n't, " and would die not knowing. All that he looked at was thesubstance of thought behind the speech. And just then he was fartherthan ever from thinking of it, for he was single-hearted with Ellen. 

The boy crept nearer her on the rock with a shy, nestling motion;the moonlight shone full on his handsome young face, giving it astern quality. "Ellen, look at here, " he said. 

Then he stopped. Ellen waited, not dreaming what was to follow. Shehad never had a proposal; then, too, he had just been chased out ofher mental perspective by the other man. 

"Look at here, Ellen, " said Granville. He stopped again; then whenhe spoke his voice had an indescribably solemn, beseeching quality. "Oh, Ellen, " he said, reaching up and catching her hand. He draggedhimself nearer, leaned his cheek against her hand, which it seemedto burn; then he began kissing it with soft, pouting lips. 

Ellen tried to pull her hand away. "Let my hand go this minute, Granville Joy, " she said, angrily. 

The boy let her hand go immediately, and stood up, leaning over her. 

"Don't be angry; I didn't mean any harm, Ellen, " he whispered. 

"I shall be angry if you do such a thing again, " said Ellen. "Wearen't children; you have no right to do such a thing, and you knowit. "

"But I thought maybe you wouldn't mind, Ellen, " said Granville. Thenhe added, with his voice all husky with emotion and a kind of fear:"Ellen, you know how I feel about you. You know how I have alwaysfelt. "

Ellen made no reply. It seemed inconceivable that she for the minuteshould not know his meaning, but she was bewildered. 

"You know I've always counted on havin' you for my wife some daywhen we were both old enough, " said the boy, "and I've gone to worknow, and I hope to get bigger pay before long, and--"

Ellen rose with sudden realization. "Granville Joy, " cried she, withsomething like panic in her voice, "you must not! Oh, if I hadknown! I would not have let you finish. I would not, Granville. "She caught his arm, and clung to it, and looked up at him pitifully. "You know I wouldn't have let you finish, " she said. "Don't be hurt, Granville. "

The boy looked at her as if she had struck him. 

"Oh, Ellen, " he groaned. "Oh, Ellen, I always thought you would!"

"I am not going to marry anybody, " said Ellen. Her voice wavered inspite of herself; the young man's look and voice were shaking herthrough weakness of her own nature which she did not understand, butwhich might be mightier than her strength. Something crept into hertone which emboldened the young man to seize her hand again. "Youdo, in spite of all you say--" he began; but just then a long shadowfell athwart the moonlight, and Ellen snatched her hand awayimperceptibly, and young Lloyd stood before them. 

Chapter XXI

Granville Joy was employed in Lloyd's, and Robert had seen him thatvery day and spoken to him, but he did not recognize him, not untilEllen spoke. "This is Mr. Joy, Mr. Lloyd, " she said; "perhaps youknow him. He works in your uncle's shop. " She said it quite simply, as if it was a matter of course that Robert was on speaking termswith all the employés in his uncle's factory. 

Granville colored. "I saw Mr. Lloyd this afternoon in thecutting-room, " he said, "and we had some talk together; but maybe hedon't remember, there are so many of us. " Granville said "so manyof us" with an indescribably bitter emphasis. Suddenly hisgentleness seemed changed to gall. It was the terrible protest ofone of the herd who goes along with the rest, yet realizes it, andlooks ever out from his common mass with fierce eyes of individualdissent at the immutable conditions of things. Immediately, whenGranville saw the other young man, this gentleman in his lightsummer clothes, who bore about him no stain nor odor of toil, hefelt that here was Ellen's mate; that he was left behind. He lookedat him, not missing a detail of his superiority, and he saw himselfyoung and not ill-looking, but hopelessly common, clad in awkwardclothes; he smelled the smell of leather that steamed up in his facefrom his raiment and his body; and he looked at Ellen, fair andwhite in her dainty muslin, and saw himself thrust aside, as itwere, by his own judgment as to the fitness of things, but with noless bitterness. When he said "there are so many of us, " he felt theimpulse of revolution in his heart; that he would have liked to leadthe "many of us" against this young aristocrat. But Robert smiled, though somewhat stiffly, and bowed. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Joy, " hesaid; "I do remember, but for a minute I did not. "

"I don't wonder, " said Granville, and again he repeated, "There areso many of us, " in that sullen, bitter tone. 

"What is the matter with the fellow?" thought Robert; but he said, civilly enough; "Oh, not at all, Mr. Joy. I will admit there are agood many of you, as you say, but that would not prevent myremembering a man to whom I was speaking only a few hours ago. Itwas only the half-light, and I did not expect to see you here. "

"Mr. Joy is a very old friend of mine, " Ellen said, quickly, with apainful impulse of loyalty. The moment she saw her old school-boylover intimidated, and manifestly at a disadvantage before thiselegant young gentleman, she felt a fierce instinct of partisanship. She stood a little nearer to him. Granville's face lightened, helooked at her gratefully, and Robert stared from one to the otherdoubtfully. He began to wonder if he had interrupted a love-scene, and was at once pained with a curious, new pain, and indignant. Then, too, he scarcely knew what to do. He had been sent to askEllen to come into the parlor. 

"My aunt is in the house, " he said. 

"Your aunt?"

"Yes, my aunt, Miss Lennox. "

Ellen gave a great start, and stared at him. "Does she want to seeme?" she asked, abruptly. 

Robert glanced at Granville. He was afraid of being rude towardsthis possible lover, but the young man was quick to perceive thesituation. 

"I guess I must be going, " he said to Ellen. 

"Must you hurry?" she returned, in the common, polite rejoinder ofher class in Rowe. 

"Yes, I guess I must, " said Granville. He held out his hand towardsEllen, then drew it away, but she extended hers resolutely, and soforced his back again. "Good-night, " she said, kindly, almosttenderly, and again Robert thought with that sinking at his heartthat here was quite possibly the girl's lover, and all his dreamswere thrown away. 

As for Granville, he glowed with a sudden triumph over the other. Again he became almost sure that Ellen loved him after all, that itwas only her maiden shyness which had led her to refuse him. Hepressed her hand hard, and held it as long as he dared; then heturned to Robert. "I'll bid you good-evening, sir, " he said, withawkward dignity, and was gone. 

"I will go in and see your aunt, " Ellen said to Robert, regardinghim as she spoke with a startled expression. It had flashed throughher mind that Miss Lennox had possibly come to confess the secret ofso many years ago, and she shrank with terror as before the loweringof some storm of spirit. She knew how little was required to lashher mother's violent nature into fury. "She was not--?" she began tosay to Robert, then she stopped; but he understood. "Don't beafraid, Miss Brewster, " he said, kindly. "It is not a matter ofby-gones, but the future. My aunt has a plan for you which I thinkyou will like. "

Ellen looked at him wonderingly, but she went with him across themoonlit yard into the house. 

She found Miss Cynthia Lennox, fair and elegant in a filmy blackgown, and a broad black hat draped with lace and violets shading herdelicate, clear-cut face, and her father and mother. Fanny's eyeswere red. She looked as if she had been running--in fact, one couldeasily hear her breathe across the room. "Ellen, here is MissLennox, " she said. Ellen approached the lady, who rose, and the twoshook hands. "Good-evening, Miss Brewster, " said Cynthia, in thesame tone which she might have used towards a society acquaintance. Ellen would never have known that she had heard the voice before. Asshe remembered it, it was full of intensest vibrations of maternallove and tenderness and protection beyond anything which she hadever heard in her own mother's voice. Now it was all gone, and alsothe old look from her eyes. Cynthia Lennox was, in fact, quiteanother woman to the young girl from what she had been to the child. In truth, she cared not one whit for Ellen, but she was possessedwith a stern desire of atonement, and far stronger than her love wasthe appreciation of what that mother opposite must have sufferedduring that day and night when she had forcibly kept her treasure. The agony of that she could present to her consciousness veryvividly, but she could not awaken the old love which had been thebaby's for this young girl. Cynthia felt much more affection forFanny than for Ellen. When she had unfolded her plan for sendingEllen to college, and Fanny had almost gone hysterical with delight, she found it almost impossible to keep her tears back. She knew soacutely how this other woman felt that she almost seemed to lose herown individuality. She began to be filled with a vicarious adorationof Ellen, which was, however, dissipated the moment she actually sawher. She realized that this grown-up girl, who could no longer becuddled and cradled, was nothing to her, but her sympathy with themother remained. 

Ellen remained standing after she had greeted Cynthia. Robert wentover to the mantle-piece and stood leaning against it. He wascompletely puzzled and disturbed by the whole affair. Ellen lookedat Cynthia, then at her parents. "Ellen, come here, child, " said herfather, suddenly, and Ellen went over to him, sitting on the plushsofa beside her mother. 

Andrew reached up and took hold of Ellen's hands, and drew her downon his knee as if she had been a child. "Ellen, look here, " he said, in an intense, almost solemn voice, "father has got something totell you. "

Fanny began to weep almost aloud. Cynthia looked straight ahead, keeping her features still with an effort. Robert studied the carpetpattern. 

"Look here, Ellen, " said Andrew; "you know that father has alwayswanted to do everything for you, but he ain't able to do all hewould like to. God hasn't prospered him, and it seems likely that hewon't be able to do any more than he has done, if so much, in theyears to come. You know father has always wanted to send you tocollege, and give you an extra education so you could teach in aschool where you would make a good living, and now here Miss Lennoxsays she heard your composition, and she has heard a good deal aboutyou from Mr. Harris, how well you stood in the high-school, and shesays she is willing to send you to Vassar College. "

Ellen turned pale. She looked long at her father, whose pathetic, worn, half-triumphant, half-pitiful face was so near her own; thenshe looked at Cynthia, then back again. "To Vassar College?" shesaid. 

"Yes, Ellen, to Vassar College, and she offers to clothe you whileyou are there, but we thank her, and tell her that ain't necessary. We can furnish your clothes. "

"Yes, we can, " said Fanny, in a sobbing voice, but with a flash ofpride. 

"Well, what do you say to it, Ellen?" asked Andrew, and he asked itwith the expression of a martyr. At that moment indescribable painwas the uppermost sensation in his heart, over all his triumph andgladness for Ellen. First came the anticipated agony of parting withher for the greater part of four years, then the pain of lettinganother do for his daughter what he wished to do himself. No manwould ever look in Ellen's eyes with greater love and greatershrinking from the pain which might come of love than Andrew at thatmoment. 

"But--" said Ellen; then she stopped. 

"What, Ellen?"

"Can you spare me for so long? Ought I not to be earning moneybefore that, if you don't have much work?"

"I guess we can spare you as far as all that goes, " cried Andrew. "Iguess we can. I guess we don't want you to support us. "

"I rather guess we don't, " cried Fanny. 

Ellen looked at her father a moment longer with an adorable look, which Robert saw with a sidewise glance of his downcast eyes, thenat her mother. Then she slid from her father's knee and crossed theroom and stood before Cynthia. "I don't know how to thank youenough, " she said, "but I thank you very much, and not only formyself but for them"; she made a slight, graceful, backward motionof her shoulder towards her parents. "I will study hard and try todo you credit, " said she. There was something about Ellen's direct, childlike way of looking at her, and her clear speech, which broughtback to Cynthia the little girl of so many years ago. A warm flushcame over her delicate cheeks; her eyes grew bright with tenderness. 

[Illustration: I'll study hard and try to do you credit]

"I have no doubt as to your doing your best, my dear, " she said, "and it gives me great pleasure to do this for you. "

With that, said with a graceful softness which was charming, shemade as if to rise, but Ellen still stood before her. She hadsomething more to say. "If ever I am able, " she said--"and I shallbe able some day if I have my health--I will repay you. " Ellenspoke with the greatest sweetness, yet with an inflexibility ofpride evident in her face. Cynthia smiled. "Very well, " she said, "if you feel better to leave it in that way. If ever you are ableyou shall repay me; in the mean time I consider that I am amply paidin the pleasure it gives me to do it. " Cynthia held out her slenderhand to Ellen, who took it gratefully, yet a little constrainedly. 

In the opposite corner the doll sat staring at them with eyes ofblank blue and her vacuous smile. A vague sense of injury was overEllen, in spite of her delight and her gratitude--a sense of injurywhich she could not fathom, and for which she chided herself. However, Andrew felt it also. 

After this surprising benefactress and Robert had gone, afterrepeated courtesies and assurances of obligation on both sides, Andrew turned to Fanny. "What does she do it for?" he asked. 

"Hush; she'll hear you. "

"I can't help it. What does she do it for? Ellen isn't anything toher. "

Fanny looked at him with a meaning smile and nod which made hertear-stained face fairly grotesque. 

"What do you mean lookin' that way?" demanded Andrew. 

"Oh, you wait and see, " said Fanny, with meaning, and would say nomore. She was firm in her conclusion that Cynthia was educatingtheir girl to marry her favorite nephew, but that never occurred toAndrew. He continued to feel, while supremely grateful andoverwhelmed with delight at this good fortune for Ellen, thedistrust and resentment of a proud soul under obligation for whichhe sees no adequate reason, and especially when it is directedtowards a beloved one to whom he would fain give of his own strengthand treasure. 

As for Ellen, she was in a tumult of wonder and delight, but whenshe looked at the doll in her corner there came again that vaguesense of injury, and she felt again as if in some way she were beingrobbed instead of being made the object of benefit. 

After Ellen had gone to bed that night she wondered if she ought togo to college, and maybe gain thereby a career which was beyondanything her own loved ones had known, and if it were not better forher to go to work in the shop after all. 

Chapter XXII

When Mrs. Zelotes was made acquainted with the plan for sendingEllen to Vassar she astonished Fanny. Fanny ran over the nextmorning, after Andrew had gone to work, to tell her mother-in-law. She sat a few minutes in the sitting-room, where the old lady wasknitting, before she unfolded the burden of her errand. 

"Cynthia Lennox came to our house last night with Robert Lloyd, " shesaid, finally. 

"Did they?" remarked Mrs. Zelotes, who had known perfectly well thatthey had come, having recognized the Lennox carriage in themoonlight, and having been ever since devoured with curiosity, whichshe would have died rather than betray. 

"Yes, they did, " said Fanny. Then she added, after a pause whichgave wonderful impressiveness to the news, "Cynthia Lennox wants tosend Ellen to college--to Vassar College. "

Then she jumped, for the old woman seemed to spring at her likereleased wire. 

"Send her to college!" said she. "What does she want to send her tocollege for? What right has Cynthia Lennox got to send EllenBrewster anywhere?"

Fanny stared at her dazedly. 

"What right has she got interfering?" demanded Mrs. Zelotes again. 

"Why, " replied Fanny, stammering, "she thought Ellen was so smart. She heard her valedictory, and the school-teacher had talked abouther, what a good scholar she was, and she thought it would be nicefor her to go to college, and she should be very much obligedherself, and feel that we were granting her a great pleasure andprivilege if we allowed her to send Ellen to Vassar. "

All unconsciously Fanny imitated to the life Cynthia's soft eleganceof speech and language. 

"Pshaw!" said Mrs. Zelotes; but still she said it not so muchangrily as doubtfully. "It's the first time I ever heard of CynthiaLennox doing such a thing as that, " said she. "I never knew she wasgiven to sending girls to college. I never heard of her givinganything to anybody. "

Fanny looked mysteriously at her mother-in-law with suddenconfidence. "Look here, " she said. 

"What?"

The two women looked at each other, and neither said a word, but themeaning of one flashed to the other like telegraphy. 

"Do you s'pose that's it?" said Mrs. Zelotes, her old face relaxinginto half-shamed, half-pleased smiles. 

"Yes, I do, " said Fanny, emphatically. 

"You do?"

"Yes, I 'ain't a doubt of it. "

"He did act as if he couldn't take his eyes off her at theexhibition, " agreed Mrs. Zelotes, reflectively; "mebbe you'reright. "

"I know I'm right just as well as if I'd seen it. "

"Well, mebbe you are. What does Andrew say?"

"Oh, he wishes he was the one to do it. "

"Of course he does--he's a Brewster, " said his mother. 

"But he's got sense enough to be pleased that Ellen has got thechance. "

"He ain't any more pleased than I be at anything that's a goodchance for Ellen, " said the grandmother; but all the same, afterFanny had gone, her joy had a sharp sting for her. She was not onewho could take a gift to heart without feeling its sharp edge. 

Had Ellen's sentiment been analyzed, she felt in something the sameway that her grandmother did. However, she had begun to dreamdefinitely about Robert, and the reflection had come, too, that thismight make her more his equal, as nearly his equal as MaudHemingway. 

Maud Hemingway went to college, and so would she. Of the minoraccessories of wealth she thought not so much. She looked at herhands, which were very small and as delicately white as flowers, andreflected with a sense of comfort, of which she was ashamed, thatshe would not need ever to stain them with leather now. She lookedat the homeward stream of dingy girls from the shops, and thoughtwith a sense of escape that she would never have to join them; butshe was conscious of loving Abby better, and Maria, who had alsoentered Lloyd's. Abby, when she heard the news about Vassar, hadlooked at her with a sort of fierce exultation. 

"Thank the Lord, you're out of it, anyhow!" she cried, fervently, asa soul might in the midst of flames. 

Maria had smiled at her with the greatest sweetness and a certainwistfulness. Maria was growing delicate, and seemed to inherit herfather's consumptive tendencies. 

"I am so glad, Ellen, " she said. Then she added, "I suppose wesha'n't see so much of you. "

"Of course we sha'n't, Maria Atkins, " interposed Abby, "and it won'tbe fitting we should. It won't be best for Ellen to associate withshop-girls when she's going to Vassar College. "

But Ellen had cast an impetuous arm around a neck of each. 

"If ever I do such a thing as that!" said she. "If ever I turn acold shoulder to either of you for such a reason as that! What'sVassar College to hearts? That's at the bottom of everything in thisworld, anyhow. I guess you'll see it won't make any differenceunless you keep on thinking such things. If you do--if you think Ican do anything like that--I won't love you so much. "

Ellen faced them both with gathering indignation. Suddenly thisignoble conception of herself in the minds of her friends stung herto resentment. But Abby seized her in two wiry little arms. 

"I never did, I never did!" she cried. "Don't I know what you aremade of, Ellen Brewster? Don't you think I know? But after all, itmight be better for you if you were worse. That was all I meant. "

Ellen, one afternoon, set out in her pretty challis, a white groundwith long sprays of blue flowers running over it, and a blue ribbonat her neck and waist, and her leghorn hat with white ribbons, and aknot of forget-me-nots under the brim. She wore her one pair of nicegloves, too, but those she did not put on until she reached thecorner of the street where Cynthia lived. Then she rubbed them oncarefully, holding up her challis skirts under one arm. 

Cynthia was at home, seated on the back veranda, in a rattan chair, with a book which she was not reading. Ellen stood before her, inher cheap attire, which she wore with an air which seemed to make itprecious, such faith she had in it. Ellen regarded her coarseblue-flowered challis with an innocent admiration which seemedalmost able to glorify it into silk. Cynthia took in at a glance theexceeding commonness of it all; she saw the hat, the like of whichcould be seen in the milliners' windows at fabulously low prices;the foam of spurious lace and the spray of wretched blue flowersmade her shudder. "The poor child, she must have something betterthan that, " she thought, and insensibly she also thought that thegirl must lose her evident faith in the splendor of such attire;must change her standard of taste. She rose and greeted Ellensweetly, though somewhat reservedly. When the two were seatedopposite each other, Cynthia tried to talk pleasantly, but all thetime with a sub-consciousness as one will have of some deformitywhich must be ignored. The girl looked so common to her in thisarray that she began to have a hopeless feeling of disgust about itall. Was it not manifestly unwise to try to elevate a girl who tooksuch evident satisfaction in a gown like that, in a hat like that?Ellen wore her watch and chain ostentatiously. The watch was toolarge for a chatelaine, but she had looped the heavy chain acrossher bosom, and pinned it with the brooch which Abby Atkins had givenher, so it hung suspended. Cynthia riveted her eyes helplessly uponthat as she talked. 

"I hope you are having a pleasant vacation, " said she, as she lookedat the watch, and all at once Ellen knew. 

Ellen replied that she was having a very pleasant vacation, then sheplunged at once into the subject of her call, though with inwardtrembling. 

"Miss Lennox, " said she--and she followed the lines of a littlespeech which she had been rehearsing to herself all the waythere--"I am very grateful to you for what you propose doing for me. It will make a difference to me during my whole life. I cannot beginto tell you how grateful I am. "

"I am very grateful to be allowed to do it, " replied Cynthia, withher unfailing refrain of gentle politeness, but a kindly glance wasin her eyes. Something in the girl's tone touched her. It wasexceedingly earnest, with the simple earnestness of childhood. Moreover, Ellen was regarding her with great, steadfast, seriouseyes, like a baby's who shrinks and yet will have her will ofinformation. 

"I wanted to say, " Ellen continued--and her voice became insensiblyhushed, and she cast a glance around at the house and the leafygrounds, as if to be sure that no one was within hearing--"that Ishould never under any circumstances have said anything regardingwhat happened so long ago. That I never have and never should have, that I never thought of doing such a thing. "

Then the elder woman's face flushed a burning red, and she knew atonce what the girl had suspected. "You might proclaim it on thehouse-tops if it would please you, " she cried out, vehemently. "Ifyou think--if you think--"

"Oh, I do not!" cried Ellen, in an agony of pleading. "Indeed, I donot. It was only that--I--feared lest you might think I would bemean enough to tell. "

"I would have told, myself, long ago if there had been only myselfto consider, " said Cynthia, still red with anger, and her voicestrained. All at once she seemed to Ellen more like the woman of herchildhood. "Yes, I would, " said she, hotly--"I will now. "

"Oh, I beg you not!" cried Ellen. 

"I will go with you this minute and tell your mother, " Cynthia said, rising. 

Ellen sprang up and moved towards her as if to push her back in herchair. "Oh, please don't!" she cried. "Please don't. You don't knowmother; and it would do no good. It was only because I wondered ifyou could have thought I would tell, if I would be so mean. "

"And you thought, perhaps, I was bribing you not to tell, withVassar College, " Cynthia said, suddenly. "Well, you have suspectedme of something which was undeserved. "

"I am very sorry, " Ellen said. "I did not suspect, really, but I donot know why you do this for me. " She said the last with her steadyeyes of interrogation on Cynthia's face. 

"You know the reasons I have given. "

"I do not think they were the only ones, " Ellen replied, stoutly. "Ido not think my valedictory was so good as to warrant so much, and Ido not think I am so smart as to warrant so much, either. "

Cynthia laughed. She sat down again. "Well, " she said, "you are notone to swallow praise greedily. " Then her tone changed. "I owe itto you to tell you why I wish to do this, " she said, "and I will. You are an honest girl, with yourself as well as with otherpeople--too honest, perhaps, and you deserve that I should be honestwith you. I am not doing this for you in the least, my dear. "

Ellen stared at her. 

"No, I am not, " repeated Cynthia. "You are a very clever, smartgirl, I am sure, and it will be a nice thing for you to have abetter education, and be able to take a higher place in the world, but I am not doing it for you. When you were a little child I wouldhave done everything, given my life almost, for you, but I nevercare so much for children when they grow up. I am not doing this foryou, but for your mother. "

"My mother?" said Ellen. 

"Yes, your mother. I know what agony your mother must have been in, that time when I kept you, and I want to atone in some way. I thinkthis is a good way. I don't think you need to hesitate about lettingme do it. You also owe a little atonement to your mother. It was notright for you to run away, in the first place. "

"Yes, I was very naughty to run away, " Ellen said, starting. Sherose, and held out her hand. "I hope you will forgive me, " she said. "I am very grateful, and it will make my father and mother happierthan anything else could, but indeed I don't think--it is so longago--that there was any need--"

"I do, for the sake of my own distress over it, " Cynthia said, shortly. "Suppose, now, we drop the subject, my dear. There is ataint in the New England blood, and you have it, and you must fightit. It is a suspicion of the motives of a good deed which will oftenpoison all the good effect from it. I don't know where the taintcame from. Perhaps the Pilgrim Fathers', being necessarily always onthe watch for the savage behind his gifts, have affected theirdescendants. Anyway, it is there. I suppose I have it. "

"I am very sorry, " said Ellen. 

"I also am sorry, " said Cynthia. "I did you a wrong, and your mothera wrong, years ago. I wonder at myself now, but you don't know thetemptation. You will never know how you looked to me that night. "

Cynthia's voice took on a tone of ineffable tenderness and yearning. Ellen saw again the old expression in her face; suddenly she lookedas before, young and beautiful, and full of a boundless attraction. The girl's heart fairly leaped towards her with an impulse ofaffection. She could in that minute have fallen at her feet, havefollowed her to the end of the world. A great love and admirationwhich had gotten its full growth in a second under the magic ofa look and a tone shook her from head to foot. She went close toCynthia, and leaned over her, putting her round, young face down tothe elder woman's. "Oh, I love you, I love you, " whispered Ellen, with a fervor which was strange to her. 

But Cynthia only kissed her lightly on her cheek, and pushed heraway softly. "Thank you, my dear, " she said. "I am glad you cameand spoke to me frankly, and I am glad we have come to anunderstanding. "

Ellen, after she had taken her leave, was more in love than she hadever been in her life, and with another woman. She thought ofCynthia with adoration; she dreamed about her; the feeling ofreceiving a benefit from her hand became immeasurably sweet. 

Chapter XXIII

Ellen, under the influence of that old fascination which Cynthia hadexerted over her temporarily in her childhood, and which had nowassumed a new lease of life, would have loved to see her every day, but along with the fascination came a great timidity and fear ofpresuming. She felt instinctively that the fascination was aninvoluntary thing on Cynthia's part. She kept repeating to herselfwhat she had said, that she was not sending her to Vassar becauseshe loved her. Strangely enough, this did not make Ellen unhappy inthe least, she was quite content to do all the loving and adoringherself. She made a sort of divinity of the older woman, and whoexpects a divinity to step down from her marble heights, and loveand caress? Ellen began to remember all Cynthia's ways and looks, asa scholar remembers with a view to imitation. She became herdisciple. She began to move like Cynthia, and to speak like her, though she did not know it. Her imitation was totally unconscious;indeed, it was hardly to be called imitation; it was rather thefollowing out of the leading of that image of Cynthia which wasalways present before her mind. Ellen saw Cynthia very seldom. Onceor twice she arrayed herself in her best and made a formal call ofgratitude, and once Fanny went with her. Ellen saw the incongruityof her mother in Cynthia's drawing-room with a torture which shenever forgot. Going home she clung hard to her mother's arm all theway. She was fairly fierce with love and loyalty. She was soindignant with herself that she had seen the incongruity. "I thinkour parlor is enough sight prettier than hers, " she said, defiantly, when they reached home and the hideous lamp was lighted. Ellenlooked around the ornate room, and then at her mother, as with achallenge in behalf of loyalty, and of that which underliesexternals. 

"I rather guess it is, " agreed Fanny, happily, "and I don't s'poseit cost half so much. I dare say that mat on her hearth cost as muchas all our plush furniture and the carpet, and it is a dreadfuldull, homely thing. "

"Yes, it is, " said Ellen. 

"I wish I'd been able to keep my hands as white as Miss Lennox's, an' I wish I'd had time to speak so soft and slow, " said Fanny, wistfully. Then Ellen had her by both shoulders, and was actuallyshaking her with a passion to which she very seldom gave rein. 

"Mother, " she cried--"mother, you know better, you know there isnobody in the whole world to me like my own mother, and never willbe. It isn't being beautiful, nor speaking in a soft voice, nordressing well, it's the being you--_you_. You know I love you best, mother, you know, and I love my own home best, and everything thatis my own best, and I always will. " Ellen was almost weeping. 

"You silly child, " said Fanny, tenderly. "Mother knows you love herbest, but she wishes for your sake, and especially since you aregoing to have advantages that she never had, that she was a littledifferent. "

"I don't, I don't, " said Ellen, fiercely. "I want you just as youare, just exactly as you are, mother. "

Fanny laughed tearfully, and rubbed her coarse black head againstEllen's lovingly with a curious, cat-like motion, then bade her runaway or she would not get her dress done. A dressmaker was comingfor a whole week to the Brewster house to make Ellen's outfit. Mrs. Zelotes had furnished most of the materials, and Andrew was to paythe dressmaker. "You can take a little more of that money out of thebank, " Fanny said. "I want Ellen to go looking so she won't beashamed before the other girls, and I don't want Cynthia Lennoxthinking she ain't well enough dressed, and we ought to have let herdo it. As for being beholden to her for Ellen's clothes, I won't. "

"I rather guess not, " said Andrew, but he was sick at heart. Onlythat afternoon the man from whom he had borrowed the money to buyEllen's watch and chain had asked him for it. He had not a cent inadvance for his weekly pay; he could not see where the money forEllen's clothes was coming from. It was long since the "Golden Hope"had been quoted in the stock-list, but the next morning Andrewpurchased a morning paper. He had stopped taking one regularly. Heput on his spectacles, and spread out the paper in his shakinghands, and scrutinized the stock-list eagerly, but he could not findwhat he wanted. The "Golden Hope" had long since dropped to a stilllevel below all record of fluctuations. A young man passing to hisplace at the bench looked over his shoulder. "Counting up yourdividends, Brewster?" he asked, with a grin. 

Andrew folded up the paper gloomily and made no reply. 

"Irish dividends, maybe, " said the man, with a chuckle at his ownwit, and a backward roll of a facetious eye. 

"Oh, shut up, you're too smart to live, " said the man who stood nextat the bench. He was a young fellow who had been a school-mate ofEllen in the grammar-school. He had left to go to work when she hadentered the high-school. His name was Dixon. He was wiry and alert, with a restless sparkle of bright eyes in a grimy face, and he cutthe leather with lightning-like rapidity. Dixon had always thoughtEllen the most beautiful girl in Rowe. He looked after Andrew with asharp pain of sympathy when he went away with the roll of newspapersticking out of his pocket. 

"Poor old chap, " he said to the facetious man, thrusting his faceangrily towards him. "He has had a devil of a time since he begun togrow old. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Wait till you beginto drop behind. It's what's bound to come to the whole boiling ofus. "

"Mind your jaw, " said the first man, with a scowl. 

"You'd better mind yours, " said Dixon, slashing furiously at theleather. 

That noon Dixon offered Andrew, shamefacedly, taking him aside lestthe other men see, a piece of pie of a superior sort which hismother had put into his dinner bag, but Andrew thanked him kindlyand refused it. He could eat nothing whatever that noon. He keptthinking about the dressmaker, and how Fanny would ask him again totake some of that money out of the bank to pay her, and how themoney was already taken out. 

That evening, when he sat down to the tea-table furnished with thebest china and frosted cake in honor of the dressmaker, and heardthe radiant talk about Ellen's new frills and tucks, he had a coldfeeling at his heart. He was ashamed to look at the dressmaker. 

"You won't know your daughter when we get her fixed up for Vassar, "she told Andrew, with a smirk which covered her face with a networkof wrinkles under her blond fluff of hair. 

"Do have some more cake, Miss Higgins, " said Fanny. She was radiant. The image of her daughter in her new gowns had gone far torecompense her for all her disappointments in life, and they had notbeen few. "What, after all, did it matter?" she asked herself, "if awoman was growing old, if she had to work hard, if she did not knowwhere the next dollar was coming from, if all the direct personalsavor was fast passing out of existence, when one had a daughter wholooked like that?" Ellen, in a new blue dress, was ravishing. Themother looked at her when she was trying it on, with the possessionof love, and the dressmaker as if she herself had created her. 

After supper Ellen had to try on the dress again for her father, andturn about slowly that he might see all its fine points. 

"There, what do you think of that, Andrew?" asked Fanny, triumphantly. 

"Ain't she a lady?" asked the dressmaker. 

"It is very pretty, " said Andrew, smiling with gloomy eyes. Then heheaved a great sigh, and went out of the south door to the steps. "Your father is tired to-night, " Fanny said to Ellen with a meaningof excuse for the dressmaker. 

The dressmaker reflected shrewdly on Andrew's sigh when she was onher way home. "Men don't sigh that way unless there's money to pay, "she thought. "I don't believe but he has been speculating. " Thenshe wondered if there was any doubt about her getting her pay, andconcluded that she would ask for it from day to day to make sure. 

So the next night after tea she asked, with one of her smirks ofamiability, if it would be convenient for Mrs. Brewster to pay herthat night. "I wouldn't ask for it until the end of the week, " saidshe, "but I have a bill to pay. " She said "bill" with a murmurwhich carried conviction of its deception. Fanny flushed angrily. "Of course, " said she, "Mr. Brewster can pay you just as well everynight if you need it. " Fanny emphasized the "need" maliciously. Then she turned to Andrew. "Andrew, " said she, "Miss Higgins needsthe money, if you can pay her for yesterday and to-day. "

Andrew turned pale. "Yes, of course, " he stammered. "How much?"

"Six dollars, " said Fanny, and in her tone was unmistakable meaningof the dearness of the price. The dressmaker was flushed, but herthin mouth was set hard. It was as much as to say, "Well, I don'tcare so long as I get my money. " She was unmarried, and her lonelycondition had worked up her spirit into a strong attitude ofdefiance against all masculine odds. She had once considered menfrom a matrimonial point of view. She had wondered if this one andthat one wanted to marry her. Now she was past that, and consideredwith equal sharpness if this one or that one wanted to cheat her. She had missed men's love through some failing either of theirs orhers. She did not know which, but she was determined that she wouldnot lose money. So she bore Fanny's insulting emphasis withrigidity, and waited for her pay. 

Andrew pulled out his old pocket-book, and counted the bills. MissHiggins saw that he took every bill in it, unless there were some inanother compartment, and of that she could not be quite sure. ButAndrew knew. He would not have another penny until the next weekwhen he received his pay. In the meantime there was a bill due atthe grocery store, and one at the market, and there was the debt forEllen's watch. However, he felt as if he would rather owe every manin Rowe than this one small, sharp woman. He felt the scorn lurkingwithin her like a sting. She seemed to him like some venomousinsect. He went out to the doorstep again, and wondered if she wouldwant her pay the next night when she went home. 

Chapter XXIV

Ellen had a flower-garden behind the house, and a row of sweet-peaswhich was her pride. It had occurred to her that she might venture, although Cynthia Lennox had her great garden and conservatories, tocarry her a bunch of these sweet-peas. She had asked her mother whatshe thought about it. "Why, of course, carry her some if you wantto, " said Fanny. "I don't see why you shouldn't. I dare say she'sgot sweet-peas, but yours are uncommon handsome, and, anyway, itought to please her to have some given her. It ain't altogetherwhat's given, it's the giving. "

So Ellen had cut a great bouquet of the delicate flowers, selectingthe shades carefully, and set forth. She was as guiltily consciousas a lover that she was making an excuse to see Miss Lennox. Shehurried along in delight and trepidation, her great bouquet sheddinga penetrating fragrance around her, her face gleaming white out ofthe dusk. She had to pass Granville Joy's house on her way, and sawwith some dismay, as she drew near, a figure leaning over the gate. 

He pushed open the gate when she drew near, and stood waiting. 

"Good-evening, Ellen, " he said. He was mindful not to say "Hullo"again. He bowed with a piteous imitation of Robert Lloyd, but Ellendid not notice it. 

"Good-evening, " she returned, rather stiffly, then she added, in avery gentle voice, to make amends, that it was a beautiful night. 

The young man cast an appreciative glance at the crescent moon inthe jewel-like blue overhead, and at the soft shadows of the trees. 

"Yes, beautiful, " he replied, with a sort of gratitude, as if thegirl had praised him instead of the night. 

"May I walk along with you?" he asked, falling into step with her. 

"I am going to take these sweet-peas to Miss Lennox, " said Ellen, without replying directly. 

She was in terror lest Granville should renew his appeal of a fewweeks before, and she was in terror of her own pity for him, andalso of that mysterious impulse and longing which sometimes seizedher to her own wonder and discomfiture. Sometimes, in thinking ofGranville Joy, and his avowal of love, and the touch of his hand onhers, and his lips on hers, she felt, although she knew she did notlove him, a softening of her heart and a quickening of her pulsewhich made her wonder as to her next movement, if it might besomething which she had not planned. And always, after thinking ofGranville, she thought of Robert Lloyd; some mysterious sequenceseemed to be established between the two in the girl's mind, thoughshe was not in love with either. 

Ellen was just at that period almost helpless before the demands ofher own nature. No great stress in her life had occurred to awakenher to a stanchness either of resistance or yielding. She was in thefull current of her own emotions, which, added to a goodly floodinherited from the repressed passion of New England ancestors, had astrong pull upon her feet. Sooner or later she would be given thathard shake of life which precipitates and organizes in all strongnatures, but just now she was in a ferment. She walked along underthe crescent moon, with the young man at her side whose everythought and imagination was dwelling upon her with love. She wasconscious of a tendency of her own imagination in his direction, orrather in the direction of the love and passion which herepresented, and all the time her heart was filled with the idealimage of another woman. She was prostrated with that hero-worshipwhich belongs to young and virgin souls, and yet she felt thedrawing of that other admiration which is more earthly and morefascinating, as it shows the jewel tints in one's own soul as wellas in the other. 

As for Granville Joy, who had scrubbed his hands and face well withscented soap to take away the odor of the leather, and put on aclean shirt and collar, being always prepared for the possibility ofmeeting this dainty young girl whom he loved, he walked along by herside, casting, from time to time, glances which were pure admirationat the face over the great bunch of sweet-peas. 

"Don't you want me to carry them for you?" he asked. 

"No, thank you, " replied Ellen. "They are nothing to carry. "

"They're real pretty flowers, " said Granville, timidly. 

"Yes, I think they are. "

"Mother planted some, but hers didn't come up. Mother has got somebeautiful nasturtiums. Perhaps you would like some, " he said, eagerly. 

"No, thank you, I have some myself, " Ellen said, rather coldly. "I'mjust as much obliged to you. "

Granville quivered a little and shrank as a dog might under a blow. He saw this dainty girl-shape floating along at his side in aflutter of wonderful draperies, one hand holding up her skirts withmaddening revelations of whiteness. If a lily could hold up herpetals out of the dust she might do it in the same fashion as Ellenheld her skirts, with no coarse clutching nor crumpling, notimmodestly, but rather with disclosures of modesty itself. Ellen'swonderful daintiness was one of her chief charms. There was animmaculateness about her attire and her every motion which seemed toextend to her very soul, and hedged her about with the lure ofunapproachableness. It was more that than her beauty which rousedthe imagination and quickened the pulses of a young man regardingher. 

Granville Joy did not feel the earth beneath his feet as he walkedwith Ellen. The scent of the sweet-peas came in his face, he heardthe soft rustle of Ellen's skirts and his own heart-beats. She wasvery silent, since she did not wish him to go with her, though shewas all the time reproaching herself for it. Granville kept castingabout for something to say which should ingratiate him with her. Hewas resolved to say nothing of love to her. 

"It is a beautiful night, " he said. 

"Yes, it is, " agreed Ellen, and she looked at the moon. She felt theboy's burning, timid, worshipful eyes on her face. She trembled, andyet she was angry and annoyed. She felt in an undefined fashion thatshe herself was the summer night and the flowers and the crescentmoon, and all that was fair and beautiful in the whole world to thisother soul, and shame seized her instead of pride. He seemed toforce her to a sight of her own pettiness, as is always the casewhen love is not fully returned. She made an impatient motion withthe shoulder next Granville, and walked faster. 

"You said you were going to Miss Lennox's, " he remarked, anxiously, feeling that in some way he had displeased her. 

"Yes, to carry her some sweet-peas. "

"She must have been real good-looking when she was young, " Granvillesaid, injudiciously. 

"When she was young, " retorted Ellen, angrily. "She is beautifulnow. There is not another woman in Rowe as beautiful as she is. "

"Well, she is good-looking enough, " agreed Granville, withunreasoning jealousy. He had not heard of Ellen's good fortune. Hismother had not told him. She was a tenderly sentimental woman, andhad always had her fancies with regard to her son and EllenBrewster. When she heard the news she reflected that it wouldperhaps remove the girl from her boy immeasurably, that he would bepained, so she said nothing. Every night when he came home she hadwatched his face to see if he had heard. 

Now Ellen told him. "You know what Miss Cynthia Lennox is going todo for me, " she said, abruptly, almost boastfully, she was so eagerin her partisanship of Cynthia. 

Granville looked at her blankly. They were coming into the crowded, brilliantly lighted main street of the city, and their two faceswere quite plain to each other's eyes. 

"No, I don't, " said he. "What is it, Ellen?"

"She is going to send me to Vassar College. "

Granville's face whitened perceptibly. There was a queer sound inhis throat. 

"To Vassar College!" he repeated. 

"Yes, to Vassar College. Then I shall be able to get a good school, and teach, and help father and mother. "

Granville continued to look at her, and suddenly an intense pitysprang into life in the girl's heart. She felt as if she werelooking at some poor little child, instead of a stalwart young man. 

"Don't look so, Granville, " she said, softly. 

"Of course I am glad at any good fortune which can come to you, Ellen, " Granville said then, huskily. His lips quivered a little, but his eyes on her face were brave and faithful. Suddenly Ellenseemed to see in this young man a counterpart of her own father. Granville had a fine, high forehead and contemplative outlook. Hehad been a good scholar. Many said that it was a pity he had toleave school and go to work. It had been the same with her father. Andrew had always looked immeasurably above his labor. She seemed tosee Granville Joy in the future just such a man, a finer animalharnessed to the task of a lower, and harnessed in part by his ownloving faithfulness towards others. Ellen had often reflected that, if it hadn't been for her and her mother, her father would not havebeen obliged to work so hard. Now in Granville she saw another manwhom love would hold to the ploughshare. A great impulse of loyaltyas towards her own came over her. 

"It won't make any difference between me and my old friends if I dogo to Vassar College, " she said, without reflecting on the dangerousencouragement of it. 

"You can't get into another track of life without its making adifference, " returned Granville, soberly. "But I am glad. God knowsI'm glad, Ellen. I dare say it is better for you than if--" Hestopped then and seemed all at once to see projected on his mirrorof the future this dainty, exquisite girl, with her fine intellect, dragging about a poor house, with wailing children in arm and atheel, and suddenly a great courage of renunciation came over him. 

"It _is_ better, Ellen, " he said, in a loud voice, like a hero's, asif he were cheering his own better impulses on to victory over hisown passions. "It is better for a girl like you, than to--"

Ellen knew that he meant to say, "to marry a fellow like me. " Ellenlooked at him, the sturdy backward fling of his head and shoulders, and the honest regard of his pained yet unflinching eyes, and agreat weakness of natural longing for that which she was even nowdeprecating nearly overswept her. She was nearer loving him thatmoment than ever before. She realized something in him which couldcommand love--the renunciation of love for love's sake. 

"I shall never forget my old friends, whatever happens, " she said, in a trembling voice, and it might have all been different had theynot then arrived at Cynthia Lennox's. 

"Shall I wait and go home with you, Ellen?" Granville asked, timidly. 

"No, thank you. I don't know how long I shall stay, " Ellen replied. "You are real kind, but I am not a bit afraid. "

"It is sort of lonesome going past the shops. "

"I can take a car, " Ellen said. She extended her hand to Granville, and he grasped it firmly. 

"Good-night, Ellen; I am always glad of any good fortune that maycome to you, " he said. 

But Granville Joy, going alone down the brilliant street, past theblaze of the shop-windows and the knots of loungers on the corners, reflected that he had seen the fiery tip of a cigar on the Lennoxveranda, that it might be possible that young Lloyd was there, sinceMiss Lennox was his aunt, and that possibly the aunt's sending Ellento Vassar might bring about something in that quarter which wouldnot otherwise have happened, and he writhed at the fancy of thatsort of good fortune for Ellen, but held his mind to it resolutelyas to some terrible but necessary grindstone for the refinement ofspirit. "It would be a heap better for her, " he said to himself, quite loud, and two men whom he was passing looked at him curiously. "Drunk, " said one to the other. 

When he was on his homeward way he overtook a slender girlstruggling along with a kerosene-can in one hand and a package ofsugar in the other, and, seeing that it was Abby Atkins, hepossessed himself of both. She only laughed and did not start. AbbyAtkins was not of the jumping or screaming kind, her nerves were sofinely balanced that they recovered their equilibrium, aftersurprises, before she had time for manifestations. There was acurious healthfulness about the slender, wiry little creature whowas overworked and under-fed, a healthfulness which seemed to resultfrom the action of the mind upon a meagre body. 

"Hullo, Granville Joy!" she said, in her good-comrade fashion, andthe two went on together. Presently Abby looked up in his face. 

"Know about Ellen?" said she. Granville nodded. 

"Well, I'm glad of it, aren't you?" Abby said, in a challengingtone. 

"Yes, I am, " replied Granville, meeting her look firmly. 

Suddenly he felt Abby's little, meagre, bony hand close over theback of his, holding the kerosene-can. "You're a good fellow, Granville Joy, " said she. 

Granville marched on and made no response. He felt his throat fillwith sobs, and swallowed convulsively. Along with this womanlycompassion came a compassion for himself, so hurt on his littlefield of battle. He saw his own wounds as one might see astranger's. 

"Think of Ellen dogging around to a shoe-shop like me and the othergirls, " said Abby, "and think of her draggin' around with half adozen children and no money. Thank the Lord she's lifted out of it. It ain't you nor me that ought to grudge her fortune to her, norwish her where she might have been otherwise. "

"That's so, " said the young man. 

Abby's hand tightened over the one on the kerosene-can. "You are agood fellow, Granville Joy, " she said again. 

Chapter XXV

Robert Lloyd was sitting on the veranda behind the green trail ofvines when Ellen came up the walk. He never forgot the girl's facelooking over her bunch of sweet-peas. There was in it somethingindescribably youthful and innocent, almost angelic. The light fromthe window made her hair toss into gold; her blue eyes soughtCynthia with the singleness of blue stars. It was evident whom shehad come to see. She held out her flowers towards her with a gestureat once humble and worshipful, like that of some devotee at ashrine. 

She said "Good-evening" with a shy comprehensiveness, then, toCynthia, like a child, "I thought maybe you would like some of mysweet-peas. "

Both gentlemen rose, and Risley looked curiously from the young girlto Cynthia, then placed his chair for her, smiling kindly. 

"The sweet-peas are lovely, " Cynthia said. "Thank you, my dear. Theyare much prettier than any I have had in my garden this year. Pleasesit down, " for Ellen was doubtful about availing herself of theproffered chair. She had so hoped that she might find Cynthia alone. She had dreamed, as a lover might have done, of a tête-à-tête withher, what she would say, what Cynthia would say. She had thought, and trembled at the thought, that possibly Cynthia might kiss herwhen she came or went. She had felt, with a thrill of spirit, thetouch of Cynthia's soft lips on hers, she had smelt the violetsabout her clothes. Now it was all spoiled. She remembered thingswhich she had heard about Mr. Risley's friendship with Cynthia, howhe had danced attendance upon her for half a lifetime, and thoughtthat she did not like him. She looked at his smiling, grizzled, blond face with distrust. She felt intuitively that he saw straightthrough her little subterfuge of the flowers, that he divined hergirlish worship at the shrine of Cynthia, and was making fun of her. 

"Do you object to a cigar, Miss Brewster?" asked Robert, and Risleylooked inquiringly at her. 

"Oh, no, " replied Ellen, with the eager readiness of a child to fitinto new conditions. She thought of the sitting-room at home, bluewith the rank pipe-smoke of Nahum Beals and his kind. She picturedthem to herself sitting about on these warm evenings in theirshirt-sleeves, and she saw the two gentlemen in their light summerclothes with their fragrant cigars at their lips, and all of asudden she realized that between these men and the others there wasa great gulf, and that she was trying to cross it. She did notrealize, as later, that the gulf was one of externals, and of widthrather than depth, but it seemed to her then that from one shore shecould only see dimly the opposite. A great fear and jealousy cameover her as to her own future accessibility to those of the otherkind among whom she had been brought up, like her father andGranville. 

Ellen felt all this as she sat beside Cynthia, who was casting aboutin her mind, in rather an annoyed fashion, for something to say tothis young beneficiary of hers which should not have anything to dowith the benefit. 

Finally she inquired if she were having a pleasant vacation, andEllen replied that she was. Risley looked at her beautiful face withthe double radiance of the electric-light and the lamp-light fromthe window on it, giving it a curious effect. It suddenly occurredto him to wonder why everybody seemed to have such an opinion as tothe talents of this girl. Why did Cynthia consider that her nativeability warranted this forcible elevation of her from her own sphereand setting her on a height of education above her kind? She lookedand spoke like an ordinary young girl. She had a beautiful face, itis true, and her shyness seemed due to the questioning attitude of achild rather than to self-consciousness, but, after all, why did shegive people that impression? Her valedictory had been clever, nodoubt, and there was in it a certain fire of conviction, which, though crude, was moving; but, after all, almost any bright girlmight have written it. She had been a fine scholar, no doubt, butany girl with a ready intelligence might have done as well. Whencecame this inclination of all to rear the child upon a pedestal?Risley wondered, looking at her, narrowing his keen, light eyesunder reflective brows, puffing at his cigar; then he admitted tohimself that he was one with the crowd of Ellen's admirers. Therewas somehow about the girl that which gave the impression of anenormous reserve out of all proportion to any external evidence. "The child says nothing remarkable, " he told Cynthia, after she hadgone that evening, "but somehow she gives me an impression of powerto say something extraordinary, and do something extraordinary. There is electricity and steel behind that soft, rosy flesh of hers. But all she does which is evident to the eye of man is to worshipyou, Cynthia. "

"Worship me?" repeated Cynthia, vaguely. 

"Yes, she has one of those aberrations common to her youth and hersex. She is repeating a madness of old Greece, and following you asa nymph might a goddess. "

"It is only because she is grateful, " returned Cynthia, lookingrather annoyed. 

"Gratitude may be a factor in it, but it is very far from being thewhole of the matter. It is one of the spring madnesses of life; butdon't be alarmed, it will be temporary in the case of a girl likethat. She will easily be led into her natural track of love. Do youknow, Cynthia, that she is one of the most normal, typical younggirls I ever saw, and that makes me wonder more at this impressionof unusual ability which she undoubtedly gives. She has all theweaknesses of her age and sex, she is much younger than some girlsof her age, and yet there is the impression which I cannot shakeoff. "

"I have it, too, " said Cynthia, rather impatiently. 

"Cynthia Lennox, I don't believe you care in the least for thisyoung devotee of yours, for all you are heaping benefits upon her, "Risley said, looking at her quizzically. 

"I am not sure that I do, " replied Cynthia, calmly. 

"Then why on earth--?"

Suddenly Cynthia began speaking rapidly and passionately, straightening herself in her chair. "Oh, Lyman, do you think I coulddo a thing like that, and not repent it and suffer remorse for itall these years?" she cried. 

"A thing like that?"

"Like stealing that child, " Cynthia replied, in a whisper. 

"Stealing the child? You did not steal the child. "

"Yes, I did. "

"Why, it was only a few hours that you kept her. "

"What difference does it make whether you steal anything for a fewhours or a lifetime? I kept her, and she was crying for her mother, and her mother was suffering tortures all that time. Then I kept itsecret all these years. You didn't know what I have suffered, Lyman. "

Cynthia regarded him with a wan look. 

Risley half laughed, then checked himself. "My poor girl, you havethe New England conscience in its worst form, " he said. 

"You yourself told me it was a serious thing I was doing, " Cynthiasaid, half resentfully. "One does not wish one's sin treated lightlywhen one has hugged its pricks to one's bosom for so long--itdetracts from the dignity of suffering. "

"So I did, but all those years ago!"

"If you don't leave me my remorse, how can I atone for the deed?"

"Cynthia, you are horribly morbid. "

"Maybe you are right, maybe it is worse than morbid. Sometimes Ithink I am unnatural, out of drawing, but I did not make myself, andhow can I help it?" Cynthia spoke with a pathetic little laugh. 

She leaned her head back in her chair, and looked at a star througha gap in the vines. The shadows of the leaves played over her long, white figure. Again to Risley, gazing at her, came the conviction asof subtle spiritual deformity in the woman; she was unnatural insomething the same fashion that an orchid is unnatural, and it wasworse, because presumably the orchid does not know it is an orchidand regret not being another, more evenly developed, flower, andCynthia had a full realization and a mental mirror clear enough tosee the twist in her own character. 

Risley had never kissed her in his life, but that night, when theyparted, he laid a hand on her soft, gray hair, and smoothed it backwith a masculine motion of tenderness, leaving her white forehead, which had a candid, childish fulness about the temples, bare. Thenhe put his lips to it. 

"You are a silly girl, Cynthia, " he said. 

"I wish I were different, Lyman, " she responded, and, he felt, witha double meaning. 

"I don't, " he said, and stroked her hair with a great tenderness, which seemed for the time to quite fill and satisfy his heart. Hewas a man of measureless patience, born to a firm conviction of thejourney's end. 

"There are worse things than loving a good woman your whole life andnever having her, " he said to himself as he went home, but he saidit without its full meaning. Risley's "nerves" were always lightedby the lamp of his own hope, which threw a gleam over unknown seas. 

Chapter XXVI

Robert Lloyd accompanied Ellen home, though she had said timidlythat she was not in the least afraid, that she would not trouble anyone, that she could take a car. Cynthia herself had insisted thatRobert should escort her. 

"It's too late for you to be out alone, " she said, and the girlseemed to perceive dimly a hedge of conventionality which she hadnot hitherto known. She had often taken a car when she was alone ofan evening, without a thought of anything questionable. Some of theconductors lived near Ellen, and she felt as if she were underpersonal friendly escort. "I know the conductor on that car, and itwould take me right home, and I am not in the least afraid, " shesaid to Robert, as the car came rocking down the street when theyemerged from Cynthia's grounds. 

"It's a lovely night, " Robert said, speaking quickly as they pausedon the sidewalk. "I am not going to let you go alone, anyway. Wewill take the car if you say so, but what do you say to walking?It's a lovely night. "

It actually flashed through Ellen's mind--to such small issues offinance had she been accustomed--that the young man might insistupon paying her car-fare if he went with her on the car. 

"I would like to walk, but I am sorry to put you to so muchtrouble, " she said, a little awkwardly. 

"Oh, I like to walk, " returned Robert. "I don't walk half enough, "and they went together down the lighted street. Suddenly to Ellenthere came a vivid remembrance, so vivid that it seemed almost likeactual repetition of the time when she, a little child, maddened bythe sudden awakening of the depths of her nature, had come down thissame street. She saw that same brilliant market-window where she hadstopped and stared, to the momentary forgetfulness of her troublesin the spectacular display of that which was entirely outside them. Curiously enough, Robert drew her to a full stop that night beforethe same window. It was one of those strange cases of apparenttelepathy which one sometimes notices. When Ellen looked at themarket-window, with a flash of reminiscence, Robert immediately drewher to a stop before it. "That is quite a study in color, " he said. "I fancy there are a good many unrecognized artists amongmarket-men. "

"Yes, it is really beautiful, " agreed Ellen, looking at it with eyeswhich had changed very little from their childish outlook. Again shesaw more than she saw. The window differed materially from thatbefore which she had stood fascinated so many years ago, for thatwas in a different season. Instead of frozen game and wintervegetables, were the products of summer gardens, and fruits, andberries. The color scheme was dazzling with great heaps of tomatoes, and long, emerald ears of corn, and baskets of apples, and goldcrooks of summer squashes, and speckled pods of beans. 

"Suppose, " said Robert, as they walked on, "that all the market-menwho had artistic tastes had art educations and set up studios andpainted pictures, who would keep the markets?"

He spoke gayly. His manner that night was younger and merrier thanEllen had ever seen it. She was naturally rather grave herself. Whatshe had seen of life had rather disposed her to a hush of respectthan to hilarity, but somehow his mood began to infect her. 

"I don't know, " she answered, laughing, "I suppose somebody wouldkeep the markets. "

"Yes, but they would not be as good markets. That is, they would notdo as artistic markets, and they would not serve the higher purposeof catering to the artistic taste of man, as well as to his bodilyneeds. "

"Perhaps a picture like that is just as well and better than itwould be painted and hung on a wall, " Ellen admitted, reflectively. 

"Just so--why is it not?" Robert said, in a pleased voice. 

"Yes, I think it is, " said Ellen. "I do think it is better, becauseeverybody can see it there. Ever so many people will see it therewho would not go to picture-galleries to see it, and then--"

"And then it may go far to dignify their daily needs, " said Robert. "For instance, a poor man about to buy his to-morrow's dinner mayfeel his soul take a little fly above the prices of turnips andcabbages. "

"Maybe, " said Ellen, but doubtfully. 

"Don't you think so?"

"The prices of turnips and cabbages may crowd other things out, "Ellen replied, and her tone was sad, almost tragic. "You see I amright in it, Mr. Lloyd, " she said, earnestly. 

"You mean right in the midst of the kind of people whom necessityforces to neglect the æsthetic for the purely useful?"

"Yes, " said Ellen. Then she added, in an indescribably patheticvoice, "People have to live first before they can see, and theycan't think until they are fed, and one needs always to have hadenough turnips and cabbages to eat without troubling about thegetting them, in order to see in them anything except food. "

Lloyd looked at her curiously. "Decidedly this child can think, " hereflected. He shrugged his arm, on which Ellen's hand lay, a littlecloser to his side. 

Just then they were passing the great factories--Lloyd's, andBriggs's, and Maguire's. Many of the windows in Briggs's andMaguire's reflected light from the moon and the electric-lamps onthe street. Lloyd's was all dark except for one brilliant spark oflight, which seemed to be threading the building like awill-o'-the-wisp. "That is the night-watchman, " said Robert. "Hemust have a dull time of it. "

"I should think he might be afraid, " said Ellen. 

"Afraid of what?"

"Of ghosts. "

"Ghosts in a shoe-shop?" asked Robert, laughing. 

"I don't believe there has been another building in the whole citywhich has held so many heart-aches, and I always wondered if theydidn't make ghosts instead of dead people, " Ellen said. 

"Do you think they have such a hard time?"

"I know they do, " said Ellen. "I think I ate the knowledge alongwith my first daily bread. "

Robert Lloyd looked down at the light, girlish figure on his arm, and again the resolution that he would not talk on such topics witha young girl like this came over him. He felt a reluctance to do sowhich was quite apart from his masculine scorn of a girl's opinionon such matters. Somehow he did not wish to place Ellen Brewster onthe same level of argument on which another man might have stood. Hefelt a jealousy of doing so. She seemed more within his reach, andinfinitely more for his pleasure, where she was. He lookedadmiringly down at her fair face fixed on his with a serious, intentexpression. He was quite ready to admit that he might fall in lovewith her. He was quite ready to ask now why he should not. She was abeautiful girl, an uncommon girl. She was going to be thoroughlyeducated. It would probably be quite possible to divorce herentirely from her surroundings. He shuddered when he thought of hermother and aunt, but, after all, a man, if he were firm, need notmarry the mother or aunt. And all this was in spite of a resolutionwhich he had formed on due consideration after his last call uponEllen. He had said to himself that it would not in any case be wise, that he had better not see more of her than he could help. Insteadof going to see her, he had gone riding with Maud Hemingway, wholived near his uncle's, in an old Colonial house which had belongedto her great-grandfather. The girl was a good comrade, so good acomrade that she shunted, as it were, love with flings of readyspeech and friendly greeting, and tennis-rackets and riding-whipsand foils. Robert had been teaching Maud to fence, and she hadfenced too well. Still, Robert had said to himself that he mightsome day fall in love with her and marry her. He charged his memorywith the fact that this was a much more rational course thanvisiting a girl like Ellen Brewster, so he stayed away in spite ofinvoluntary turnings of his thoughts in that direction. However, nowwhen the opportunity had seemed to be fairly forced upon him, whatwas he to do? He felt that he was stirred as he had never beenbefore. The girl's very soul seemed to meet his when she looked upat him with those serious blue eyes of hers. He knew that there hadnever been any like her for him, but he felt as if in anotherminute, if they did not drop topics which he might as well havediscussed with another man, this butterfly of femininity which sodelighted him would be beyond his hand. He wanted to keep her to herrose. 

"But the knowledge must not imbitter your life, " he said. "It is notfor a little, delicate girl to worry herself over the problems whichare too much for men. "

In spite of himself a tenderness had come into his voice. Ellenlooked down and away from him. She trembled. 

"It seems to me that the problems of life, like those in the algebrawe studied at school, are for everybody who can read them, whethermen or women, " said she, but her voice was unsteady. 

"Some of them are for men to read and struggle with for the sake ofthe women, " said Robert. His voice had a tender inflection. Theywere passing a garden full of old-fashioned flowers, bordered withbox. The scent of the box seemed fairly to clamor over the gardenfence, drowning out the smaller fragrances of the flowers, like theclamor of a mob. Even the sweetness of the mignonette was faintlyperceived. 

"How strong the box is, " said Ellen, imperceptibly shrinking alittle from Robert. 

When they reached the Brewster house Robert said, as kindly asGranville Joy might have done, "Cannot we get better acquainted, Miss Brewster? May I call upon you sometimes?"

"I shall be happy to see you, " Ellen said, repeating the formula ofwelcome like a child, but she knew when she repeated it that it wasvery true. After she had parted from young Lloyd, she went into thesitting-room where were her mother and father, her mother sewing ona wrapper, her father reading the paper. Both of them looked up asthe girl entered, and both stared at her in a bewildered way withoutrightly knowing why. Ellen's cheeks were a wonderful color, her eyesfairly blazed with blue light, her mouth was smiling in thatineffable smile of a simple overflow of happiness. 

"Did you ride home on the car?" asked Fanny. "I didn't hear itstop. "

"No, mother. "

"Did you come home alone?" asked Andrew, abruptly. 

"No, " said Ellen, blinking before the glare of the lamp. Fannylooked at Andrew. "Who did come home with you?" she asked, in afoolish, fond voice. 

"Mr. Robert Lloyd. He was sitting on the piazza when I got there. Itold Miss Lennox I had just as soon come on the cars alone, but shewouldn't let me, and then he said it would be pleasant to walk, and--"

"Oh, you needn't make so many excuses, " said Fanny, laughing. 

Ellen colored until her face was a blaze of roses, she blinkedharder, and turned her head away impatiently. 

"I am not making excuses, " said she, as if her modesty wereoffended. "I wish you wouldn't talk so, mother. I couldn't help it. "

"Of course you couldn't, " her mother called out jocularly, as Ellenwent into the other room to get her lamp to go to bed. 

Fanny was radiant with delight. After Ellen had gone up-stairs, shekept looking at Andrew, and longing to confide in him heranticipation with regard to Ellen and young Lloyd, but sherefrained, being doubtful as to how he would take it. Andrew lookedvery sober. The girl's beautiful, metamorphosed face was ever beforehis eyes, and it was with him as if he were looking after the flightof a beloved bird into a farther blue which was sacred, even fromthe following of his love. 

Chapter XXVII

Ellen's first impulse, when she really began to love Robert Lloyd, was not yielding, but flight; her first sensation, not happiness, but shame. When he left her that night she realized, to herunspeakable dismay and anger, that he had not left her, that hewould never in her whole life, or at least it seemed so, leave heragain. Everywhere she looked she saw his face projected by hermemory before her with all the reality of life. His face camebetween her and her mother's and father's, it came between her andher thoughts of other faces. When she was alone in her chamber, there was the face. She blew out the lamp in a panic of resentmentand undressed in the dark, but that made no difference. When she layin bed, although she closed her eyes resolutely, she could still seeit. 

"I won't have it; I won't have it, " she said, quite aloud in hershame and rebellion. "I won't have it. What does this mean?"

In spite of herself the sound of his voice was in her ears, and sheresented that; she fought against the feeling of utter rapture whichcame stealing over her because of it. She felt as if she wanted tospring out of bed and run, run far away into the freedom of thenight, if only by so doing she could outspeed herself. Ellen beganto realize the tyranny of her own nature, and her whole soul arosein revolt. 

But the girl could no more escape than a nymph of old the pursuit ofthe god, and there was no friendly deity to transform her into aflower to elude him. When she slept at last she was overtaken in theinnocent passion of dreams, and when she awoke it was, to her angrysensitiveness, not alone. 

When she went down-stairs all her rosy radiance of the night beforewas eclipsed. She looked pale and nervous. She recoiled whenever hermother began to speak. It seemed to her that if she said anything, and especially anything congratulatory about Robert Lloyd, she wouldfly at her like a wild thing. Fanny kept looking at her with lovingfacetiousness, and Ellen winced indescribably; still, she did notsay anything until after breakfast, when Andrew had gone to work. Andrew was unusually sober and preoccupied that morning. When hewent out he passed close to Ellen, as she sat at the table, andtilted up her face and kissed her. "Father's blessin', " hewhispered, hoarsely, in her ear. Ellen nestled against him. Thisnatural affection, before which she need not fly nor be ashamed, which she had always known, seemed to come before her like a shieldagainst all untried passion. She felt sheltered and comforted. ButAndrew passed Eva Tenny coming to the house on his way out of theyard, and when she entered Fanny began at once:

"Who do you s'pose came home with Ellen last night?" said she. Shelooked at Eva, then at Ellen, with a glance which seemed to uncovera raw surface of delicacy. Ellen flushed angrily. 

"Mother, I do wish--" she began; but Fanny cut her short. 

"She's pretendin' she don't like it, " she said, almost hilariously, her face glowing with triumph, "but she does. You ought to have seenher when she came in last night. "

"I guess I know who it was, " said Eva, but she echoed her sister'smanner half-heartedly. She was looking very badly that morning, herface was stained, and her eye hard with a look as if tears hadfrozen in them. She had come in a soiled waist, too, without anycollar. 

"For Heaven's sake, Eva Tenny, what ails you?" Fanny cried. 

Eva flung herself for answer on the floor, and fairly writhed. Wordswere not enough expression for her violent temperament. She had toresort to physical manifestations or lose her reason. As shewrithed, she groaned as one might do who was dying in extremity ofpain. 

Ellen, when she heard her aunt's groans, stopped, and stood in theentry viewing it all. She thought at first that her aunt was ill, and was just about to call out to know if she should go for thedoctor, all her grievances being forgotten in this evidently worsestress, when her mother fairly screamed again, stooping over hersister, and trying to raise her. 

"Eva Tenny, you tell me this minute what the matter is. "

Then Eva raised herself on one elbow, and disclosed a face distortedwith wrath and woe, like a mask of tragedy. 

"He's gone! he's gone!" she shrieked out, in an awful, shrill voice, which was like the note of an angry bird. "He's gone!"

"For God's sake, not--Jim?"

"Yes, he's gone! he's gone! Oh, my God! my God! he's gone!"

All at once the little Amabel appeared, slipping past Ellensilently. She stood watching her mother. She was vibrating from headto foot as if strung on wires. She was not crying, but she keptcatching her breath audibly; her little hands were twitching in thefolds of her frock; she winked rapidly, her lids obscuring andrevealing her eyes until they seemed a series of blue sparks. Shewas no paler than usual--that was scarcely possible--but her skinlooked transparent, pulses were evident all over her face and herlittle neck. 

"You don't mean he's gone with--?" gasped Fanny. 

Suddenly Eva raised herself with a convulsive jerk from the floor toher feet. She stood quite still. "Yes, he has gone, " she said, andall the passion was gone from her voice, which was much moreterrible in its calm. 

"You don't mean with--?"

"Yes; he has gone with Aggie. " Eva spoke in a voice like adeaf-mute's, quite free from inflections. There was somethingdreadful about her rigid attitude. Little Amabel looked at hermother's eyes, then cowered down and began to cry aloud. Ellen camein and took her in her arms, whispering to her to soothe her. Shetried to coax her away, but the child resisted violently, though shewas usually so docile with Ellen. 

Eva did not seem to notice Amabel's crying. She stood in thathorrible inflexibility, with eyes like black stones fixed onsomething unseeable. 

Fanny clutched her violently by the arm and shook her. 

"Eva Tenny, " said she, "you behave yourself. What if he has runaway? You ain't the first woman whose husband has run away. I'd havemore pride. I wouldn't please him nor her enough. If he's as bad asthat, you're better off rid of him. "

Eva turned on her sister, and her calm broke up like ice under herfire of passion. 

"Don't you say one word against him, not one word!" she shrieked, throwing off Fanny's hand. "I won't hear one word against myhusband. "

Then little Amabel joined in. "Don't you say one word against mypapa!" she cried, in her shrill, childish treble. Then she sobbedconvulsively, and pushed Ellen away. "Go away!" she said, viciously, to her. She was half mad with terror and bewilderment. 

"Don't you say one word against Jim, " said Eva again. "If ever Ihear anybody say one word against him I'll--"

"You don't mean you're goin' to stan' up for him, Eva Tenny?"

"As long as I draw the breath of life, and after, if I knowanything, " declared Eva. Then she straightened herself to her fullheight, threw back her shoulders, and burst into a furiousdenunciation like some prophetess of wrath. The veins on herforehead grew turgid, her lips seemed to swell, her hair seemed tomove as she talked. The others shrank back and looked at her; evenlittle Amabel hushed her sobs and stared, fascinated. "Curses on thegrinding tyranny that's brought it all about, and not on the poor, weak man that fell under it!" she cried. "Jim ain't to blame. He'shad bigger burdens put on his shoulders than the Lord gave himstrength to bear. He had to drop 'em. Jim has tried faithful eversince we were married. He worked hard, and it wa'n't never his faultthat he lost his place, but he kept losin' it. They kept shuttin'down, or dischargin' him for no reason at all, without a minute'swarnin'. An' it wa'n't because he drank. Jim never drank when he hada job. He was just taken up and put down by them over him as if hewas a piece on a checker-board. He lost his good opinion of himselfwhen he saw others didn't set any more by him than to shove him offor on the board as it suited their play. He began to think maybe hewa'n't a man, and then he began to act as if he wasn't a man. And hewas ashamed of his life because he couldn't support me and Amabel, ashamed of his life because he had to live on my little earnin's. Hewas ashamed to look me in the face, and ashamed to look his ownchild in the face. It was only night before last he was talkin' tome, and I didn't know what he meant then, but I know now. I thoughtthen he meant something else, but now I know what he meant. He sat along time leanin' his head on his hands, whilst I was sewin' onwrappers, after Amabel had gone to bed, and finally he looks up andsays, 'Eva, you was right and I was wrong. '

"'What do you mean, Jim?' says I. 

"'I mean you was right when you thought we'd better not get married, and I was wrong, ' says he; and he spoke terrible bitter and sad. Inever heard him speak like it. He sounded like another man. I jestflung down my sewin' and went over to him, and leaned his poor headagainst my shoulder. 'Jim, ' says I, 'I 'ain't never regretted it. 'And God knows I spoke the truth, and I speak the truth when I say itnow. I 'ain't never regretted it, and I don't regret it now. " Evasaid the last with a look as if she were hurling defiance, then shewent on in the same high, monotonous key above the ordinary key oflife. "When I says that, he jest gives a great sigh and sort ofpushes me away and gets up. 'Well, I have, ' says he; 'I have, andsometimes I think the best thing I can do is to take myself out ofthe way, instead of sittin' here day after day and seein' youwearin' your fingers to the bone to support me, and seein' my child, an' bein' ashamed to look her in the face. Sometimes I think you an'Amabel would be a damned sight better off without me than with me, and I'm done for anyway, and it don't make much difference what I donext. '

"'Jim Tenny, you jest quit talkin' in such a way as this, ' says I, for I thought he meant to make away with himself, but that wa'n'twhat he meant. Aggie Bemis had been windin' her net round him, andhe wa'n't nothin' but a man, and all discouraged, and he gave in. Any man would in his place. He ain't to blame. It's the tyrantsthat's over us all that's to blame. " Eva's voice shrilled higher. "Curse them!" she shrieked. "Curse them all!--every rich man in thisgold-ridden country!"

"Eva Tenny, you're beside yourself, " said Fanny, who was herselfwhite to her lips, yet she viewed her sister indignantly, as oneviolent nature will view another when it is overborne and carriedaway by a kindred passion. 

"Wonder if you'd be real calm in my place?" said Eva; and as shespoke the dreadful impassibility of desperation returned upon her. It was as if she suffered some chemical change before their eyes. She became silent and seemed as if she would never speak again. 

"You hadn't ought to talk so, " said Fanny, weakly, she was soterrified. "You ought to think of poor little Amabel, " she added. 

With that, Eva's dreadful, expressionless eyes turned towardsAmabel, and she held out her hand to her, but the child fairlyscreamed with terror and clung to Ellen. "Oh, Aunt Eva, don't lookat her so, you frighten her, " Ellen said, trembling, and leaning hercheek against Amabel's little, cold, pale one. "Don't cry, darling, "she whispered. "It is just because poor mother feels so badly. "

"I am afraid of my mamma, and I want papa!" screamed Amabel, quivering, and stiffening her slender back. 

Eva continued to keep her eyes fixed upon her, and to hold out thatcommanding hand. 

Fanny went close to her, seized her by both shoulders, and shook herviolently. "Eva Tenny, you behave yourself!" said she. "There ain'tno need of your acting this way if your man has run away withanother woman, and as for that child goin' with you, she sha'n't goone step with any woman that looks and acts as you do. Actin' thisway over a good-for-nothin' fellow like Jim Tenny!"

Again that scourge of the spirit aroused Eva to her normal state. She became a living, breathing, wrathful, loving woman once more. "Don't you dare say a word against Jim!" she cried out; "not oneword, Fanny Brewster; I won't hear it. Don't you dare say a word!"

"Don't you say a word against my papa!" shrilled Amabel. Then sheleft Ellen and ran to her mother, and clung to her. And Eva caughther up, and hugged the little, fragile thing against her breast, andpounced upon her with kisses, with a fury as of rage instead oflove. 

"She always looked like Jim, " she sobbed out; "she always did. AggieBemis shall never get her. I've got her in spite of all the awfulwrong of life; it's the good that had to come out of it whether orno, and God couldn't help Himself. I've got this much. She alwayslooked like Jim. "

Eva set Amabel down and began leading her out of the room. 

"You ain't goin'?" said Fanny, who had herself begun to weep. "Eva, you ain't goin'? Oh, you poor girl!"

"Don't!--you said that like Jim, " Eva cried, with a great groan ofpain. 

"Eva, you ain't goin'? Wait a little while, and let me do somethin'for you. "

"You can't do anything. Come, Amabel. "

Eva and Amabel went away, the child rolling eyes of terror andinterrogation at them, Eva impervious to all her sister's pleading. 

When Andrew heard what had happened, and Fanny repeated what Eva hadsaid, his blame for Jim Tenny was unqualified. "I've had a hard timeenough, knocked about from pillar to post, and I know what she meanswhen she talks about a checker-board. God knows I feel myselfsometimes as if I wasn't anything but a checker-piece instead of aman, " he said, "but it's all nonsense blamin' the shoe-manufacturersfor his runnin' away with that woman. A man has got to use whatlittle freedom he's got right. It ain't any excuse for JimTenny that he's been out of work and got discouraged. He's agood-for-nothing cur, an' I'd like to tell him so. "

"It won't do for you to talk to Eva that way, " said Fanny. They wereall at the supper-table. Ellen was listening silently. 

"She does right to stand up for her husband, I suppose, " saidAndrew, "but anybody's got to use a little sense. It don't make itany better for Jim, tryin' to shove blame off his shoulders thatbelongs there. The manufacturers didn't make him run off withanother woman and leave his child. That was a move he made himself. "

"But he wouldn't have made that move if the manufacturers hadn'tmade theirs, " Ellen said, unexpectedly. 

"That's so, " said Fanny. 

Andrew looked uneasily at Ellen, in whose cheeks two red spots wereburning, and whose eyes upon his face seemed narrowed to two pointsof brightness. "There's nothing for you to worry about, child, " hesaid. 

All this was before the dressmaker, who listened with no particularinterest. Affairs which did not directly concern her did not awakenher to much sharpness of regard. She had been forced bycircumstances into a very narrow groove of life, a little foot-pathas it were, fenced in from destruction by three dollars a day. Shecould not, view it as keenly as she might, see that Jim Tenny'selopement had anything whatever to do with her three dollars perday. She, therefore, ate her supper. At first Andrew had lookedwarningly at Fanny when she began to discuss the subject before thedressmaker, but Fanny had replied, "Oh, land, Andrew, she knows allabout it now. It's all over town. "

"Yes, I heard it this morning before I came, " said the dressmaker. "I think a puff on the sleeves of the silk waist will be verypretty, don't you, Mrs. Brewster?"

Ellen looked at the dressmaker with wonder; it seemed to her thatthe woman was going on a little especial side track of her ownoutside the interests of her kind. She looked at her pretty newthings and tried them on, and felt guilty that she had them. Whatbusiness had she having new clothes and going to Vassar College inthe face of that misery? What was an education? What was anythingcompared with the sympathy which love demanded of love in the midstof sorrow? Should she not turn her back upon any purely personaladvantage as she would upon a moral plague?

When Ellen's father said that to her at the supper-table she lookedat him with unchildlike eyes. "I think it is something for me toworry about, father, " she said. "How can I help worrying if I loveAunt Eva and Amabel?"

"It's a dreadful thing for Eva, " said Fanny. "I don't see what sheis going to do. Andrew, pass the biscuits to Miss Higgins. "

"It seems to me that the one that is the farthest behind anythingthat happens on this earth is the one to blame, " said Ellen, reverting to her line of argument. 

"I don't know but you've got to go back to God, then, " said Andrew, soberly, passing the biscuits. Miss Higgins took one. 

"No, you haven't, " said Ellen--"you haven't, because men are free. You've got to stop before you get to God. When a man goes wrong, youhave got to look and see if he is to blame, if he started himself, or other men have been pushing him into it. It seems to me thatother men have been pushing Uncle Jim into it. I don't thinkfactory-owners have any right to discharge a man without a goodreason, any more than he has a right to run the shop. "

"I don't think so, either, " said Fanny. "I think Ellen is right. "

"I don't know. It is all a puzzle, " said Andrew. "Something's wrongsomewhere. I don't know whether it's because we are pushed orbecause we pull. There's no use in your worrying about it, Ellen. You've got to study your books. " Andrew said this with a look ofpride at Ellen and sidelong triumph at the dressmaker to see if sherightly understood the magnitude of it all, of the whole situationof making dresses for this wonderful young creature who was going toVassar College. 

"I don't know but this is more important than books, " said Ellen. 

"Oh, maybe you'll find out something in your books that will settlethe whole matter, " said Andrew. Ellen was not eating much supper, and that troubled him. Andrew always knew just how much Ellen ate. 

"I don't know what Aunt Eva and poor little Amabel will do, " saidshe. Ellen's lip quivered. 

"Pass the cake to Miss Higgins, " said Fanny, sharply, to Andrew. Shegave him a significant wink as she did so, not to talk more aboutit. 

"Try some of that chocolate cake, Miss Higgins. "

"Thank you, " said Miss Higgins, unexcitedly. 

Andrew had his own cause of worry, and finally reverted to it, eating his food with no more conception of the savor than if it werein another man's mouth. He was sorry enough for his wife's sister, and recognized it as an added weight to his own burden, but just atpresent all he could think of was the question if Miss Higgins wouldask for her pay again that night. He had not a dollar in his pocket. He had been dunned that afternoon by the man who had lent the moneyto buy Ellen's watch, there were two new dunning letters in hispocket, and now if that keen little dressmaker, who fairly looked tohim like a venomous insect, as she sat eating rather voraciously ofthe chocolate cake, should ask him again for the three dollars dueher that night! He would not have cared so much, if it were not forthe fact that she would ask him before his wife and Ellen, and thequestion about the money in the savings-bank, which was a species ofnightmare to him, would be sure to come to the front. 

Suddenly it struck Andrew that he might run away, that he might slipout after supper, and either go into his mother's house or down thestreet. He finally decided on the former, since he reasoned, with apitiful cunning, that if he went down the street he would have totake off his slippers and put on his shoes, and that would at oncebetray him and lead to the possible arrest of his flight. 

So after supper, while Miss Higgins was trying a waist on Ellen, andFanny was clearing the table, Andrew, bareheaded and in hisslippers, prepared to carry his plan into execution. He got outwithout being seen, and hurried around the rear of the house, out ofview from the sitting-room windows, resolving on the way that inorder to avert the danger of a possible following him to thesanctuary of his mother's house, he had perhaps better slip downinto the orchard behind it and see if the porter apples were ripe. But when, stooping as if beneath some invisible shield, and movingwith a low glide of secrecy, he had gained the yard between the twohouses, the yard where the three cherry-trees stood, he heardFanny's high, insistent voice calling him, and knew that it was allover. Fanny had her head thrust out of her bedroom window. "Andrew!Andrew!" she called. 

Andrew stopped. "What is it?" he asked, in a gruff voice. He felt atthat moment savage with her and with fate. He felt like somebadgered animal beneath the claws and teeth of petty enemies whichwere yet sufficient to do him to death. He felt that retreat anddefence were alike impossible and inglorious. He was aware of amonstrous impatience with it all, which was fairly blasphemy. "Whatis it?" he said, and Fanny realized that something was wrong. 

"Come here, Andrew Brewster, " she said, from the bedroom window, andAndrew pressed close to the window through a growth of sweetbrierwhich rasped his hands and sent up a sweet fragrance in his face. Andrew tore away the clinging vines angrily. 

"Well, what is it?" he said again. 

"Don't spoil that bush, Ellen sets a lot by it, " said Fanny. "Whatmakes you act so, Andrew Brewster?" Then she lowered her voice. "She wants to know if she can have her pay to-night, " she whispered. 

"I 'ain't got a cent, " replied Andrew, in a dogged, breathlessvoice. 

"You 'ain't been to the bank to-day, then?"

"No, I 'ain't. "

Fanny still suspected nothing. She was, in fact, angry with thedressmaker for insisting upon her pay in such a fashion. "I neverheard of such a thing as her wantin' to be paid every night, " shewhispered, angrily, "and I'd tell her so, if I wasn't afraid she'dthink we couldn't pay her. I'd never have had her; I'd had MissPatch, if I'd know she'd do such a mean thing, but, as it is, Idon't know what to do. I 'ain't got but a dollar and seventy-threecents by me. You 'ain't got enough to make it up?"

"No, I 'ain't. "

"Well, all is, I've got to tell her that it ain't convenient for meto pay her to-night, and she shall have it all together to-morrownight, and to-morrow you'll have to go to the bank and take out themoney, Andrew. Don't forget it. "

"Well, " said Andrew. 

Fanny retreated, and he heard her high voice explaining to MissHiggins. He tore his way through the clinging sweetbrier bushes andran with an unsteady, desperate gait down to the orchard behind hismother's home, and flung himself at full length in the dewy grassunder the trees with all the abandon, under stress of fate, of achild. 

Chapter XXVIII

Andrew Brewster, lying in the dewy grass under the apple-trees, giving way for almost the first time since his childhood to impulseswhich had hitherto, from his New England heredity, stiffened insteadof relaxed his muscles of expression, felt as if he were being stungto death by ants. He was naturally a man of broad views, who feltthe indignity of coping with such petty odds. "For God's sake, if Ihad to be done to death, why couldn't it have been for something?"he groaned, speaking with his lips close to the earth as if it werea listening ear. "Why need it all have been over so little? It'sjust the little fight for enough to eat and wear that's getting thebetter of me that was a man, and able to do a man's work in theworld. Now it has come to this! Here I am runnin' away from a womanbecause she wants me to pay her three dollars, and I am afraid ofanother woman because--I've been and fooled away a few hundreddollars I had in the savings-bank. I'm afraid--yes, it has come tothis. I am afraid, afraid, and I'd run away out of life if I knewwhere it would fetch me to. I'm afraid of things that ain't worthbeing afraid of, and it's all over things that's beneath me. " Therecame over Andrew, with his mouth to the moist earth, feeling thebreath and the fragrance of it in his nostrils, a realization of thegreat motherhood of nature, and a contempt for himself which wasscorching and scathing before it. He felt that he came from thatmighty breast which should produce only sons of might, and wasspending his whole life in an ignominy of fruitless climbing upmole-hills. "Why couldn't I have been more?" he asked himself. "Oh, my God, is it my fault?" He said to himself that if he had notyielded to the universal law and longing of his kind for a home anda family, it might have been better. He asked himself that questionwhich will never be answered with a surety of correctness, whetherthe advancement of the individual to his furthest compass is more tothe glory of life than the blind following out of the laws ofexistence and the bringing others into the everlasting problem ofadvance. Then he thought of Ellen, and a great warmth of convictioncame over the loving heart of the man; all his self-contemptvanished. He had her, this child who was above pearls and rubies, hehad her, and in her the furthest reach of himself and progression ofhimself to greater distances than he could ever have accomplished inany other way, and it was a double progress, since it was not onlyfor him, but also for the woman he had married. A great wave of lovefor Fanny came over him. He seemed to see that, after all, it was ashining road by which he had come, and he saw himself upon it like afigure of light. He saw that he lived and could never die. Then, aswith a remorseless hurl of a high spirit upon needle-pricks of pettycares, he thought again of the dressmaker, of the money for Ellen'swatch, of the butcher's bill, and the grocer's bills, and the moneywhich he had taken from the bank, and again he cowered beneath andloathed his ignoble burden. He dug his hot head into the grass. "Oh, my God! oh, my God!" he groaned. He fairly sobbed. Then he felt asoft wind of feminine skirts caused by the sudden stoop of some onebeside him, and Ellen's voice, shrill with alarm, rang in his ears. "Father, what is the matter? Father!"

Such was the man's love for the girl that his first thought was forher alarm, and he pushed all his own troubles into the backgroundwith a lightning-like motion. He raised himself hastily, and smiledat her with his pitiful, stiff face. "It's nothing at all, Ellen, don't you worry, " he said. 

But that was not enough to satisfy her. She caught hold of his armand clung to it. "Father, " she said, in a tone which had in it, tohis wonder, a firm womanliness--his own daughter seemed to speak tohim as if she were his mother--"you are not telling me the truth. Something is the matter, or you wouldn't do like this. "

"No, there's nothin', nothin' at all, dear child, " said Andrew. Hetried to loosen her little, clinging hand from his arm. "Come, let'sgo back to the house, " he said. "Don't you mind anything about it. Sometimes father gets discouraged over nothin'. "

"It isn't over nothing, " said Ellen. "What is it about, father?"

Andrew tried to laugh. "Well, if it isn't over nothin', it's overnothin' in particular, " said he; "it's over jest what's happenedright along. Sometimes father feels as if he hadn't made as much ashe'd ought to out of his life, and he's gettin' older, and he'sfeelin' kind of discouraged, that's all. "

"Over money matters?" said Ellen, looking at him steadily. 

"Over nothin', " said her father. "See here, child, father's ashamedthat he gave way so, and you found him. Now don't you worry one miteabout it--it's nothing at all. Come, let's go back to the house, " hesaid. 

Ellen said no more, but she walked up from the field holding tightlyto her father's poor, worn hand, and her heart was in a tumult. Tobehold any convulsion of nature is no light experience, and when itis a storm of the spirit in one beloved the beholder is swept alongwith it in greater or less measure. Ellen trembled as she walked. Her father kept looking at her anxiously and remorsefully. Once hereached around his other hand and chucked her playfully under thechin. "Scared most to death, was she?" he asked, with a shamefacedblush. 

"I know something is the matter, and I think it would be better foryou to tell me, father, " replied Ellen, soberly. 

"There's nothing to tell, child, " said Andrew. "Don't you worry yourlittle head about it. " Between his anxiety lest the girl should betroubled, and his intense humiliation that she should havediscovered him in such an abandon of grief which was almost like adisclosure of the nakedness of his spirit, he was completelyunnerved. Ellen felt him tremble, and heard his voice quiver when hespoke. She felt towards her father something she had never feltbefore--an impulse of protection. She felt the older and stronger ofthe two. Her grasp on his hand tightened, she seemed in a measure tobe leading him along. 

When they reached the yard between the houses Andrew cast anapprehensive glance at the windows. "Has she gone?" he asked. 

"Who, the dressmaker?"

"Yes. "

"She hadn't when I came out. I saw you come past the house, and Ithought you walked as if you didn't feel well, so I thought I wouldrun out and see. "

"I was all right, " replied Andrew. "Have you got to try on anythingmore to-night?"

"No. "

"Well, then, let's run into grandma's a minute. "

"All right, " said Ellen. 

Mrs. Zelotes was sitting at her front window in the dusk, lookingout on the street, as was her favorite custom. The old woman seldomlit a lamp in the summer evening, but sat there staring out at thelighted street and the people passing and repassing, with her mindas absolutely passive as regarded herself as if she were travellingand observing only that which passed without. At those times shebecame in a fashion sensible of the motion of the world, and losther sense of individuality in the midst of it. When her son andgranddaughter entered she looked away from the window with theexpression of one returning from afar, and seemed dazed for amoment. 

"Hullo, mother!" said Andrew. 

The room was dusky, and they moved across between the chairs andtables like two shadows. 

"Oh, is it you, Andrew?" said his mother. "Who is that withyou--Ellen?"

"Yes, " said Ellen. "How do you do, grandma?"

Mrs. Zelotes became suddenly fully awake to the situation; shecollected her scattered faculties; her keen old eyes gleamed in ashaft of electric-light from the street without, which fell fullupon her face. 

"Set down, " said she. "Has the dressmaker gone?"

"No, she hadn't when I came out, " replied Ellen, "but she's mostthrough for to-night. "

"How do your things look?"

"Real pretty, I guess. "

"Sometimes I think you'd better have had Miss Patch. I hope she'ain't got your sleeves too tight at the elbows. "

"They seem to fit very nicely, grandma. "

"Sleeves are very particular things; a sleeve wrong can spoil awhole dress. "

Suddenly the old woman turned on Ellen with a look of extremestfacetiousness and intelligence, and the girl winced, for she knewwhat was coming. "I see you goin' past with a young man last night, didn't I?" said she. 

Ellen flushed. "Yes, " she said, almost indignantly, for she had afeeling as if the veil of some inner sacredness of her nature werecontinually being torn aside. "I went over to Miss Lennox, to carrysome sweet-peas, and Mr. Robert Lloyd was there, and he came homewith me. "

"Oh!" replied her grandmother. 

Ellen's patience left her at the sound of that "Oh, " which seemed torasp her very soul. "You have none of you any right to talk and actas you do, " said she. "You make me ashamed of you, you and mother;father has more sense. Just because a young man makes me a call toreturn something, and then walks home with me, because he happenedto be at the house where I call in the evening! I think it's ashame. You make me feel as if I couldn't look him in the face. "

"Never mind, grandma didn't mean any harm, " Andrew said, soothingly. 

"You needn't try to excuse me, Andrew Brewster, " cried his mother, angrily. "I guess it's a pretty to-do, if I can't say a word in joketo my own granddaughter. If it had been a poor, good-for-nothingyoung feller workin' in a shoe-factory, I s'pose she'd been tickledto death to be joked about him, but now when it begins to look as ifsomebody that was worth while had come along--"

"Grandma, if you say another word about it, I will never speak toRobert Lloyd again as long as I live, " declared Ellen. 

"Never mind, child, " whispered Andrew. 

"I do mind, and I mean what I say, " Ellen cried. "I won't have it. Robert Lloyd is nothing to me, and I am nothing to him. He is nobetter than Granville Joy. There is nothing between us, and you makeme too ashamed to think of him. "

Then the old woman cried out, in a tone of triumph, "Well, there heis, turnin' in at your gate now. "

Chapter XXIX

Ellen rose without a word, and fled out of the room and out of thehouse. It seemed to her, after what had happened, after what hermother and grandmother had said and insinuated, after what sheherself had thought and felt, that she must. She longed to seeRobert Lloyd, to hear him speak, as she had never longed foranything in the world, and yet she ran away as if she were driven toobey some law which was coeval with the first woman and beyond allvolition of her individual self. 

When she reached the head of the little cross street on which theAtkinses lived, she turned into it with relief. The Atkins house wasa tiny cottage, with a little kitchen ell, and a sagging piazzaacross the front. On this piazza were shadowy figures, and the dull, red gleam of pipes, and one fiery tip of a cigar. Joe Atkins, andSargent, and two other men were sitting out there in the cool of theevening. Ellen hurried around the curve of the foot-path to thekitchen door. Abby was in there, working with the swift precision ofa machine. She washed and wiped dishes as if in a sort of fury, herthin elbows jerking, her mouth compressed. 

When Ellen entered, Abby stared, then her whole face lighted up, asif from some internal lamp. "Why, Ellen, is that you?" she said, ina surprisingly sweet voice. Sometimes Abby's sharp American voicerang with the sweetness of a soft bell. 

"I thought I'd run over a minute, " said Ellen. 

The other girl looked sharply at her. "Why, what's the matter?" shesaid. 

"Nothing is the matter. Why?"

"Why, I thought you looked sort of queer. Maybe it's the light. Sitdown; I'll have the dishes done in a minute, then we'll go into thesitting-room. "

"I'd rather stay out here with you, " said Ellen. 

Abby looked at her again. "There is something the matter, EllenBrewster, " said she; "you can't cheat me. You would never have runover here this way in the world. What has happened?"

"Let's go up to your room after the dishes are done, and then I'lltell you, " whispered Ellen. The men's voices on the piazza could beheard quite distinctly, and it seemed possible that their ownconversation might be overheard in return. 

"All right, " said Abby. "Of course I have heard about your aunt, "she added, in a low voice. 

"Yes, " said Ellen, and she felt shamed and remorseful that her ownaffairs had been uppermost in her mind, and that Abby had supposedthat she might be disturbed over this great trouble of her pooraunt's. 

"I think it is dreadful, " said Abby. "I wish I could get hold ofthat woman. " By "that woman" she meant the woman with whom poor JimTenny had eloped. 

"I do, " said Ellen, bitterly. 

"But it's something besides that made you run over here, " said Abby. 

"I'll tell you when we go up to your room, " replied Ellen. 

When the dishes were finished, and the two girls in Abby's littlechamber, seated side by side on the bed, Ellen still hesitated. 

"Now, Ellen Brewster, what is the matter? You said you would tell, and you've got to, " said Abby. 

Ellen looked away from her, blushing. The electric-light from thestreet shone full in the room, which was wavering with grotesqueshadows. 

"Well, " said she, "I ran away. "

"You ran away! What for?"

"Oh, because. "

"Because what?"

"Because I saw somebody coming. "

"Saw who coming?"

Ellen was silent. 

"Not Granville Joy?"

Ellen shook her head. 

"Not--?"

Ellen looked straight ahead. 

"Not young Mr. Lloyd?"

Ellen was silent with the silence of assent. 

"Did he go into your house?"

Ellen nodded. 

"Where were you?"

"In grandma's. "

"And you ran away, over here?"

Ellen nodded. 

"Why, Ellen Brewster, didn't you want to see him?"

Ellen turned from Abby with an impatient gesture, buried her face inthe bed, and began to weep. 

Abby leaned over her caressingly. "Ellen dear, " she whispered, "whatis the matter; what are you crying for? What made you run away?"

Ellen sobbed harder. 

Abby looked at Ellen's prostrate figure sadly. "Ellen, " she began;then she stopped, for her own voice quivered. Then she went on, quite steadily. "Ellen, " she said, "you like him. "

"No, I don't, " declared Ellen. "I won't. I never will. Nothing shallmake me. "

But Abby continued to look at her sadly and jealously. "There's apower over us which is too strong for girls, " said she, "and you'vecome under it, Ellen, and you can't help it. " Then she added, witha great, noble burst of utter unselfishness: "And I'm glad, I'mglad, Ellen. That man can lift you out of the grind. "

But Ellen sat up straight and faced her, with burning cheeks, andeyes shining through tears. "I will never be lifted out of the grindas long as those I love are in it, " said she. 

"Do you suppose it would make it any better for your folks to seeyou in it all your life along with them?" said Abby. "Suppose youmarried a fellow like Granville Joy?"

Chapter XXX

Ellen looked at the other girl in a kind of rage of maidenly shame. "Why have I got to get married, anyway?" she demanded. "Isn't thereanything in this world besides getting married? Why do you all talkso about me? You don't seem so bent on getting married yourself. Ifyou think so much of marriage, why don't you get married yourself, and let me alone?"

"Nobody wants to marry me that I know of, " replied Abby, quitesimply. Then she, too, blazed out. "Get married!" she cried. "Do youreally think I would get married to the kind of man who would marryme? Do you think I could if I loved him?" A great wave of redsurged over the girl's thin face, her voice trembled withtenderness. Ellen knew at once, with a throb of sympathy and shame, that Abby did love some one. 

"Do you think I would marry him if I loved him?" demanded Abby, stiffening herself into a soldier-like straightness. "Do you think?I tell you what it is, " she said, "I was lookin' only to-day atDavid Mendon at the cutting-bench, cutting away with his poor littleknife. I'd like to know how many handles he's worn out since hebegan. There he was, putting the pattern on the leather, and cuttin'around it, standin' at his window, that's a hot place in summer anda cold one in winter, and there's where he's stood for I don't knowhow many years since before I was born. He's one of the few thatLloyd's has hung on to when he's got older, and I thought to myself, good Lord, how that poor man must have loved his wife, and how hemust love his children, to be willin' to turn himself into a machinelike that for them. He never takes a holiday unless he's forced intoit; there he stands and cuts and cuts. If I were his wife, I woulddie of shame and pity that I ever led him into it. Do you think Iwould ever let a man turn himself into a machine for me, if I lovedhim? I guess I wouldn't! And that's why, when I see a man of anothersort that you won't have to break your own heart over, whether youmarry him or not, payin' attention to you, I am glad. It's adifferent thing, marriage with a man like Robert Lloyd, and a manlike that would never think of me. I'm right in the ranks, and youain't. "

"I am, " said Ellen, stoutly. 

"No, you ain't; you don't belong there, and when I see a chance foryou to get out where you belong--"

"I don't intend to make marriage a stepping-stone, " said Ellen. "Sometimes--" She hesitated. 

"What?" asked the other girl. 

"Sometimes I think I would rather not go to college, after all. "

"Ellen Brewster, are you crazy? Of course, you will go to collegeunless you marry Robert Lloyd. Perhaps he won't want to wait. " ThenAbby, dauntless as she was, shrank a little before Ellen's wrathfulretort. 

"Abby Atkins, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!" she cried. "There he's been to see me just twice, the first time on an errand, and the next with his aunt, and he's walked home with me oncebecause he couldn't help it; his aunt told him to!"

"But here he is again to-night, " said Abby, apologetically. 

"What of that? I suppose he has come on another errand. "

"Then what made you run away?"

"Because you have all made me ashamed of my life to look at him, "said Ellen, hotly. 

Then down went her head on the bed again, and Abby was leaning overher, caressing her, whispering fond things to her like a lover. 

"There, there, Ellen, " she whispered. "Don't be mad, don't feel bad. I didn't mean any harm. You are such a beauty--there's nobody likeyou in the world--that everybody thinks that any man who sees youmust want you. "

"Robert Lloyd doesn't, and if he did I wouldn't have him, " sobbedEllen. 

"You sha'n't if you don't want him, " said Abby, consolingly. 

After a while the two girls bathed their eyes with cold water, andwent down-stairs into the sitting-room. Maria was making herself ablue muslin dress, and her mother was hemming the ruffles. There wasa cheap blue shade on the lamp, and Maria herself was clad in a bluegingham. All the blue color and the shade on the lamp gave a curiouspallor and unreality to the homely room and the two women. Mrs. Atkins's hair was strained back from her hollow temples, which hadnoble outlines. 

"I'm going to walk a little way with Ellen, she's going home, " saidAbby. 

"Very well, " said her mother. Maria looked wistfully at them as theywent out. She went on sewing on her blue muslin, rather sadly. Shecoughed a little. 

"Why don't you put up your sewing for to-night and go to bed, child?" said her mother. 

"I might as well sit here and sew as go to bed and lie there. Ishouldn't sleep, " replied Maria, with the gentlest sadnessconceivable. There was in it no shadow of complaining. Of late yearsall the fire of resistance had seemed to die out in the girl. Shewas unfailingly sweet, but nerveless. Often when she raised a handit seemed as if she could not even let it fall, as if it must remainpoised by some curious inertia. Still, she went to the shop everyday and did her work faithfully. She pasted linings in shoes, andher slender little fingers used to fly as if they were driven bysome more subtle machine than any in the factory. Often Maria feltvaguely as if she were in the grasp of some mighty machine worked bya mighty operator; she felt, as she pasted the linings, as if sheherself were also a part of some monstrous scheme of work undergreater hands than hers, and there was never any getting back of it. And always with it all there was that ceaseless, helpless, bewildered longing for something, she was afraid to think what, which often saps the strength and life of a young girl. Maria hadnever had a lover in her life; she had not even good comrades amongyoung men, as her sister had. No man at that time would have everlooked twice at her, unless he had fallen in love with her, and hadbeen disposed to pick her up and carry her along on the hard roadupon which they fared together. Maria was half fed in every sense;she had not enough nourishing food for her body, nor love for herheart, nor exercise for her brain. She had no time to read, as shewas forced to sew when out of the shop if she would have anything towear. When at last she went up-stairs to bed, before Abby returned, she sat down by her window, and leaned her little, peaked chin onthe sill and looked out. The stars were unusually bright for asummer night; the whole sky seemed filled with a constantlyaugmenting host of them. The scent of tobacco came to her frombelow. To the lonely girl the stars and the scent of the tobaccoserved as stimulants; she formed a forcible wish. "I wish, " shemuttered to herself, "that I was either an angel or a man. " Thenthe next minute she chided herself for her wickedness. A great waveof love for God, and remorse for impatience and melancholy in herearthly lot, swept over her. She knelt down beside her bed andprayed. An exultation half-physical, half-spiritual, filled her. When she rose, her little, thin face was radiant. She seemed tomeasure the shortness of the work and woe of the world as betweenher thumb and finger. The joy of the divine filled all her longing. When Abby came home, who shared her chamber, she felt no jealousy. She only inquired whether she had gone quite home with Ellen. "Yes, I did, " replied Abby. "I don't think it is safe for her to go pastthat lonely place below the Smiths'. "

"I'm glad you did, " said Maria, with an angelic inflection in hervoice. 

"Robert Lloyd came to see Ellen, and she ran away over here, andwouldn't see him, because they had all been plaguing her about him, "said Abby. "I wish she wouldn't do so. It would be a splendid thingfor her to marry him, and I know he likes her, and his aunt is goingto send her to college. "

"That won't make any difference to Ellen, and everything will be allright anyway, if only she loved God, " said Maria, still with thatrapt, angelic voice. 

"Shucks!" said Abby. Then she leaned over her sister, caught her byher little, thin shoulders and shook her tenderly. "There, I didn'tmean to speak so, " said she. "You're awful good, Maria. I'm gladyou've got religion if it's so much comfort to you. I don't mean tomake light of it, but I'm afraid you ain't well. I'm goin' to getyou some more of that tonic to-morrow. "

Chapter XXXI

When Ellen reached home that night she found no one there except herfather, who was sitting on the door-step in the north yard. Hermother had gone to see her aunt Eva as soon as the dressmaker hadleft. "Who was that with you?" Andrew asked, as she drew near. 

"Abby, " replied Ellen. 

"So you went over there?"

Ellen sat down on a lower step in front of her father. "Yes, " saidshe. She half laughed up in his face, like a child who knows she hasbeen naughty, yet knows she will not be blamed since she can countso surely on the indulgent love of the would-be blamer. 

"Ellen, your mother didn't like it. "

"They had said so many things to me about him that I didn't feel asif I could see him, father, " she said. 

Andrew put a hand on her head. "I know what you mean, " he replied, "but they didn't mean any harm; they're only looking out for yourbest good, Ellen. You can't always have us; it ain't in the courseof nature, you know, Ellen. "

There was a tone of inexorable sadness, the sadness of fate itselfin Andrew's voice. He had, as he spoke, the full realization of thatstage of progress which is simply for the next, which passes to makeroom for it. He felt his own nothingness. It was the throe of thepresent before the future; it was the pang of anticipatoryannihilation. 

"Don't talk that way, father, " said Ellen. "Neither you nor motherare old people. "

"Oh, well, it's all right, don't you worry, " said Andrew. 

"How long did he stay?" asked Ellen. She did not look at her fatheras she spoke. 

"Oh, he didn't stay at all, after they found out you had gone. "

Ellen sighed. After a second Andrew sighed also. "It's gettin'late, " said he, heavily; "mebbe we'd better go in before your mothercomes, Ellen. Mebbe you'll get cold out here. "

"Oh no, I shall not, " said Ellen, "and I want to hear about poorAunt Eva. I don't see what she is going to do. "

"It's a dreadful thing makin' a mistake in marriage, " said Andrew. 

"Uncle Jim was a good man if he hadn't had such a hard time. "

Andrew looked at her, then he spoke impressively. "Look here, Ellen, " he said, "you are a good scholar, and you are smarter in agood many ways than father has ever been, but there's one thing youwant to remember; you want to be sure before you blame the Lord orother men for a man's goin' wrong, if it ain't his own fault at thebottom of things. "

"There's mother, " cried Ellen; "there's mother and Amabel. Where'sAunt Eva? Oh, father, what do you suppose has happened? Why do yousuppose mother is bringing Amabel home?"

"I don't know, " replied Andrew, in a troubled voice. 

He and Ellen rose and hastened forward to meet Fanny and Amabel. Thechild hung at her aunt's hand in a curious, limp, disjointedfashion; her little face, even in the half light, showed ghastly. When she saw Ellen she let go of Fanny's hand and ran to her andthrew both her little arms around her in a fierce clutch as ofterror, then she began to sob wildly, "Mamma, mamma, mamma!"

Fanny leaned her drawn face forward, and whispered to Andrew andEllen over Amabel's head, under cover of her sobs, "Hush, don't sayanything. She's gone mad, and, and--she tried to--kill Amabel. "

Chapter XXXII

Amabel was a very nervous child, and she was in such terror from herreally terrific experience that she threatened to go intoconvulsions. Andrew went over for his mother, whom he had alwaysregarded as an incontestable authority about children. She, afterone sharp splutter of wrath at the whole situation, went to workwith the resolution of an old soldier. 

"Heat some water, quick, " said she to Andrew, "and get me awash-tub. "

Then she told Fanny to brew a mess of sage tea, and began strippingoff Amabel's clothes. 

"Let me alone! Mamma, mamma, mamma!" shrieked the child. She foughtand clawed like a little, wild animal, but the old woman, in whosearms great strength could still arise for emergencies, and in whosespirit great strength had never died, got the better of her. 

When Amabel's clothing was stripped off, and her little, spare body, which was brown rather than rosy, although she was a blonde, wasrevealed, she was as pitiful to see as a wound. Every nerve andpulse in that tiny frame, about which there was not an ounce ofsuperfluous flesh, seemed visible. The terrible sensitiveness of thechild appeared on the surface. She shrank, and wailed in a low, monotonous tone like a spent animal overtaken by pursuers. But Mrs. Zelotes put her in the tub of warm water, and held her down, thoughAmabel's face, emerging from it, had the expression of a wild thing. 

"There, you keep still!" said she, and her voice was tender enough, though the decision of it could have moved an army. 

When Amabel had had her hot bath, and had drunk her sage tea bycompulsory gulps, and been tucked into Ellen's bed, her childhoodreasserted itself. Gradually her body and her bodily needs gainedthe ascendancy over the unnatural strain of her mind. She fellasleep, and lay like one dead. Then Ellen crept down-stairs, thoughit was almost midnight, where her father and mother and grandmotherwere still talking over the matter. Fanny seemed almost as bad asher sister. It was evident that there was in the undisciplined Loudfamily a dangerous strain if too far pressed. She was lying down onthe lounge, with Andrew holding her hand. 

"Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Poor Eva!" she kept repeating. 

Then she threw off Andrew's hand, sprang to her feet, and began towalk the room. 

"She'll be as bad as her sister if she keeps on, " said Mrs. Zelotes, quite audibly, but Fanny paid no attention to that. 

"What is goin' to be done? Oh, my God, what is goin' to be done?"she wailed. "There she is locked up with two men watchin' her lestshe do herself a harm, and it's got to cost eighteen dollars a week, unless she's put in with the State poor, and then nobody knows howshe'll be treated. Oh, poor Eva, poor Eva! Albert Riggs told methere were awful things done with the State poor in the asylums. He's been an attendant in one. He says we've got to pay eighteendollars a week if we want to have her cared for decently, andwhere's the money comin' from?" Fanny raised her voice higher still. 

"Where's the money comin' from?" she demanded, with an impiousinflection. It was as if she questioned that which is outside of, and the source of, life. Everything with this woman, whose wholeexistence had been bound and tainted by the need of money, resolveditself into that fundamental question. All her woes hinged upon it;even her misery was deteriorated by mammon. 

"Where's the money comin' from?" she demanded again. "There's Jimgone, and all his mother's got is that little, mortgaged place, andshe feeble, and there ain't a cent anywhere, unless--" She turnedfiercely to Andrew, clutching him hard by the arm. 

"You must take every cent of that money out of the savings-bank, "she cried, "every cent of it. I'm your wife, and I've been a goodwife to you, you can't say I haven't. "

"Yes, of course you have, poor girl! Don't, don't!" said Andrew, soothingly. He was very pale, and shook from head to foot as hetried to calm Fanny. 

"Yes, I've been a good, faithful wife, " Fanny went on, in her high, hysterical voice. "Even your mother can't say that I haven't; andEva is my own sister, and you ought to help her. Every cent of thatmoney will have to come out of the savings-bank, and the house herewill have to be mortgaged; it's only my due. I would do as much foryou if it was your sister. Eva ain't goin' to suffer. "

"I guess if you mortgage this house that you had from your father, to keep a woman whose husband has gone off and left her, " said Mrs. Zelotes, "I guess if you don't go and get him back, and get the lawto tackle him!"

Then Fanny turned on her. "Don't you say a word, " said she. "Mysister ain't goin' to suffer, I don't care where the money comesfrom. It's mine as much as Andrew's. I've half supported the familymyself sewin' on wrappers, and I've got a right to have my say. Mysister ain't goin' to suffer! Oh, my God, what's goin' to become ofher? Poor Eva, poor Eva! Eighteen dollars a week; that's as much asAndrew ever earned. Oh, it was awful, it was awful! There, when Igot in there, she had a--knife, the--carving knife, and she hadAmabel's hair all gathered up in one hand, and her head tipped back, and poor old mother Tenny was holding her arms, and screamin', andit was all I could do to get the knife away, " and Fanny stripped upher sleeves, and showed a glancing cut on her arm. 

"She did that before I got it away from her, " she said. "Think ofit, my own sister! My own sister, who always thought so much of me, and would have had her own fingers cut to the bone before she wouldhave let any one touch me or Ellen! Oh, poor Eva, poor Eva! What isgoin' to become of her, what is goin' to become of her?"

Mrs. Zelotes went out of the house with a jerk of angry decision, and presently returned with a bottle half full of whiskey. 

"Here, " said she to Ellen, "you pour out a quarter of a tumbler ofthis, and fill it up with hot water. I ain't goin' to have the wholefamily in an asylum because Jim Tenny has run off with anotherwoman, if I can help it!"

The old woman's steady force of will asserted itself over thehysterical nature of her daughter-in-law. Fanny drank the whiskeyand water and went to bed, half stupefied, and Mrs. Zelotes wenthome. 

"You ring the bell in the night if she's taken worse, and I'll comeover, " said she to her son. 

When Ellen and her father were left alone they looked at each other, each with pity for the other. Andrew laid a tender, trembling handon the girl's shoulder. "Somehow it will all come out right, " hewhispered. "You go to bed and go to sleep, and if Amabel wakes upand makes any trouble you speak to father. "

"Don't worry about me, father, " returned Ellen. "It's you who havethe most to worry over. " Then she added--for the canker of need ofmoney was eating her soul, too--"Father, what is going to be done?You can't pay all that for poor Aunt Eva. How much money have yougot in the bank?"

"Not much, not much, Ellen, " replied Andrew, with a groan. 

"It wouldn't last very long at eighteen dollars a week?"

"No, no. "

"It doesn't seem as if you ought to mortgage the house when you andmother are getting older. Father--"

"What, Ellen?"

"Nothing, " said Ellen, after a little pause. It had been on her lipsto tell him that she must go to work, then she refrained. There wassomething in her father's face which forbade her doing so. 

"Go to bed, Ellen, and get rested, " said Andrew. Then he rubbed hishead against hers with his curious, dog-like method of caress, andkissed her forehead. 

"You go to sleep and get rested yourself, father, " said Ellen. 

"I guess I won't undress to-night, but I'll lay on the lounge, " saidAndrew. 

"Well, you speak to me if mother wakes up and takes on again. MaybeI can do something. "

"All right, dear child, " said Andrew, lovingly and wearily. He had alook as if some mighty wind had passed over him and he were beatendown under it, except for that one single uprearing of love which notempest could fairly down. 

Ellen went up-stairs, and lay down beside poor little Amabel withoutundressing herself. The child stirred, but not to awake, when shesettled down beside her, and reached over her poor little claw of ahand to the girl, who clasped it fervently, and slipped a protectingarm under the tiny shoulders. Then the little thing nestled close toEllen, with a movement of desperate seeking for protection. "There, there, darling, Ellen will take care of you, " whispered Ellen. ButAmabel did not hear. 

Chapter XXXIII

The next afternoon poor Eva Tenny was carried away, and Andrewaccompanied the doctor who had her in charge, as being the onlyavailable male relative. As he dressed himself in his Sunday suit, he was aware--to such pitiful passes had financial straits broughthim--of a certain self-congratulation, that he would not be at homewhen the dressmaker asked for money that night, and that no onewould expect him to go to the bank under such circumstances. ButAndrew, in his petty consideration as to personal benefit from suchdire calamity, reckoned without another narrow traveller. MissHiggins stopped him as he was going out of the door, looking as ifbound to a funeral in his shabby Sunday black, with his solemn, sadface under his well-brushed hat. 

"I hate to say anything when you're in such trouble, Mr. Brewster, "said she, "but I do need the money to pay a bill, and I waswondering if you could leave what was due me yesterday, and whatwill be due me to-day. "

But Fanny came with a rush to Andrew's relief. She was in that stateof nervous tension that she was fairly dangerous if irritated. "Lookhere, Miss Higgins, " said she. "We hesitated a good deal abouthavin' you come here to-day, anyway. Ellen wanted to send you wordnot to. We are in such awful trouble, that she said it didn't seemright for her to be thinkin' about new clothes, but I told her she'dgot to have the things if she was going to college, and so wedecided to have you come, but we 'ain't had any time nor any heartto think of money. We've got plenty to pay you in the bank, but myhusband 'ain't had any time to go there this mornin', what withseein' the doctor, and gettin' the certificate for my poor sister, and all I've got to say is: if you're so dreadful afraid as all thiscomes to, that you have to lose all sense of decency, and dun folksso hard, in such trouble as we be, you can put on your things and gojest as quick as you have a mind to, and I'll get Miss Patch tofinish the work. I've been more than half a mind to have her, anyway. I was very strongly advised to. Lots of folks have talked tome against your fittin', but I've always had you, and I thought I'dgive you the chance. Now if you don't want it, you jest pack up andgo, and the quicker the better. You shall have your pay as soon asMr. Brewster can get round after he has carried my poor sister tothe asylum. You needn't worry. " Fanny said the last with a sarcasmwhich seemed to reach out with a lash of bitterness like a whip. Theother woman winced, her eyes were hard, but her voice was appeasing. 

"Now, I didn't think you'd take it so, Mrs. Brewster, or I wouldn'thave said anything, " she almost wheedled. "You know I ain't afraidof not gettin' my pay, I--"

"You'd better not be, " said Fanny. 

"Of course I ain't. I know Mr. Brewster has steady work, and I knowyour folks have got money. "

"We've got money enough not to be beholden to anybody, " said Fanny. "Andrew, you'd better be goin' along or you'll be late. "

Andrew went out of the yard with his head bent miserably. He hadfelt ashamed of his fear, he felt still more ashamed of his relief. He wondered, going down the street, if it might not be a happier lotto lose one's wits like poor Eva, rather than have them to the fullresponsibility of steering one's self through such straits ofmisery. 

"I hope you won't think I meant any harm, " the dressmaker said toFanny, quite humbly. 

There was that about the sister of another woman who was beingcarried off to an insane asylum which was fairly intimidating. 

Miss Higgins sewed meekly during the remainder of the day, havingall the time a wary eye upon Fanny. She went home before supper, urging a headache as an excuse. She was in reality afraid of Fanny. 

Andrew was inexpressibly relieved when he reached home to find thatthe dressmaker was gone, and Fanny, having sent Amabel to bed, waschiefly anxious to know how her sister had reached the asylum. Itwas not until the latter part of the evening that she brought up thesubject of the bank. "Do look out to-morrow, Andrew Brewster, and besure to take that money out of the bank to pay Miss Higgins, " shesaid. "As for being dunned again by that woman, I won't! It's thelast time I'll ever have her, anyway. As far as that is concerned, all the money will have to come out of the bank if poor Eva is to bekept where she is. How much money was there that she had?"

"Just fifty-two dollars and seventy cents, " replied Andrew. "Jim hadleft a little that he'd scraped together somehow, with the letter hewrote to her, and he told her if he had work he'd send her more. "

"I'd die before I'd touch it, " said Fanny, fiercely. Then she lookedat Andrew with sudden pity. "Poor old man, " she said; "it's mightyhard on you when you're gettin' older, and you never say a word tocomplain. But I don't see any other way than to take that money, doyou?"

"No, " said Andrew. 

"And you don't think I'm hard to ask it, Andrew?"

"No. "

"God knows if it was your sister and my money, I would take everydollar. You know I would, Andrew. "

"Yes, I know, " replied Andrew, hoarsely. 

"Mebbe she'll get better before it's quite gone, " said Fanny. "Yousay the doctor gave some hope?"

"Yes, he did, if she was taken proper care of. "

"Well, she shall be. I'll go out and steal before she sha'n't haveproper care. Poor Eva!" Fanny burst into the hysterical wailingwhich had shaken her from head to foot at intervals during the lasttwenty-four hours. Andrew shuddered, thinking that he detected inher cries a resemblance to her sister's ravings. "Don't, don't, Fanny, " he pleaded. "Don't, poor girl. " He put his arm around her, and she wept on his shoulder, but with less abandon. "After all, we've got each other, and we've got Ellen, haven't we, Andrew?" shesobbed. 

"Yes, thank God, " said Andrew. "Don't, Fanny. "

"That--that's more than money, more than all the wages for all thelabor in the world, and that we've got, haven't we, Andrew? We'vegot what comes to us direct from God, haven't we? Don't think I'msilly, Andrew--haven't we?"

"Yes, yes, we have--you are right, Fanny, " replied Andrew. 

"I guess I am, too, " she assented, looking up in Andrew's poor, wornface with eyes of sudden bravery. "We'll get along somehow--don'tyou worry, old man. I guess we'll come out all right, somehow. We'lluse that money in the bank as far as it goes, and then I guess someway will be opened. "

Then there came over Andrew's exaltation, to which Fanny's words hadspurred his flagging spirit, a damper of utter mortification andguilt. He felt that he could bear this no longer. He opened hismouth to tell her what he had done with the money in the bank, whenthere came a knock on the door, and Fanny fled into the bedroom. Shehad unfastened her dress, and her face was stained with tears. Sheshut the bedroom door tightly as Andrew opened the outer one. 

The man who had loaned him the money to buy Ellen's watch stoodthere. His name was William Evarts, and he worked in thestitching-room of McGuire's factory, in which Andrew was employed. He was reported well-to-do, and to have amassed considerable moneyfrom judicious expenditures of his savings, and to be strictlyhonest, but hard in his dealings. He was regarded with a covertdisfavor by his fellow-workmen, as if he were one of themselves whohad somehow elevated himself to a superior height by virtue of theirbacks. If William Evarts had acquired prosperity through gambling inmines, they would have had none of that feeling; they would haverecognized the legitimacy of luck in the conduct of affairs. He wasin a way a reproach to them. "Why can't you get along and save aswell as William Evarts?" many a man's monitor asked of him. "Hedoesn't earn any more than you do, and has had as many expenses inhis family. " The man not being able to answer the question to hisown credit, disliked William Evarts who had instigated it. 

Andrew, who had in his character a vein of sterling justice, yetfelt that he almost hated William Evarts as he stood there beforehim, small and spare, snapping as it were with energy like electricwires, the strong lines in his clean-shaven face evident in theglare of the street-lamp. 

"Good-evening, " Andrew said, and he spoke like a criminal before ajudge, and at that moment he felt like one. 

"Good-evening, " responded the other man. Then he added, in a hushedvoice at first, for he had fineness to appreciate a sort ofindecency in dunning, in asking a man for even his rightful due, andhe had a regard for possible listening ears of femininity, "I waspassing by, and I thought I'd call and see if it was convenient foryou to pay me that money. "

"I'm sorry, " Andrew responded, with utter subjection. He looked andfelt ignoble. "I haven't got it, Evarts. "

"When are you going to have it?" asked the other, in a slightlyraised, ominous voice. 

"Just as soon as I can possibly get it, " replied Andrew, softly andpiteously. Ellen's chamber was directly overhead. He thought of thepossibility of her overhearing. 

"Look at here, Andrew Brewster, " said the other man, and this timewith brutal, pitiless force. When it came to the prospect of losingmoney he became as merciless as a machine. Something diabolical inremorselessness seemed to come to the surface, and reveal wheels ofgrinding for his fellow-men. "Look at here, " he said, "I want toknow right out, and no dodging. Have you got the money to payme--yes or no?"

"No, " said Andrew then, with a manliness born of desperation. He had the feeling of one who will die fighting. He wished thatEvarts would speak lower on account of Ellen, but he was preparedto face even that. The man's speech came with the glidderingrush of an electric car; it was a concentration of words intoone intensity of meaning; he elided everything possible, heran all his words together. He spoke something in this wise:"GoddamnyouAndrewBrewster, for comin'to borrow money to buyyour girl a watch when you had nothin' to pay for't with, whatbusinesshadyourgirlwithawatchanyhow, I'dliket'know? Mygirl'ain'tgotno watch. I'veputmymoneyinthebank. It'srobbery. I'llhavethelawonye. I'llsueyou. I'll--"

At that moment something happened. The man, William Evarts, who wastalking with a vociferousness which seemed cutting and lacerating tothe ear, who was brandishing an arm for emphasis in a circle offrenzy, fairly jumped to one side. The girl, Ellen Brewster, in alight wrapper, which she had thrown over her night-gown, came withsuch a speed down the stairs which led to the entry directly beforethe door, that she seemed to be flying. White ruffles eddied aroundher little feet, her golden hair was floating out like a flag. Shecame close to William Evarts. "Will you please not speak so loud, "said she, in a voice which her father had never heard from her lipsbefore. It was a voice of pure command, and of command which carriedwith it the consciousness of power to enforce. She stood beforeWilliam Evarts, and her fine smallness seemed intensified by herspirit to magnificence. The man shrank back a little, he had theimpression as of some one overtowering him, and yet the girl camescarcely to his shoulder. "Please do not speak so loud, you willwake Amabel, " she said, and Evarts muttered, like a dog under awhip, that he didn't want to wake her up. 

"You must not, " said Ellen. "Now here is the watch and chain. Isuppose that will do as well as your money if you cannot afford towait for my father to pay you. My father will pay you in time. Hehas never borrowed anything of any man which he has not meant to payback, and will not pay back. If you cannot afford to wait, take thewatch and chain. "

The man looked at her stupefied. 

"Here, " said Ellen; "take it. "

"I don't want your watch an' chain, " muttered Evarts. 

"You have either got to take them or wait for your money, " saidEllen. 

"I'll wait, " said Evarts. He was looking at the girl's face withmingled sentiments of pity, admiration, and terror. 

"Very well, then, " said Ellen. "I will promise you, and my fatherwill, that you shall have your money in time, but how long do youwant to wait?"

"I'll wait any time. I ain't in any straits for the money, if I getit in the end, " said Evarts. 

"You will get it in the end, " said Ellen. Evarts turned to Andrew. 

"Look here, give me your note for six months, " said he, "and we'llcall it all right. "

"All right, " said Andrew, again. 

"If you are not satisfied with that, " said Ellen, with a tone as ifshe were conferring inestimable benefits, so proud it was, "you cantake the watch and chain. It is not hurt in the least. Here. " Shewas fairly insolent. Evarts regarded her with a mixture ofadmiration and terror. He told somebody the next day that AndrewBrewster had a stepper of a daughter, but he did not give hisreasons for the statement. He had a sense of honor, and he had beenin love with a girl as young before he married his wife, who hadbeen a widow older than he, worth ten thousand dollars from herfirst husband. He could no more have taken the girl's watch andchain than he would have killed her. 

"I'm quite satisfied, " he replied to her, making a repellantmotion towards the watch and dangling chain glittering in theelectric-light. 

"Very well, then, " said Ellen, and she threw the chain over herneck. 

"You just bring that I O U to the shop to-mor-mor, " said Evarts toAndrew; then, with a "Good-evening, " he was off. They heard him hailan electric-car passing, and that, although he never took a car, butwalked to save the fare. He had been often heard to say that he forone did not support the street railroad. 

After he had gone, Ellen turned to her father, and flung a silentwhite arm slipping from her sleeve loose around his neck, and pulledhis head to her shoulder. "Now look here, father, " she said, "you'vebeen through lots to-day, and you'd better go to bed and go tosleep. I don't think mother was waked up--if she had been, she wouldhave been out here. "

"Look here, Ellen, I want to tell you, " Andrew began, pitifully. Hewas catching his breath like a child with sobs. 

"I don't want to hear anything, " replied Ellen, firmly. "Whateveryou did was right, father. "

"I ought to tell you, Ellen!"

"You ought to tell me nothing, " said Ellen. "You are all tired out, father. You can't do anything that isn't right for me. Now go to bedand go to sleep. "

Ellen stroked her father's thin gray hair with exactly the sametender touch with which he had so often stroked her golden locks. Itwas an inheritance of love reverting to its original source. Shekissed him on his lined forehead with her flower-like lips, then shepushed him gently away. "Go softly, and don't wake mother, "whispered she; "and, father, there's no need to trouble her withthis. Good-night. "

Chapter XXXIV

Ellen's deepest emotion was pity for her father, so intense that itwas actual physical pain. 

"Poor father! Poor father! He had to borrow the money to buy me mywatch and chain, " she kept repeating to herself. "Poor father!"

To her New England mind, borrowing seemed almost like robbing. Sheactually felt as if her father had committed a crime for love ofher, but all she looked at was the love, not the guilt. Suddenly aconviction which fairly benumbed her came over her--the money in thesavings-bank; that little hoard, which had been to the imaginationof herself and her mother a sheet-anchor against poverty, must begone. "Father must have used if for something unbeknown to mother, "she said to herself--"he must, else he would not have told Mr. Evarts that he could not pay him. " It was a hot night, but the girlshivered as she realized for the first time the meaning of the wolfat the door. "All we've got left is this house--this houseand--and--our hands, " thought Ellen. She saw before her her father'spoor, worn hands, her mother's thin, tired hands, jerking the threadin and out of those shameful wrappers; then she looked at her own, as yet untouched by toil, as white and small and fair as flowers. She thought of the four years before her at college, four yearsbefore she could earn anything--and in the mean time? She looked atthe pile of her school-books on the table. She had been studyinghard all summer. The thirst for knowledge was as intense in her asthe thirst for stimulants in a drunkard. 

"I ought to give up going to college, and go to work in the shop, "Ellen said to herself, and she said it as one might drive aprobing-knife into a sore. "I ought to, " she repeated. And yet shewas far from resolving to give up college. She began to argue withherself the expediancy, supposing that the money in the bank wasgone, of putting a mortgage on the house. If her father continued tohave work, they might get along and pay for her aunt, who might, asthe doctor had said, not be obliged to remain long in the asylum ifproperly cared for. Would it not, after all, be better, since by acourse at college she would be fitted to command a larger salarythan she could in any other way. "I can support them all, " reflectedEllen. At that time the thought of Robert Lloyd, and that awakeningof heart which he had brought to pass, were in abeyance. Old powershad asserted themselves. This love for her own blood and their needcame between her and this new love, half of the senses, half of thespirit. 

Amabel waked up in the early sultry dawn of the summer day with thebewilderment of one in a new world. She stared at the walls of theroom, at the shaft of sunlight streaming in the window, then atEllen. 

"Where am I?" she inquired, in a loud, querulous plaint. Then sheremembered, but she did not cry; instead, her little face took on apainfully old look. 

"You are here with cousin Ellen, darling, don't you know?" Ellenreplied, leaning over her, and kissing her. 

Amabel wriggled impatiently away, and faced to the wall. "Yes, Iknow, " said she. 

That morning Amabel would not eat any breakfast, and Fanny suggestedthat Ellen take her for a ride on the street-cars. "We can get alongwithout you for an hour, " she whispered, "and I am afraid that childwill be sick. "

So Ellen and Amabel set out, leaving Fanny and the dressmaker atwork, and when they were returning past the factories the noonwhistles were blowing and the operatives were streaming forth. 

Ellen was surprised to see her father among them as the car sweptpast. He walked down the street towards home, his dinner-bagdangling at his side, his back more bent than ever. 

She wondered uneasily if her father was ill, for he never went hometo dinner. She looked back at him as the car swept past, but he didnot seem to see her. He walked with an air of seeing nothing, covering the ground like an old dog with some patient, dumb end inview, heeding nothing by the way. It puzzled her also that herfather had come out of Lloyd's instead of McGuire's, where he hadbeen employed all summer. Ellen, after she reached home, watchedanxiously for her father to come into the yard, but she did not seehim. She assisted about the dinner, which was a little extra onaccount of the dressmaker, and all the time she glanced with covertanxiety at the window, but her father did not pass it. Finally, whenshe went out to the pump for a pitcher of water, she set the pitcherdown, and sped to the orchard like a wild thing. A suspicion hadseized her that her father was there. 

Sure enough, there he was, but instead of lying face down on thegrass, as he had done before, he was sitting back against a tree. Hehad the air of having settled into such a long lease of despair thathe had sought the most comfortable position for it. His face wasghastly. He looked at Ellen as she drew near, and opened his mouthas if to speak, but instead he only caught his breath. He staredhard at her, then he closed his eyes as if not to see her, andmotioned her away with one hand with an inarticulate noise in histhroat. 

But Ellen sat down beside him. She caught his two hands and lookedat him. "Father, look at me, " said she, and Andrew opened his eyes. The expression in them was dreadful, compounded of shame and despairand dread, but the girl's met them with a sort of glad triumph andstrength of love. "Now look here, father, " she said, "you tell meall about it. I didn't want to know last night. Now I want to know. What is the matter?"

Andrew continued to look at her, then all at once he spoke with akind of hoarse shout. "I'm discharged! I'm discharged, " he said, "from McGuire's; they've got a boy who can move faster in myplace--a boy for less pay, who can move faster. I hurried over toLloyd's to see if they would take me on again; I've always thought Ishould get back into Lloyd's, and I saw the foreman, and he told meto my face that I was too old, that they wanted younger men. And Iwent into the office to see Lloyd, pushed past the foreman, with himdamning me, and I saw Lloyd. "

"Was young Mr. Lloyd there?" asked Ellen, with white lips. 

"No; I guess he had gone to dinner. And Lloyd looked at me, and Ibelieve he counted every gray hair in my head, and he saw my back, and he saw my hands, and he said--he said I was too old. "

Andrew snatched his hands from Ellen's grasp, pressed them to hisface, and broke into weeping. "Oh, my God, I'm too old, I'm tooold!" he sobbed; "I'm out of it! I'm too old!"

Ellen regarded him, and her face had developed lines of strengthhitherto unrevealed. There was no pity in it, hardly love; shelooked angry and powerful. "Father, stop doing so, and look at me, "she said. She dragged her father's hands from his face, and hestared at her with his inflamed eyes, half terrified, halfsustained. At that moment he realized a strength of support as fromhis own lost youth, a strength as of eternal progress which was moreto be relied upon than other human strength. For the first time heleaned on his child, and realized with wonder the surety of thestay. 

"Now, father, you stop doing so, " said Ellen. "You can get worksomewhere; you are not old. Call yourself old! It is nonsense. Areyou going to give in and be old because two men tell you that youare? What if your hair is gray! Ever so many young men have grayhair. You are not old, and you can get work somewhere. McGuire's andLloyd's are not the only factories in the country. "

"That ain't all, " said Andrew, with eyes like a beseeching dog's onher face. 

"I know that isn't all, " said Ellen. "You needn't be afraid to tellme, father. You have taken the money out of the savings-bank forsomething. "

Again Andrew would have snatched his hands from the girl's andhidden his face, but she held them fast. "Yes, I have, " he admitted, in a croaking voice. 

"Well, what if you have?" asked Ellen. "You had a right to take itout, didn't you? You put it in. I don't know of anybody who had abetter right to take it out than you, if you wanted to. "

Andrew stared at her, as if he did not hear rightly. "You don't knowwhat I did with it, Ellen, " he stammered. 

"It is nobody's business, " replied Ellen. She had an unexplainedsensation as if she were holding fast to her father's slippingself-respect which was dragging hard at her restraining love. 

"I put it in a worthless gold-mine out in Colorado--the same oneyour uncle Jim lost his money in, " groaned Andrew. 

"Well, it was your money, and you had a perfect right to, " saidEllen. "Of course you thought the mine was all right or you wouldn'thave put the money into it. "

"God knows I did. "

"Well, the best business men in the world make mistakes. It isnobody's business whether you took the money out or not, or what youused it for, father. "

"I don't see how the bills are going to be paid, and there's yourpoor aunt, " said Andrew. He was leaning more and more heavily uponthis new tower of strength, this tender little girl whom he hadhitherto shielded and supported. The beautiful law of reverse ofnature had come into force. 

Ellen set her mouth firmly. "Don't you worry, father, " said she. "Wewill think of some way out of it. There's a little money to pay forAunt Eva, and maybe she won't be sick long. Does mother know, father?"

"She don't know about anything, Ellen, " replied Andrew, wretchedly. 

"I know she doesn't know about your getting thrown out of work--butabout the bank?"

"No, Ellen. "

Ellen rose. "You stay here, where it is cool, till I ring thedinner-bell, father, " she said. 

"I don't want any dinner, child. "

"Yes, you do, father. If you don't eat your dinner you will be sick. You come when the bell rings. "

Andrew knew that he should obey, as he saw the girl's light dressdisappear among the trees. 

Ellen went back to the pump, and carried her pitcher of water intothe house. Her mother met her at the door. "Where have you been allthis time, Ellen Brewster?" she asked, in a high voice. "Everythingis getting as cold as a stone. "

Ellen caught her mother's arm and drew her into the kitchen, andclosed the door. Fanny turned pale as death and looked at her. "Well, what has happened now?" she said. "Is your father killed?"

"No, " said Ellen, "but he is out of work, and he can't get a job atLloyd's, and he took all that money out of the savings-bank a longtime ago, and put it into that gold-mine that Uncle Jim lost in. "

Fanny clutched the girl's arm in a grasp so hard that it left a bluemark on the tender flesh. She looked at her, but did not speak oneword. 

"Now, mother, " said Ellen, "you must not say one word to father toscold him. He's got enough to bear as it is. "

Fanny pushed her away with sudden fierceness. "I guess I don't needto have my own daughter teach me my duty to my husband, " said she. "Where is he?"

"Down in the orchard. "

"Well, ring the bell for dinner loud, so he can hear it. "

When Andrew came shuffling wearily up from the orchard, Fanny methim at the corner of the house, out of sight from the windows. Shewas flushed and perspiring, clad in a coarse cotton wrapper, revealing all her unkempt curves. She went close to him, and thrustone large arm through his. "Look here, Andrew, " said she, in thetenderest voice he had ever heard from her, a voice so tender thatit was furious, "you needn't say one word. What's done's done. Weshall get along somehow. I ain't afraid. Come in and eat yourdinner!"

The dressmaking work went on as usual after dinner. Andrew haddisappeared, going down the road towards the shop. He tried for ajob at Briggs's, with no success, then drifted to the cornergrocery. 

Ellen sat until nearly three o'clock sewing. Then she went up-stairsand got her hat, and went secretly out of the back door, through thewest yard, that her mother should not see her. However, hergrandmother called after her, and wanted to know where she wasgoing. 

"Down street, on an errand, " answered Ellen. 

"Well, keep on the shady side, " called her grandmother, thinking thegirl was bound to the stores for some dressmaking supplies. 

That night Miss Higgins did not ask for her pay; she had made up hermind to wait until her week was finished. She went away aftersupper, and Ellen followed her to the door. "We won't want youto-morrow, Miss Higgins, " said she, "and here is your pay. " Withthat she handed a roll of bills to the woman, who stared at her inamazement and growing resentment. 

"If my work ain't satisfactory, " said she--

"Your work is satisfactory, " said Ellen, "but I don't want any morework done. I am not going to college. "

There was something conclusive and intimidating about Ellen's lookand tone. The dressmaker, who had been accustomed to regard her as achild, stared at her with awe, as before a sudden revelation offorce. Then she took her money, and went down the walk. 

When Ellen re-entered the sitting-room her father and mother, whohad overheard every word, confronted her. 

"Ellen Brewster, what does this mean?"

Andrew looked as if he would presently fall to the floor. 

"It means, " said Ellen--and she looked at her parents with the braveenthusiasm of a soldier on her beautiful face--she even laughed--"itmeans that I am going to work--I have got a job in Lloyd's. "

When Ellen made that announcement, her mother did a strange thing. She ran swiftly to a corner of the room, and stood there, staring atthe girl, with back hugged close to the intersection of the walls, as if she would withdraw as far as possible from some threateningill. At that moment she looked alarmingly like her sister; there wassomething about Fanny in her corner, calculated, when allcircumstances were taken into consideration, to make one's bloodchill, but Andrew did not look at her. He was intent upon Ellen, andthe facing of the worst agony of his life, and Ellen was intent uponhim. She loved her mother, but the fear as to her father's sufferingmoved her more than her mother's. She was more like her father, andcould better estimate his pain under stress. Andrew rose to his feetand stood looking at Ellen, and she at him. She tried to meet thedrawn misery and incredulousness of his face with a laugh ofreassurance. 

"Yes, I've got a job in Lloyd's, " said she. "What's the matter, father?"

Then Andrew made an almost inarticulate response; it sounded like acroak in an unknown tongue. 

Ellen continued to look at him, and to laugh. 

"Now look here, father, " said she. "There is no need for you andmother to feel bad over this. I have thought it all over, and I havemade up my mind. I have got a good high-school education now, andthe four years I should have to spend at Vassar I could do nothingat all. There is awful need of money here, and not only for us, butfor Aunt Eva and Amabel. "

"You sha'n't do it!" Andrew burst out then, in a great shout ofrage. "I'll mortgage the house--that'll last awhile. You sha'n't, Isay! You are my child, and you've got to listen. You sha'n't, Isay!"

"Now, father, " responded Ellen's voice, which seemed to have in it awonderful tone of firmness against which his agonized vociferousnessbroke as against a rock, "this is nonsense. You must not mortgagethe house. The house is all you have got for your and mother's oldage. Do you think I could go to college, and let you give up thehouse in order to keep me there? And as for grandma Brewster, youknow what's hers is hers as long as she lives--we don't want tothink of that. I have got this job now, which is only three dollarsa week, but in a year the foreman said I might earn fifteen oreighteen, if I was quick and smart, and I will be quick and smart. It is the best thing for us all, father. "

"You sha'n't!" shouted Andrew. "I say you sha'n't!"

Suddenly Andrew sank into a chair, his head lopped, he kept moving ahand before his eyes, as if he were brushing away cobwebs. ThenFanny came out of her corner. 

"Get the camphor, quick!" she said to Ellen. "I dun'no' but you'vekilled your father. "

Fanny held her husband's head against her shoulder, and rubbed hishands frantically. The awful strained look had gone from her face. Ellen came with the camphor, and then went for water. Fanny rubbedAndrew's forehead with the camphor, and held the bottle to his nose. "Smell it, Andrew, " she said, in a voice of ineffable tenderness andpity. Ellen returned with a glass of water, and Andrew swallowed alittle obediently. Finally he made out to stagger into the bedroomwith Fanny's and Ellen's assistance. He sat down weakly on the bed, and Fanny lifted his legs up. Then he sank and closed his eyes as ifhe were spent. In fact, he was. At that moment of Ellen'sannouncement some vital energy in him suddenly relaxed likeoverstrained rubber. His face, sunken in the pillow, was bothghastly and meek. It was the face of a man who could fight no more. Ellen knelt down beside him, sobbing. 

"Oh, father!" she sobbed, "I think it is for the best. Dear father, you won't feel bad. "

"No, " said Andrew, faintly. There was a slight twitching in hishand, as if he wished to put it on her head, then it lay thin andinert on the coverlid. He tried to smile, but his face settled intothat look of utter acquiescence of fate. 

"I s'pose it's the best you can do, " he muttered. 

"Have you told Miss Lennox?" gasped Fanny. 

"Yes. "

"What did she say?"

"She was sorry, but she made no objection, " replied Ellen, evasively. 

Fanny came forward abruptly, caught up the camphor-bottle, and beganbathing Andrew's forehead again. 

"We won't say any more about it, " said she, in a harsh voice. "You'dbetter go over to your grandma Brewster's and see if she has got anywhiskey. I think your father needs to take something. "

"I don't want anything, " said Andrew, feebly. 

"Yes, you do, too, you are as white as a sheet. Go over and ask her, Ellen. "

Ellen ran across the yard to her grandmother's, and the old womanmet her at the door. She seemed to have an instinctive knowledge oftrouble. 

"What's the matter?" she asked. 

"Father's a little faint, and mother wants me to borrow thewhiskey, " said Ellen. She had not at that time the courage to tellher grandmother what she had done. 

Mrs. Zelotes ran into the house, and came out with the bottle. 

"I'm comin' over, " she announced. "I'm kind of worried about yourfather; he 'ain't looked well for some time. I wonder what made himfaint. Maybe he ate something which hurt him. "

Ellen said nothing. She fled up-stairs to her chamber, as hergrandmother entered the bedroom. She felt cowardly, but she thoughtthat she would let her mother tell the news. 

She sat down and waited. She knew that presently she would hear theold woman's voice at the foot of the stairs. She was resolved uponher course, and knew that she could not be shaken in it, yet shedreaded unspeakably the outburst of grief and anger which she knewwould come from her grandmother. She felt as if she had faced twofires, and now before the third she quailed a little. 

It was not long before the expected summons came. 

"Ellen--Ellen Brewster, come down here!"

Ellen went down. Her grandmother met her at the foot of the stairs. She was trembling from head to foot; her mouth twisted and waveredas if she had the palsy. 

"Look here, Ellen Brewster, this ain't true?" she stammered. 

"Yes, grandma, " answered Ellen. "I have thought it all over, and itis the only thing for me to do. "

Her grandmother clutched her arm, and the girl felt as if she werein the grasp of another will, which was more conclusive than steel. 

"You sha'n't!" she said, whispering, lest Andrew should hear, butwith intense force. 

"I've got to, grandma. We've got to have the money. "

"The money, " said the old woman, with an inflection of voice and atwist of her features indicative of the most superb scorn--"themoney! I guess you ain't goin' to lose such a chance as that formoney. I guess I've got two hundred and ten dollars a year income, and I'll give up a half of that, and Andrew can put a mortgage onthe house, if that Tenny woman has got to be supported because herhusband has run off and left her and her young one. You sha'n't goto work in a shop. "

"I've got to, grandma, " said Ellen. 

The old woman looked at her. It was like a duel between two strongwills of an old race. "You sha'n't, " she said. 

"Yes, I shall, grandma. "

Then the old woman turned upon her in a fury of rage. 

"You're a Loud all over, Ellen Brewster, " said she. "You 'ain't gota mite of Brewster about you. You 'ain't got any pride! You'd justas soon settle down and work in a shop as do anything else. "

Fanny pushed before her. "Look here, Mother Brewster, " said she, "you can just stop! Ellen is my daughter, and you 'ain't any rightto talk to her this way. I won't have it. If anybody is goin' toblame her, it's me. "

"Who be you?" said Mrs. Zelotes, sniffing. 

Then she looked at them both, at Ellen and at her mother. 

"If you go an' do what you've planned, " said she to Ellen, "an' ifyou uphold her in it, " to Fanny, "I've done with you. "

"Good riddance, " said Fanny, coarsely. 

"I ain't goin' to forget that you said that, " cried Mrs. Zelotes. She held up her dress high in front and went out of the door. "Iain't comin' over here again, an' I'll thank you to stay at home, "said she. Then she went away. 

Soon after Fanny heard Ellen in the dining-room setting the tablefor supper, and went out. 

"Where did you get that money you paid the dressmaker with?" sheasked, abruptly. 

"I borrowed it of Abby, " replied Ellen. 

"Then she knows?"

"Yes. "

Fanny continued to look at Ellen with the look of one who issettling down with resignation under some knife of agony. 

"Well, " said she, "there's no need to talk any more about it beforeyour father. Now I guess you had better toast him some bread for hissupper. "

"Yes, I will, " replied Ellen. She looked at her mother pitifully, and yet with that firmness which had seemed to suddenly develop inher. "You know it is the best thing for me to do, mother?" she said, and although she put it in the form of a question, the statement wascommanding in its assertiveness. 

"When are you--goin' to work?" asked Fanny. 

"Next Monday, " replied Ellen. 

Chapter XXXV

When Ellen had gone to the factory to apply for work neither of theLloyds were in the office, only a girl at the desk, whom she knewslightly. Ellen had hesitated a little as she approached the girl, who looked around with a friendly smile. 

"I want to see--" Ellen began, then she stopped, for she did notexactly know for whom she should ask. The girl, who was blond andtrim, clad coquettishly in a blue shirt-waist and a duck skirt, witha large, cheap rhinestone pin confining the loop of her yellowbraids, looked at her in some bewilderment. She had heard of Ellen'sgood-fortune, and knew she was to be sent to Vassar by CynthiaLennox. She did not dream that she had come to ask for employment. 

"You want to see Mr. Lloyd?" she asked. 

"Oh no!" replied Ellen. 

"Mr. Robert Lloyd?" The girl, whose name was Nellie Stone, laugheda little meaningly as she said that. 

Ellen blushed. "No, " she said. "I think I want to see the foreman. "

"Which foreman?"

"I don't know, " replied Ellen. "I want to get work if I can. I don'tknow which foreman I ought to see. "

"To get work?" repeated the girl, with a subtle change in hermanner. 

"Yes, " said Ellen. She could hear her heart beat, but she looked atthe other girl's pretty, common face with the most perfect calmness. 

"Mr. Flynn is the one you want to see, then, " said the girl. "Youknow Ed Flynn, don't you?"

"A little, " replied Ellen. He had been a big boy when she enteredthe high-school, and had left the next spring. 

"Well, he's the one you want, " said Nellie Stone. Then she raisedher voice to a shrill peal as a boy passed the office door. 

"Here, you, Jack, " said she, "ask Mr. Flynn to come here a minute, will you?"

"He don't want to see you, " replied the boy, who was small andspare, laden heavily with a great roll of wrapping paper bornebayonet fashion over his shoulder. His round, impish face grinnedback at the girl at the desk. 

"Quit your impudence, " she returned, half laughing herself. "I don'twant to see him; it is this young lady here; hurry up. "

The boy gave a comprehensive glance at Ellen. "Guess he'll come, " hecalled back. 

Flynn appeared soon. He was handsome, well shaven and shorn, and heheld himself smartly. He also dressed well in a business suit whichwould not have disgraced the Lloyds. His face lit up withastonishment and pleasure when he saw Ellen. He bowed and greetedher in a rich voice. He was of Irish descent but American born. Bothhis motions and his speech were adorned with flourishes of gracewhich betrayed his race. He placed a chair for Ellen with a sweepwhich would have been a credit to the stage. All his actions had aslight exaggeration as of fresco painting, which seemed to fit themfor a stage rather than a room, and for an audience rather thanchance spectators. 

"No, thank you, " replied Ellen. Then she went straight to the matterin hand. "I have called to see if I could get a job here?" she said. She had been formulating her speech all the way thither. Her firstimpulse was to ask for employment, but she was sure as to the mannerin which a girl would ordinarily couch such a request. So she askedfor a job. 

Flynn stared at her. "A job?" he repeated. 

"Yes, I want very much to get one, " replied Ellen. "I thought theremight be a vacancy. "

"Why, I thought--" said the young man. He was very much astonished, but his natural polish could rise above astonishment. Instead ofblurting out what was in his mind as to her change of prospects, hereasoned with incredible swiftness that the change must be a hardthing to this girl, and that she was to be handled the more tenderlyand delicately because she was such a pretty girl. He became twiceas polite as before. He moved the chair nearer to her. 

"Please sit down, " he said. He handed to her the wooden arm-chair asif it had been a throne. Nellie Stone bent frowning over herday-book. 

"Now let me see, " said the young man, seriously, with perfectdeference of manner, only belied by the rollicking admiration in hiseyes. "You have never held a position in a factory before, I think?"

"No, " replied Ellen. 

"There is at present only one vacancy that I can think of, " saidFlynn, "and that does not pay very much, but there is always achance to rise for a smart hand. I am sure you will be that, " headded, smiling at her. 

Ellen did not return the smile. "I shall be contented to begin for alittle, if there is a chance to rise, " she said. 

"There's a chance to rise to eighteen dollars a week, " said Flynn. He smiled again, but it was like smiling at seriousness itself. Ellen's downright, searching eyes upon his face seemed almost toforbid the fact of her own girlish identity. 

"What is the job you have for me?" said she. 

"Tying strings in shoes, " answered Flynn. "Easy enough, only child'splay, but you won't earn more than three dollars a week to beginwith. "

"I shall be quite satisfied with that, " said Ellen. "When shall Icome?"

"Why, to-morrow morning; no, to-morrow is Friday. Better come nextMonday and begin the week. That will give you one day more off, andthe hot wave a chance to get past. " Flynn spoke facetiously. It wasa very hot day, and the air in the office like a furnace. He wipedhis forehead, to which the dark rings of hair clung. The girl at thedesk glanced around adoringly at him. 

"I would rather not stop for that if you want me to begin at once, "said Ellen. 

Flynn looked abashed. "Oh, we'd rather have you begin on the evenweek--it makes less bother over the account, " he said. "Mondaymorning at seven sharp, then. "

"Yes, " said Ellen. 

Flynn walked off with an abrupt duck of his head. He somehow feltthat he had been rebuffed, and Ellen rose. 

"I told you you'd get one, " said the girl at the desk. "Catch EdFlynn not giving a pretty girl a job. " She said it with an accentof pain as well as malice. Ellen looked at her with large, indignanteyes. She had not the least idea what she meant, at least sherealized only the surface meaning, and that angered her. 

"I suppose he gave me the job because there was a vacancy, " shereturned, with dignity. 

The other girl laughed. "Mebbe, " said she. 

Ellen continued to look at her, and there was something in her looknot only indignant, but appealing. Nellie Stone's expression changedagain. She laughed uneasily. "Land, I didn't mean anything, " saidshe. "I'm glad for you that you got the job. Of course you wouldn'thave got it if there hadn't been a chance. One of the girls gotmarried last week, Maud Millet. I guess it's her place you've got. I'm real glad you've got it. "

"Thank you, " said Ellen. 

"Good-bye, " said the girl. 

"Good-bye, " replied Ellen. 

On Monday morning the heat had broken, and an east wind with thebreath of the sea in it was blowing. Ellen started for her work athalf-past six. She held her father's little, worn leather-bag, inwhich he had carried his dinner for so many years. The walk was solong that it would scarcely give her time to come home at noon, andas for taking a car, that was not to be thought of for a moment onaccount of the fare. 

Ellen walked along briskly, the east wind blew in her face, shesmelled the salt sea, and somehow it at once soothed and stimulatedher. Without seeing the mighty waste of waters, she seemed torealize its presence; she gazed at the sky hanging low with a scudof gray clouds, which did not look unlike the ocean, and the senseof irresponsibility in the midst of infinity comforted her. 

"I am not Ellen Brewster after all, " she thought. "I am not anythingseparate enough to be worried about what comes to me. I am only apart of greatness which cannot fail of reaching its end. " Shethought this all vaguely. She had no language for it, for she wasvery young; it was formless as music, but as true to her. 

When she reached the cross-street where the Atkinses lived Abby andMaria came running out. 

"My land, Ellen Brewster, " said Abby, half angrily, "if you don'tlook real happy! I believe you are glad to go to work in ashoe-shop!"

Ellen laughed. Maria said nothing, but she pressed close to her asshe walked along. She was coughing a little in the east wind. Therehad been a drop of twenty degrees in the night, and these drops oftemperature in New England mean steps to the tomb. 

"You make me mad, " said Abby. Her voice broke a little. She dashedher hand across her eyes angrily. "Here's Granville Joy, " said she;"you'll be in the same room with him, Ellen. " She said itmaliciously. Distress over her friend made her fairly malicious. 

Ellen colored. "You are hard to talk to, " said she, in a low voice, for Granville was coming nearer, gaining on them from behind. 

"She don't mean it, " whispered Maria. 

When Granville caught up with them, Ellen pressed so close to Mariathat he was forced to walk with Abby or pass on. She returned his"Good-morning, " then did not look at him again. Presently WillyJones appeared, coming so imperceptibly that he seemed almostimpossible. 

"Where did he come from?" whispered Ellen to Maria. 

"Hush, " replied Maria; "it's this way 'most every morning. All atonce he comes, and he generally walks with me, because he's afraidAbby won't want him, but it's Abby. "

This morning, Willy Jones, aroused, perhaps, to self-assertion bythe presence of another man, walked three abreast with Abby andGranville, but on the other side of Granville. Now and then hepeered around the other man at the girl, with soft, wistful blueeyes, but Abby never seemed to see him. She talked fast, in a harsh, rather loud voice. She uttered bitter witticisms which made hercompanions laugh. 

"Abby is so bright, " whispered Maria to Ellen, "but I wish shewouldn't talk so. Abby doesn't feel the way I wish she did. Sherebels. She would be happier if she gave up rebelling and believed. " Maria coughed as she spoke. 

"You had better keep your mouth shut in this east wind, Maria, " hersister called out sharply to her. 

"I'm not talking much, Abby, " replied Maria. 

Presently Maria looked at Ellen lovingly. "Do you feel very badlyabout going to work?" she asked, in a low voice. 

"No, not now. I have made up my mind, " replied Ellen. The east windwas bringing a splendid color to her cheeks. She held up her head asshe marched along, like one leading a charge of battle. Her eyesgleamed as with blue fire, her yellow hair sprung and curled aroundher temples. 

They were now in the midst of a great, hurrying procession bound forthe factories. Some of the men walked silently, with a dogged stoopof shoulders and shambling hitch of hips; some of the women moveddroopingly, with an indescribable effect of hanging back from theleading of some imperious hand of fate. Many of them, both men andwomen, walked alertly and chattered like a flock of sparrows. Ellenmoved with this rank and file of the army of labor, and all at oncea sense of comradeship seized her. She began to feel humanity as shehad never felt it before. The sense of her own littleness arousedher to a power of comprehension of the grandeur of the mass of whichshe was a part. She began to lose herself and sense humanity. 

When the people reached the factories, two on one side of the road, one, Lloyd's, on the other, they began streaming up the outsidestairs and disappearing like swarms of bees in hives. Two flights ofstairs, one on each side, led to a platform in front of the entranceof Lloyd's. 

When Ellen set her foot on one of these stairs the seven-o'clocksteam-whistle blew, and a mighty thrill shot through the vastbuilding. Ellen caught her breath. Abby came close to her. 

"Don't get scared, " said she, with ungracious tenderness; "there'snothing to be scared at. "

Ellen laughed. "I'm not scared, " said she. Then they entered thefactory, humming with machinery, and a sensation which she had notanticipated was over her. Scared she was not; she was fairlyexultant. All at once she entered a vast room in which eager menwere already at the machines with frantic zeal, as if they weredriving labor herself. When she felt the vibration of the floorunder her feet, when she saw people spring to their stations oftoil, as if springing to guns in a battle, she realized the mightand grandeur of it all. Suddenly it seemed to her that the greatestthing in the whole world was work and that this was one of thegreatest forms of work--to cover the feet of progress of thetravellers of the earth from the cradle to the grave. She saw thatthese great factories, and the strength of this army of the sons anddaughters of toil, made possible the advance of civilization itself, which cannot go barefoot. She realized all at once and forever thedignity of labor, this girl of the people, with a brain whichenabled her to overlook the heads of the rank and file of which sheherself formed a part. She never again, whatever her regret mighthave been for another life for which she was better fitted, whichher taste preferred, had any sense of ignominy in this. She neveragain felt that she was too good for her labor, for labor hadrevealed itself to her like a goddess behind a sordid veil. Abby andMaria looked at her wonderingly. No other girl had ever enteredLloyd's with such a look on her face. 

"Are you sick?" whispered Abby, catching her arm. 

"No, " said Ellen. "No, don't worry me, Abby. I think I shall likeit. "

"I declare you make me mad, " said Abby, but she looked at heradoringly. "Here's Ed Flynn, " she added. "He'll look out for you. Good-bye, I'll see you at noon. " Abby went away to her machine. Shewas stitching vamps by the piece, and earning a considerable amount. The Atkinses were not so distressed as they had been, and Abby waspaying off a mortgage. 

When the foreman came towards Ellen she experienced a shock. Hisgay, admiring eyes on her face seemed to dispel all her exaltation. She felt as if her feet touched earth, and yet the young manwas entirely respectful, and even thoughtful. He bade her"Good-morning, " and conducted her to the scene of her labor. Oneother girl was already there at work. She gave a sidewise glance atEllen, and went on, making her fingers fly. Mr. Flynn showed Ellenwhat to do. She had to tie the shoes together with bits of twine, laced through eyelet holes. Ellen took a piece of twine and tied itin as Flynn watched her. He laughed pleasantly. 

"You'll do, " he said, approvingly. "I've been in here five years, and you are the first girl I ever saw who tied a square knot at thefirst trial. Here's Mamie Brady here, she worked a solid monthbefore she got the hang of the square knot. "

"You go along, " admonished the girl spoken of as "Mamie Brady. " Herwords were flippant, even impudent, but her tone was both dejectedand childish. She continued to work without a glance at either ofthem. Her fingers flew, tying the knots with swift jerks. 

"Well, you help Miss Brewster, if she needs any help, " said Flynn, as he went away. 

"We don't have any misses in this shop, " said the girl to Ellen, with sarcastic emphasis. 

"I don't care anything about being called miss, " replied Ellen, picking up another piece of string. 

"What's your first name?"

"Ellen. "

"Oh, land! I know who you be. You read that essay at the high-schoolgraduation. I was there. Well, I shouldn't think you would want tobe called miss if you feel the way you said you did in that. "

"I don't want to, " said Ellen. 

The girl gave a swift, comprehensive glance at her as her fingersmanipulated the knots. 

"You won't earn twenty cents a week at the rate you're workin', " shesaid; "look at me. "

"I don't believe you worked any faster than I do when you hadn'tbeen here any longer, " retorted Ellen. 

"I did, too; you can't depend on a thing Ed Flynn says. You're awfulslow. He praises you because you are good-lookin'. "

Ellen turned and faced her. "Look here, " said she. 

The other girl looked at her with unspeakable impudence, and yetunder it was that shadow of dejection and that irresponsiblechildishness. 

"Well, I am lookin', " said she, "what is it?"

"You need not speak to me again in that way, " said Ellen, "and Iwant you to understand it. I will not have it. "

"My, ain't you awful smart, " said the other girl, sneeringly, butshe went on with her work without another word. Presently she saidto Ellen, kindly enough: "If you lay the shoes the way I do, so, youcan get them faster. You'll find it pays. Every little saving oftime counts when you are workin' by the piece. "

"Thank you, " said Ellen, and did as she was instructed. She began towork with exceeding swiftness for a beginner. Her fingers weresupple, her nervous energy great. Flynn came and stood beside her, watching her. 

"If you work at that rate, you'll make it pretty profitable, " hesaid. 

"Thank you, " said Ellen. 

"And a square knot every time, " he added, with almost a caressinginflection. Mamie Brady tied in the twine with compressed lips. Granville Joy passed them, pushing a rack full of shoes to anotherdepartment, and he glanced at them jealously. Still he was notseriously alarmed as to Flynn, who, although he was good-looking, was a Catholic. Mrs. Zelotes seemed an effectual barrier to that. 

"Ed Flynn talks that way to everybody, " Mamie Brady said to Ellen, after the foreman had passed on. She said it this time quiteinoffensively. Ellen laughed. 

"If I _do_ tie the knots square, that is the main thing, " she said. 

"Then you don't like him?"

"I never spoke two words to him before the day I applied for work, "Ellen replied, haughtily. She was beginning to feel that perhaps theworst feature of her going to work in a factory would be this girl. 

"I've known girls who would be willing to go down on their knees andtie his shoes when they hadn't seen more of him than that, " said thegirl. "Ed Flynn is an awful masher. "

Ellen went on with her work. The girl, after a side glance at her, went on with hers. 

Gradually Ellen's work began to seem mechanical. At first she hadfelt as if she were tying all her problems of life in square knots. She had to use all her brain upon it; after a while her brain had soinformed her fingers that they had learned their lesson well enoughto leave her free to think, if only the girl at her side would lether alone. The girl had a certain harsh beauty, coarsely curling redhair, a great mass of it, gathered in an untidy knot, and abrilliant complexion. Her hands were large and red. Ellen'scontrasted with them looked like a baby's. 

"You 'ain't got hands for workin' in a shoe-shop, " said Mamie Brady, presently, and it was impossible to tell from her tone whether sheenvied or admired Ellen's hands, or was proud of the superiorstrength of her own. 

"Well, they've got to work in a shoe-shop, " said Ellen, with a shortlaugh. 

"You won't find it so easy to work with such little mites of handswhen it comes to some things, " said the girl. 

It began to be clear that she exulted in her large, coarse hands asbeing fitted for her work. 

"Maybe mine will grow larger, " said Ellen. 

"No, they won't. They'll grow all bony and knotty, but they won'tgrow any bigger. "

"Well, I shall have to get along with them the best way I can, "replied Ellen, rather impatiently. This girl was irritating to adegree, and yet there was all the time that vague dejection abouther, and withal a certain childishness, which seemed to insist uponpatience. The girl was really older than Ellen, but she wascuriously unformed. Some of the other girls said openly that she was"lacking. "

"You act stuck up. Are you stuck up?" asked Mamie Brady, suddenly, after another pause. 

Ellen laughed in spite of herself. "No, " said she, "I am not. I knowof no reason that I have for being stuck up. "

"Well, I don't know of any either, " said the other girl, "but Ididn't know. You sort of acted as if you felt stuck up. "

"Well, I don't. "

"You talk stuck up. Why don't you talk the way the rest of us do?Why do you say 'am not, ' and 'ar'n't'; why don't you say 'ain't'?"

The girl mimicked Ellen's voice impishly. 

Ellen colored. "I am going to talk the way I think best, the way Ihave been taught is right, and if that makes you think I am stuckup, I can't help it. "

"My, don't get mad. I didn't mean anything, " said the other girl. 

All the time while Ellen was working, and even while the exultationand enthusiasm of her first charge in the battle of labor was uponher, she had had, since her feminine instincts were, after all, strong with her, a sense that Robert Lloyd was under the same greatfactory roof, in the same human hive, that he might at any momentpass through the room. That, however, she did not think very likely. She fancied the Lloyds seldom went through the departments, whichwere in charge of foremen. Mr. Norman Lloyd was at the mountainswith his wife, she knew. They left Robert in charge, and he wouldhave enough to do in the office. She looked at the grimy men workingaround her, and she thought of the elegant young fellow, and theutter incongruity of her being among them seemed so great as topreclude the possibility of it. She had said to herself when shethought of obtaining work in Lloyd's that she need not hesitateabout it on account of Robert. She had heard her father say that theelder Lloyd almost never came in contact with the men, thateverything was done through the foremen. She reasoned that it wouldbe the same with the younger Lloyd. But all at once the girl at herside gave her a violent nudge, which did not interrupt for a secondher own flying fingers. 

"Say, " she said, "ain't he handsome?"

Ellen glanced over her shoulder and saw Robert Lloyd coming downbetween the lines of workmen. Then she turned to her work, and herfingers slipped and bungled, her ears rang. He passed withoutspeaking. 

Mamie Brady openly stared after him. "He's awful handsome, and anawful swell, but he's awful stuck up, just like the old boss, " saidshe. "He never notices any of us, and acts as if he was afraid we'dpoison him. My, what's the matter with you?"

"Nothing, " said Ellen. 

"You look white as a sheet; ain't you well?"

Ellen turned upon her with sudden fury. She had something of theblood of the violent Louds and of her hot-tempered grandmother. Shehad stood everything from this petty, insistent tormentor. 

"Yes, I am well, " she replied, "and I will thank you to let mealone, and let me do my work, and do your own. "

The other girl stared at her a minute with curiously expressive, uplifted eyebrows. 

"Whew!" she said, in a half whistle then, and went on with her work, and did not speak again. 

Ellen was thankful that Robert Lloyd had not spoken to her in thefactory, and yet she was cut to the quick by it. It fulfilled heranticipations to the letter. "I was right, " she said to herself; "hecan never think of me again. He is showing it. " Somehow, after hehad passed, her enthusiasm, born of a strong imagination, and herbreadth of nature failed her somewhat. The individual began to presstoo closely upon the aggregate. Suddenly Ellen Brewster and her ownheartache and longing came to the front. She had put herself out ofhis life as completely as if she had gone to another planet. Still, feeling this, she realized no degradation of herself as a cause ofit. She realized that from his point of view she had gone into avalley, but from hers she was rather on an opposite height. She onthe height of labor, of skilled handiwork, which is themanifestation in action of brain-work, he on the height of purebrain-work unpressed by physical action. 

At noon, when she was eating her dinner with Abby and Maria, Abbyturned to her and inquired if young Mr. Lloyd had spoken to her whenhe came through the room. 

"No, he didn't, " replied Ellen. 

Abby said nothing, but she compressed her lips and gave her head ahard jerk. A girl who ran a machine next to Abby's came up, munchinga large piece of pie, taking clean semicircular bites with herlarge, white teeth. 

"Say, " she said, "did you see the young boss's new suit? Got upfine, wasn't he?"

"I'd like to see him working where I be for an hour, " said a youngfellow, strolling up, dipping into his dinner-bag. He was black andgreasy as to face and hands and clothing. "Guess his light pants andvest would look rather different, " said he, and everybody laughedexcept the Atkins girls and Ellen. 

"I guess he washed his hands, anyway, before he ate his dinner, "said Abby, sharply, looking at the young man's hands with meaning. 

The young fellow colored, though he laughed. "There ain't a knife inthis shop so sharp as some women's tongues, " said he. "I pity theman that gets you. "

"There won't be any man get me, " retorted Abby. "I've seen all Iwant to see of men, working with 'em every day. "

"Mebbe they have of you, " called back the young fellow, going away. 

"The saucy thing!" said the girl who stitched next to Abby. 

"There isn't any excuse for a man's eating his dinner with handslike that, " said Abby. "It's worse to poison yourself with your owndirt than with other folks'. It hurts your own self more. "

"He ain't worth minding, " said the girl. 

"Do you suppose I do mind him?" returned Abby. Maria looked at hermeaningly. The young man, whose name was Edison Bartlett, had oncetried to court Abby, but neither she nor Maria had ever told of it. 

"His clothes were a pearl gray, " said the girl at thestitching-machine, reverting to the original subject. 

"Good gracious, who cares what color they were?" cried Abby, impatiently. 

"He looked awful handsome in 'em, " said the girl. "He's awfulhandsome. "

"You'd better look at handsome fellows in your own set, Sadie Peel, "said Abby, roughly. 

The girl, who was extremely pretty, carried herself well, anddressed with cheap fastidiousness, colored. 

"I don't see what we have to think about sets for, " said she. "Iguess way back the Peels were as good as the Lloyds. We're in a freecountry, where one is as good as another, ain't we?"

"No one is as good as another, except in the sight of the Lord, inany country on the face of this earth, " said Abby. 

"If you are as good in your own sight, I don't see that it makesmuch difference about the sight of other human beings, " said Ellen. "I guess that's what makes a republic, anyway. "

Sadie Peel gave a long, bewildered look at her, then she turned toAbby. 

"Do you know where I can get somebody to do accordion-plaiting forme?" she asked. 

"No, " said Abby. "I never expect to get to the height ofaccordion-plaiting. "

"I know where you can, " said another girl, coming up. She had lighthair, falling in a harsh, uncurled bristle over her forehead; herblack gown was smeared with paste, and even her face and hands weresticky with it. 

"There's a great splash of paste on your nose, Hattie Wright, " saidAbby. 

The girl took out a crumpled handkerchief and began rubbing her noseabsently while she went on talking about the accordion-plaiting. 

"There's a woman on Joy Street does it, " said she. "She lives justopposite the school-house, and she does it awful cheap, only threecents a yard. " She thrust the handkerchief into her pocket. 

"You haven't got it half off, " said Abby. 

"Let it stay there, then, " said the girl, indifferently. "If youwork pasting linings in a shoe-shop you've got to get pastedyourself. "

Ellen looked at the girl with a curious reflection that she spokethe truth, that she really was pasted herself, that the soil and thegrind of her labor were wearing on her soul. She had seen this girlout of the shop--in fact, only the day before--and no one would haveknown her for the same person. When her light hair was curled, andshe was prettily dressed, she was quite a beauty. In the shop shewas a slattern, and seemed to go down under the wheels of her toil. 

"On Joy Street, you said?" said Sadie Peel. 

"Yes. Right opposite the school-house. Her name is Brackett. "

Then the one-o'clock whistle blew, and everybody, Ellen with therest, went back to their stations. Robert Lloyd did not come intothe room again that afternoon. Ellen worked on steadily, and gainedswiftness. Every now and then the foreman came and spokeencouragingly to her. 

"Look out, Mamie, " he said to the girl at her side, "or she'll getahead of you. "

"I don't want to get ahead of her, " said Ellen, unexpectedly. 

Flynn laughed. "If you don't, you ain't much like the other girls inthis shop, " said he, passing on with his urbane, slightly importantswing of shoulders. 

"Did you mean that?" asked Mamie Brady. 

"Yes, I did. It seems to me you work fast enough for any girl. Agirl isn't a machine. "

"You're a queer thing, " said Mamie Brady. "If I were you, I wouldjust as soon get ahead as not, especially if Ed Flynn was goin' tocome and praise me for it. "

Ellen shrugged her shoulders and tied another knot. 

"You're a queer thing, " said Mamie Brady, while her fingers flewlike live wires. 

Chapter XXXVI

That night, when Ellen went down the street towards home with thestream of factory operatives, she computed that she must have earnedabout fifty cents, perhaps not quite that. She was horribly tired. Although the work in itself was not laborious, she had been all dayunder a severe nervous tension. 

"You look tired to death, Ellen Brewster, " Abby said, in ahalf-resentful, half-compassionate tone. "You can never stand thisin the world. "

"I am no more tired than any one would be the first day, " Ellenreturned, stoutly, "and I'm going to stand it. "

"You act to me as if you liked it, " said Abby, with an angry switchlike a cat. 

"I do, " Ellen returned, almost as angrily. Then she turned to Abby. "Look here, Abby Atkins, why can't you treat me half-way decent?"said she. "You know I've got to do it, and I'm making the best ofit. If anybody else treated me the way you are doing, I don't knowwhat you would do. "

"I would kill them, " said Abby, fiercely; "but it's different withme. I'm mad to have you go to work in the shop, and act as if youliked it, because I think so much of you. " Abby and Ellen werewalking side by side, and Maria followed with Sadie Peel. 

"Well, I can't help it if you are mad at me, " said Ellen. "I've hadeverything to contend against, my father and mother, and mygrandmother won't even speak to me, and now if you--" Ellen's voicebroke. 

Abby caught her arm in a hard grip. 

"I ain't, " said she; "you can depend on me. You know you can, inspite of everything. You know why I talk so. If you've set yourheart on doing it, I won't say another word. I'll do all I can tohelp you, and I'd like to hear anybody say a word against you forgoing to work in the shop, that's all. "

Ellen and Abby almost never kissed each other; Abby was not given toendearments of that kind. Maria was more profuse with her caresses. That night when they reached the corner of the cross street wherethe Atkinses lived, Maria went close to Ellen and put up her face. 

"Good-night, " said she. Then she withdrew her lips suddenly, beforeEllen could touch them. 

"I forgot, " said she. "You mustn't kiss me. I forgot my cough. Theysay it's catching. "

Ellen caught hold of her little, thin shoulders, held her firmly, and kissed her full on her lips. 

"Good-night, " said she. 

"Good-night, Ellen, " called Abby, and her sharp voice rang as sweetas a bird's. 

When Ellen came in sight of her grandmother's house, she saw awindow-shade go down with a jerk, and knew that Mrs. Zelotes hadbeen watching for her, and was determined not to let her know it. Mrs. Pointdexter came out of her grand house as Ellen passed, andtook up her station on the corner to wait for a car. She bowed toEllen with an evasive, little, sidewise bow. Her natural amiabilityprompted her to shake hands with her, call her "my dear, " andinquire how she had got on during her first day in the factory, butshe was afraid of her friend, whose eye she felt upon her around theedge of the drawn curtain. 

It was unusually dark that night for early fall, and the rain camedown in a steady drizzle, as it had come all day, and the wind blewfrom the ocean on the east. The lamp was lighted in the kitchen whenEllen turned into her own door-yard, and home had never looked sopleasant and desirable to her. For the first time in her life sheknew what it was to come home for rest and shelter after a day oftoil, and she seemed to sense the full meaning of home as a refugefor weary labor. 

When she opened the door, she smelled at once a particular kind ofstew of which she was very fond, and knew that her mother had beenmaking it for her supper. There was a rush of warm air from thekitchen which felt grateful after the damp chill outside. 

Ellen went into the kitchen, and her mother stood there over thestove, stirring the stew. She looked up at the girl with anexpression of intense motherliness which was beyond a smile. 

"Well, so you've got home?" she said. 

"Yes. "

"How did you get along?"

"All right. It isn't hard work. Not a bit hard, mother. "

"Ain't you tired?"

"Oh, a little. But no more than anybody would be at first. I don'tlook very tired, do I?" Ellen laughed. 

"No, you don't, " said Fanny, looking at her cheeks, reddened withthe damp wind. The mother's look was admiring and piteous and brave. No one knew how the woman had suffered that day, but she had kepther head and heart above it. The stew for Ellen's supper was a proofof that. 

"Where's father?" asked Ellen, taking off her hat and cape, andgoing to the sink to wash her face and hands. Fanny saw her do thatwith a qualm. Ellen had always used a dainty little set in her ownroom. Now she was doing exactly as her father had always done on hisreturn from the shop--washing off the stains of leather at thekitchen sink. She felt instinctively that Ellen did it purposely, that she was striving to bring herself into accord with her new lifein all the details. 

Little Amabel came running out of the dining-room, and threw herarms around Ellen's knees as she was bending over the sink. "I'veset the table!" she cried. 

"Look out or you'll get all splashed, " laughed Ellen. 

"And I dusted, " said Amabel. 

"She's been as good as a kitten all day, and a sight of help, " saidFanny. 

"She's a good girl, " said Ellen. "Cousin Ellen will kiss her as soonas she gets her face washed. "

She caught hold of a fold of the roller towel, and turned herbeautiful, dripping face to her mother as she did so. 

"That stew does smell so good, " said she. "Where did you say fatherwas?"

"I thought we'd just have some bread and milk for dinner, andsomethin' hearty to-night, when you came home, " said Fanny. "Ithought maybe a stew would taste good. "

"I guess it will, " said Ellen, stooping down to kiss Amabel. "Wheredid you say father was?"

"Uncle Andrew has been lyin' down all day most, " whispered Amabel. 

"Isn't he well?" Ellen asked her mother, in quick alarm. 

"Oh yes, he's well enough. " Fanny moved close to the girl with amotion of secrecy. "If I were you I wouldn't say one word about theshop, nor what you did, before father to-night; let him kind of getused to it. Amabel mustn't talk about it, either. "

"I won't, " said Amabel, with a wise air. 

"You know father had set his heart on somethin' pretty different foryou, " said Fanny. 

Fanny hushed her voice as Andrew came out of the dining-room, staggering a little as if the light blinded him. His nervousstrength of the morning had passed and left him exhausted. He movedand stood with a downward lope of every muscle, expressingunutterable patience, which had passed beyond rebellion andquestioning. 

He stood before Ellen like some old, spent horse. He was expectingto hear something about the shop--expecting, as it were, a touch ona sore, and he waited for it meekly. 

Ellen turned her lovely, glowing face towards him. 

"Father, " she said, as if nothing out of the common had happened, "are you going down-town to-night?"

Andrew brightened a little. "I can if you want anything, Ellen, " hesaid. 

"Well, I don't want you to go on purpose, but I do want a book fromthe library. "

"I'd just as soon go as not, Ellen, " said Andrew. 

"It'll do him good, " whispered Fanny, as she passed Ellen, carryingthe dish of stew to the dining-room. 

"Well, then, I'll give you my card after supper, " said Ellen. "Supper is ready now, isn't it, mother? I'm as hungry as a bear. "

Andrew, when he was seated at the table and was ladling out thestew, had still that air of hopeless and defenceless apology towardslife, but he held his head higher, and his frown of patient gloomhad relaxed. 

Then Ellen said something else. "Maybe I can write a book sometime, " said she. 

A sudden flash illumined Andrew's face. It was like the visibleawakening of hope and ambition. 

"I don't see why you can't, " he said, eagerly. 

"Maybe she can, " said Fanny. "Give her some more of the potatoes, Andrew. "

"I'll have plenty of time after--evenings, " said Ellen. 

"I guess lots of folks write books that sell, and sell well, thatdon't have any more talent than you, " said Andrew. "Only think howthey praised your valedictory. "

"Well, it can't do any harm to try, " said Ellen, "and you could copyit for me, couldn't you, father? Your writing is so fine, it wouldbe as good as a typewriter. "

"Of course I can, " said Andrew. 

When Andrew went down to the library, passing along the drenchedstreets, seeing the lamps through shifting veils of heavy mist, hewas as full of enthusiasm over Ellen's book as he had been over thegold-mine. The heart of a man is always ready to admit a ray ofsunshine, and it takes only a small one to dispel the shadows whenlove dwells therein. 

Chapter XXXVII

Ellen actually went to work, with sheets of foolscap and a newbottle of ink, on a novel, which was not worth the writing; but noone could estimate the comfort and encouragement it was to Andrew. Ellen worked an hour or two every evening on the novel, and next dayAndrew copied it in a hand like copperplate--large, with ornateflourishes. Andrew's handwriting had always been greatly admired, and, strangely enough, it was not in the least indicative of hischaracter, being wholly acquired. He had probably some ability fordrawing, but this had been his only outlet. 

At the head of every chapter of Ellen's novel were birds and flowersdone in colored inks, and every chapter had a tail-piece of elegantquirls and flourishes. Fanny admired it intensely. She was not quiteso sure of Ellen's work as she was of her husband's. She feltherself a judge of one, but not of the other. 

"If Ellen could only write as well as you copy, it will do, " sheoften said to Andrew. 

"What she is writing is beautiful, " said Andrew, fervently. He wasquite sure in his own mind that such a book had never been written, and his pride in his decorations was a minor one. 

Ellen, although she was not versed in the ways of books, yet hadenough of a sense of the fitness of things, and of the ridiculous, to know that the manuscript, with its impossible pen-and-ink birdsand flowers heading and finishing every chapter, was grotesque inthe extreme. She felt divided between a desire to laugh and a desireto cry whenever she looked at it. About her own work she felt morethan doubtful; still, she was somewhat hopeful, since her taste andjudgment, as well as her style, were alike crude. She told Abby andMaria what she was doing, under promise of strict secrecy, and aftera while read them a few chapters. 

"It's beautiful, " said Maria--"perfectly beautiful. I had aSunday-school book this week which I know wasn't half as good. "

Ellen looked at Abby, who was silent. The three girls were up inEllen's room. It was midwinter, some months after she had gone towork in the shop, and she had a fire in her little, air-tight stove. 

"Well, what do you think of it, Abby?" asked Ellen. Ellen's cheekswere flushed as if with fever. She looked eagerly at the other girl. 

"Do you want me to tell you the truth?" asked Abby, bluntly. 

"Yes, of course I do. "

"Well, then, I don't know a thing about books, and I'd knock anybodyelse down that said it, but it seems to me it's trash. "

"Oh, Abby, " murmured Maria. 

"Never mind, " said Ellen, though she quivered a little, "I want toknow just how it looks to her. "

"It looks to me just like that, " said Abby--"like trash. It soundsas if, when you began to write it, you had mounted upon stilts, anddidn't see things and people the way they really were. It ain'tnatural. "

"Do you think I had better give it up, then?" asked Ellen. 

"No, I don't, on account of your father. "

"I believe it would about break father's heart, " said Ellen. 

"I don't know but it's worth as much to write a book for yourfather, to please him, and keep his spirits up, as it is to writeone for the whole world, " said Abby. 

"Only, of course, she can't get any money for it, " said Maria. "ButI don't believe Abby is right, and don't you get discouraged, Ellen. It sounds beautiful to me. "

"Well, I suppose it is worth keeping on with for father's sake, "said Ellen; but she had a discouraged air. She never again wrotewith any hope or heart; she had faith in Abby's opinion, for sheknew that she was always predisposed to admiration in her case. 

Ellen at that time was earning more, for she had advanced, and hadlong ago left her station beside Mamie Brady; and now in a month ortwo she would have a machine. The girls, many of them, said openlythat her rapid promotion was due to favoritism, and that Ed Flynnwouldn't do as much for anybody but Ellen Brewster. Flynn hung abouther in the shop a good deal, but he had made no efforts to pay herdecided attention. His religion was the prime factor for hishesitation. He could not see his way clear towards open addresseswith a view to marriage. Still, he had a sharp eye for otheradmirers, and Ellen had not been in the factory two months beforeGranville Joy was sent into another room. Robert Lloyd, to whom theforeman appealed for confirmation of the plan, coincided withreadiness. 

"That fellow ain't strong enough to run that machine he's doingnow, " said Flynn. 

"Then put him on another, " Robert said, coloring. It was not quitelike setting his rival in the front of the battle; still, he feltashamed of himself. Quicker than lightning it had flashed throughhis mind that young Joy could thus be sent into a separate room fromEllen Brewster. 

"I think he had better take one of the heel-shaving machines below, "said Flynn, "and let that big Swede, that's as strong as an ox, andnever jumped at anything in his life, take his place here. "

"All right, " said Lloyd, assuming a nonchalant air. "Make the changeif you think it advisable, Flynn. "

While such benevolence towards a possible rival had its suspiciouspoints, yet there was, after all, some reason for it. Granville Joy, who was delicately organized as to his nerves, was running a machinefor cutting linings, and this came down with sharp thuds which shookthe factory, and it was fairly torture to him. Every time the knifefell he cringed as if at a cannon report. He had never grownaccustomed to it. His face had acquired a fixed expression of beingscrewed to meet a shock of sound. He was manifestly unfit for hisjob, but he received the order to leave with dismay. 

"Hasn't my work been satisfactory?" he asked Flynn. 

"Satisfactory enough, " replied the foreman, genially, "but it's toohard for you, man. "

"I 'ain't complained, " said Joy, with a flash of his eyes. Hethought he knew why this solicitude was shown him. 

"I know you 'ain't, " said Flynn, "but you 'ain't got the muscle andnerve for it. That's plain enough to see. "

"I 'ain't complained, and I'd rather stay where I be, " said Joy, angrily. 

"You'll go where you are sent in this factory, or be damned, " criedFlynn, walking off. 

Joy looked after him with an expression which transformed his face. But the next morning the stolid Swede, who would not have started ata bomb, was at his place, and he was below, where he could not seeEllen. 

Robert never spoke to Ellen in the factory, and had never calledupon her since she entered. Now and then he met her on the streetand raised his hat, that was all. Still, he began to wonder more andmore if his aunt had not been mistaken in her view of the girl'smotive for giving up college and going to work. Then, later on, helearned from Lyman Risley that a small mortgage had been put on theBrewster house some time before. In fact, Andrew, not knowing towhom to go, and remembering his kindness when Ellen was a child, hadapplied to him for advice concerning it. "He had to do it to keephis wife's sister in the asylum, " he told Robert; "and that poorgirl went to work because she was forced into it, not because shepreferred it, you may be sure of that. "

The two men were walking down the street one wind-swept day inDecember, when the pavement showed ridges of dust as from a mightybroom, and travellers walked bending before it with backward-flyinggarments. 

"You may be right, " said Robert; "still, as Aunt Cynthia says, somany girls have that idea of earning money instead of going toschool. "

"I know the pitiful need of money has tainted many poor girls with amonstrous and morbid overvalue of it, " said Risley, "and for that Icannot see they are to blame; but in this case I am sure it was notso. That poor child gave up Vassar College and went to work becauseshe was fairly forced into it by circumstances. The aunt's husbandran away with another woman, and left her destitute, so that thesupport of her and her child came upon the Brewsters; and Brewsterhas been out of work a long time now, I know. He told me so. Thatmortgage had to be raised, and the girl had to go to work; there wasno other way out of it. "

"Why didn't she tell Aunt Cynthia so?" asked Robert. 

"Because she is Ellen Brewster, the outgrowth of the child who wouldnot--" Risley checked himself abruptly. 

"I know, " said Robert, shortly. 

The other man started. "How long have you known--she did not tell?"

Robert laughed a little. "Oh no, " he replied. "Nobody told. I wentthere to call, and saw my own old doll sitting in a little chair ina corner of the parlor. She did not tell, but she knew that I knew. That child was a trump. "

"Well, what can you expect of a girl who was a child like that?"said Risley. "Mind you, in a way I don't like it. This power forsecretiveness and this rigidity of pride in a girl of that agestrike me rather unpleasantly. Of course she was too proud to tellCynthia the true reason, and very likely thought they would blameher father, or Cynthia might feel that she was in a measure hintingto her to do more. "

"It would have looked like that, " said Robert, reflecting. 

"Without any doubt that was what she thought; still, I don't likethis strength in so young a girl. She will make a more harmoniouswoman than girl, for she has not yet grown up to her own character. But depend upon it, that girl never went to work of her own freechoice. "

"You say the father is out of work?" Robert said. 

"Yes, he has not had work for six months. He said, with the mostdejected dignity and appeal that I ever saw in my life, that theybegin to think him too old, that the younger men are preferred. "

"I wonder, " Robert began, then he stopped confusedly. It had been onhis tongue to say that he wondered if he could not get someemployment for him at Lloyd's; then he remembered his uncle, andstopped. Robert had begun to understand the older man's methods, andalso to understand that they were not to be cavilled at or disputed, even by a nephew for whom he had undoubtedly considerable affection. 

"It is nonsense, of course, " said Risley. "The man is not by anymeans old or past his usefulness, although I must admit he has thatlook. He cannot be any older than your uncle. Speaking of youruncle, how is Mrs. Lloyd?"

"I fear Aunt Lizzie is very far from well, " replied Robert, "but shetries to keep it from Uncle Norman. "

"I don't see how she can. She looked ghastly when I met her theother day. "

"That was when Uncle Norman was in New York, " said Robert. "It isdifferent when he is at home. " As he spoke, an expression ofintensest pity came over the young man's face. "I wonder what awoman who loves her husband will not do to shield him from anyannoyance or suffering, " he said. 

"I believe some women are born fixed to a sort of spiritual rack forthe sake of love, and remain there through life, " said Risley. "ButI have always liked Mrs. Lloyd. She ought to have good advice. Whatis it, has she told you?"

"Yes, " said Robert. 

"It will be quite safe with me. "

Robert whispered one word in his ear. 

"My God!" said Risley, "that? And do you mean to say that she hashad no advice except Dr. Story?"

"Yes, I took her to New York to a specialist some time ago. UncleNorman never knew it. "

"And nothing can be done?"

"She could have an operation, but the success would be verydoubtful. "

"And that she will not consent to?"

"She has not yet. "

"How long?"

"Oh, she may live for years, but she suffers horribly, and she willsuffer more. "

"And you say he does not know?"

"No. "

"Why, look here, Robert, dare you assume the responsibility? Whatwill he say when he finds out that you have kept it from him?"

"I don't care, " said Robert. "I will not break an oath exacted by awoman in such straits as that, and I don't see what good it could doto tell him. "

"He might persuade her to have the operation. "

"His mere existence is persuasion enough, if she is to be persuaded. And I hope she may consent before long. She has seemed a little morecomfortable lately, too. "

"I suppose sometimes those hideous things go away as mysteriously asthey come, " said Risley. 

"Yes, " replied Robert. "Going back to our first subject--"

Risley laughed. "Here she is coming, " he said. 

In fact, at that moment they came abreast the street that led to thefactories, and the six-o'clock whistle was just dying away in a longreverberation, and the workmen pouring out of the doors and down thestairs. Ellen had moved quickly, for she had an errand at thegrocery-store before she went home. She was going to get someoysters for a hot stew for supper, of which her father was veryfond. She had a little oyster-can in her hand when she met the twogentlemen. She had grown undeniably thinner since summer, but shewas charming. Her short black skirt and her coarse gray jacketfitted her as well as if they had been tailor-made. There wasnothing tawdry or slatternly about her. She looked every inch alady, even with the drawback of an oyster-can, and mittens insteadof gloves. 

Both Risley and Robert raised their hats, and Ellen bowed. She didnot smile, but her face contracted curiously, and her colorobviously paled. Risley looked at Robert after they had passed. 

"I have called on her twice, " said Robert, as if answering aquestion. His relations with the older man had become very close, almost like those of father and son, though Risley was hardly oldenough for that relation. 

"And you haven't been since she went to work?"

"No. "

"But you would have, had she gone to college instead of going towork in a shoe-factory?" Risley's voice had a tone of the gentlestconceivable sarcasm. 

Robert colored. "Yes, I suppose so, " he said. Then he turned toRisley with a burst of utter frankness. "Hang it! old fellow, " hesaid, "you know how I have been brought up; you know how she--youknow all about it. What is a fellow to do?"

"Do what he pleases. If it would please me to call on that splendidyoung thing, I should call if I were the Czar of all the Russias. "

"Well, I will call, " said Robert. 

Chapter XXXVIII

The very next evening Robert Lloyd went to call on Ellen. As hestarted out he was conscious of a strange sensation of shock, as ifhis feet had suddenly touched firm ground. All these months sinceEllen had been working in the factory he had been vacillating. Hewas undoubtedly in love with her; he did not for a moment cheathimself as to that. When he caught a glimpse of her fair head amongthe other girls, he realized how unspeakably dear she was to him. Ellen never entered nor left the factory that he did not know it. Without actually seeing her, he was conscious of her presencealways. He acknowledged to himself that there was no one like herfor him, and never would be. He tried to interest himself in otheryoung women, but always there was Ellen, like the constant refrainof a song. All other women meant to him not themselves, but Ellen. Womanhood itself was Ellen for his manhood. He knew it, and yet thatstrain of utterly impassionate judgment and worldly wisdom which wasborn in him kept him from making any advances to her. Now, however, the radicalism of Risley had acted like a spur to his owninclination. His judgment was in abeyance. He said to himself thathe would give it up; he would go to see the girl--that he would winher if he could. He said to himself that she had been wronged, thatRisley was right about her, that she was good and noble. 

As the car drew near the Brewsters, his tenderness seemed tooutspeed the electricity. The girl's fair face was plain before hiseyes, as if she were actually there, and it was idealized and haloedas with the light of gold and precious stones. All at once, since hehad given himself loose rein, he overtook, as it were, the truemeaning of her. "The dear child, " he thought, with a rush oftenderness like pain--"the dear child. There she gave up everythingand went to work, and let us blame her, rather than have her fatherblamed. The dear, proud child. She did that rather than seem to begfor more help. "

When Robert got off the car he was ready to fall at her feet, topush between her and the roughness of life, between her and thewhole world. 

He went up the little walk between the dry shrubs and rang the bell. There was no light in the front windows nor in the hall. Presentlyhe heard footsteps, and saw a glimmer of light advancing towards himthrough the length of the hall. There were muslin-curtainedside-lights to the door. Then the door opened, and little AmabelTenny stood there holding a small kerosene lamp carefully in bothhands. She held it in such a manner that the light streamed up inRobert's face and nearly blinded him. He was dimly conscious of alittle face full of a certain chary innocence and pathos regardinghim. 

"Is Miss Ellen Brewster at home?" asked Robert, smiling down at thelittle thing. 

"Yes, sir, " replied Amabel. 

Then she remained perfectly still, holding the lamp, as if she hadbeen some little sculptured light-bearer. She did not return hissmile, and she did not ask him in. She simply regarded him with hersharp, innocent, illuminated face. Robert felt ridiculouslynonplussed. 

"Did you say she was in, my dear?" he asked. 

"Yes, sir, " replied Amabel, then relapsed into silence. 

"Can I see her?" asked Robert, desperately. 

"I don't know, " replied Amabel. Then she stood still, as before, holding the lamp. 

Robert began to wonder what he was to do, when he heard a woman'svoice calling from the sitting-room at the end of the hall, the doorof which had been left ajar:

"Amabel Tenny, what are you doin'? You are coldin' the house alloff! Who is it?"

"It's a man, Aunt Fanny, " called Amabel. 

"Who is the man?" asked the voice. Then, much to Robert's relief, Fanny herself appeared. 

She colored a flaming red when she saw him. She looked at Amabel asif she had an impulse to shake her. 

"Why, Mr. Lloyd, is it you?" she cried. 

"Good-evening, Mrs. Brewster; is--is your daughter at home?" askedRobert. He felt inclined to roar with laughter, and yet a curiousdismay was beginning to take possession of him. 

"Yes, Ellen is at home, " replied Fanny, with alacrity. "Walk in, Mr. Lloyd. " She was blushing and smiling as if she had been her owndaughter. It was foolish, yet pathetic. Although Fanny asked theyoung man to walk in, and snatched the lamp peremptorily fromAmabel's hand, she still hesitated. Robert began to wonder if heshould ever be admitted. He did not dream of the true reason for thehesitation. There was no fire in the parlor, and in the sitting-roomwere Andrew, John Sargent, and Mrs. Wetherhed. It seemed to herhighly important that Ellen should see her caller by herself, buthow to take him into that cold parlor?

Finally, however, she made up her mind to do so. She opened theparlor door. 

"Please walk in this way, Mr. Lloyd, " said she, and Robert followedher in. 

It was a bitter night outside, and the temperature in the unusedroom was freezing. The windows behind the cheap curtains werethickly furred with frost. 

"Please be seated, " said Fanny. 

She indicated the large easy-chair, and Robert seated himselfwithout removing his outer coat, yet the icy cold of the cushionsstruck through him. 

Fanny ignited a match to light the best lamp with its painted globe. Her fingers trembled. She had to use three matches before she wassuccessful. 

"Can't I assist you?" asked Robert. 

"No, thank you, " replied Fanny; "I guess the matches are damp. I'vegot it now. " Her voice shook. She turned to Robert when the lampwas lighted, still holding the small one, which she had set for themoment on the table. The strong double light revealed her face ofabashed delight, although the young man did not understand it. Itwas the solicitude of the mother for the child which dignified allcoarseness and folly. 

"I guess you had better keep on your overcoat a little while till Iget the fire built, " said she. "This room ain't very warm. "

Robert tried to say something polite about not feeling cold, but thelie was too obvious. Instead, he remarked that his coat was verywarm, as it was, indeed, being lined with fur. 

"I'll have the fire kindled in a minute, " Fanny said. 

"Now don't trouble yourself, Mrs. Brewster, " said Robert. "I amquite warm in this coat, unless, " he added, lamely, "I could go outwhere you were sitting. "

"There's company out there, " said Fanny, with embarrassedsignificance. She blushed as she spoke, and Robert blushed also, without knowing why. 

"It's no trouble at all to start a fire, " said Fanny; "this chimneydraws fine. I'll speak to Ellen. "

Robert, left alone in the freezing room, felt his dismay deepen. Barriers of tragedy are nothing to those of comedy. He began towonder if he were not, after all, doing a foolish thing. The halldoor had been left ajar, and he presently became aware of Amabel'slittle face and luminous eyes set therein. 

Robert smiled, and to his intense astonishment the child made alittle run to him and snuggled close to his side. He lifted her upon his knee, and wrapped his fur coat around her. Amabel thrust outone tiny hand and began to stroke the sable collar. 

"It's fur, " said she, with a bright, wise look into Robert's face. 

"Yes, it's fur, " said he. "Do you know what kind?"

She shook her head, with bright eyes still on his. 

"It is sable, " said Robert, "and it is the coat of a little animalthat lives very far north, where it is as cold and colder than thisall the time, and the ice and snow never melts. "

Suddenly Amabel slipped off his knee, pushing aside his caressingarm with a violent motion. Then she stood aloof, eying him withunmistakable reproof and hostility. Robert laughed. 

"What is the matter?" he said. 

"What does he do without his coat if it is as cold as that where helives?" asked Amabel, severely. There was almost an accent of horrorin her childish voice. 

"Why, my dear child, " said Robert, "the little animal is dead. Heisn't running around without his coat. He was shot for his fur. "

"To make you a coat?" Amabel's voice was full of judicial severity. 

"Well, in one way, " replied Robert, laughing. "It was shot to getthe fur to make somebody a coat, and I bought it. Come back here andhave it wrapped round you; you'll freeze if you don't. "

Amabel came back and sat on his knee, and let him wrap the fur-linedgarment around her. A strange sensation of tenderness and protectioncame over the young man as he felt the little, slender body of thechild nestle against his own. He had begun to surmise who she was. However, Amabel herself told him in a moment. 

"My mamma's sick, and they took her to an asylum. And my papa hasgone away, " she said. 

"You poor little soul, " said Robert, tenderly. Amabel continued tolook at him with eyes of keenest intelligence, while one littlecheek was flattened against his breast. 

"I live with Uncle Andrew and Aunt Fanny now, " said she, "and Isleep with Ellen. "

"But you like living here, don't you, you dear?" asked Robert. 

"Yes, " said Amabel, "and I like to stay with Ellen, but--but--I wantto see my mamma and papa, " she wailed, suddenly, in the lowest andmost pitiful wail imaginable. 

"Poor little darling, " said Robert, stroking her flaxen hair. Amabellooked up at him with her little face all distorted with grief. 

"If you had been my papa, would you have gone away and left Amabel?"she asked, quiveringly. Robert gathered her to him in a strong claspof protection. 

"No, you little darling, I never should, " he cried, fervently. 

At that moment he wished devoutly that he had the handling of theman who had deserted this child. 

"I like you most as well as my own papa, " said Amabel. "You ain't sobig as my papa. " She said that in a tone of evident disparagement. 

Then the sitting-room door opened, and Fanny and Ellen and Andrewappeared, the last with a great basket of wood and kindlings. 

Robert set down Amabel, and sprang to his feet to greet Andrew andEllen. Andrew, after depositing his basket beside the stove, shookhands with a sort of sad awkwardness. Robert saw that the man hadaged immeasurably since he had last seen him. 

"It is a cold night, Mr. Brewster, " he said, and knew the moment hesaid it that it was not a happy remark. 

"It is pretty cold, " agreed Andrew, "and it's cold here in thisroom. "

"Oh, it'll be warm in a minute; this stove heats up quick, " criedFanny, with agitated briskness. She began pulling the kindlings outof the basket. 

"Here, you let me do that, " said Andrew, and was down on his kneesbeside her. The two were cramming the fuel into the little, air-tight stove, while Robert was greeting Ellen. The awkwardness ofthe situation was evidently overcoming her. She was quite pale, andher voice trembled as she returned his good-evening. Amabel left theyoung man, and clung tightly to Ellen's hand, drawing her skirtaround her until only her little face was visible above the folds. 

[Illustration: The awkwardness of the situation was evidently overcomingher]

The fumes from a match filled the room, and the fire began to roar. 

"It'll be warm in a minute, " said Fanny, rising. "You leave theregister open till it's real good and hot, Ellen, and there's plentymore wood in the basket. Here, Amabel, you come out in the otherroom with Aunt Fanny. "

But Amabel, instead of obeying, made a dart towards Robert, whocaught her up, laughing, and smuggled her into the depths of hisfur-lined coat. 

"Come right along, Amabel, " said Fanny. 

But Amabel clung fast to Robert, with a mischievous roll of an eyeat her aunt. 

"Amabel, " said Fanny, authoritatively. 

"Come, Amabel, " said Andrew. 

"Oh, let her stay, " Robert said, laughing. "I'll keep her in my coatuntil it is warm. "

"I'm afraid she'll bother you, " said Fanny. 

"Not a bit, " replied Robert. 

"You are a naughty girl, Amabel, " said Fanny; but she went out ofthe room, with Andrew at her heels. She did not know what else todo, since the young man had expressed a desire to keep the child. She had thought he would have preferred a _tête-à-tête_ with Ellen. Ellen sat down on the sofa covered with olive-green plush, beyondthe table, and the light of the hideous lamp fell full upon herface. She was thin, and much of her lovely bloom was missing betweenher agitation and the cold; but Robert, looking at her, realized howdear she was to him. There was something about that small figure, and that fair head held with such firmness of pride, and that souloutlooking from steady blue eyes, which filled all his need of life. His love for the pearl quite ignored its setting of the common andthe ridiculous. He looked at her and smiled. Ellen smiled backtremulously, then she cast down her eyes. The fire was roaring, butthe room was freezing. The sitting-room door was opened a crack, andremained so for a second, then it was widened, and Andrew peeped in. Then he entered, tiptoeing gingerly, as if he were afraid ofdisturbing a meeting. He brought a blue knitted shawl, which he putover Ellen's shoulders. 

"Mother thinks you had better keep this on till the room gets warm, "he whispered. Then he withdrew, shutting the door softly. 

Robert, left alone with Ellen in this solemnly important fashion, felt utterly at a loss. He had never considered himself especiallyshy, but an embarrassment which was almost ridiculous was over him. Ellen sat with her eyes cast down. He felt that the child on hisknee was regarding them both curiously. 

"If you have come to see Ellen, why don't you speak to her?"demanded Amabel, suddenly. Then both Robert and Ellen laughed. 

"This is your aunt's little girl, isn't she?" asked Robert. 

Amabel answered before Ellen was able. "My mamma is sick, and theycarried her away to the asylum, " she told Robert. "She--she tried tohurt Amabel; she tried to"--Amabel made that hideous gesture withher tiny forefinger across her throat. "Mamma was sick or shewouldn't, " she added, challengingly, to Robert. 

"Of course she wouldn't, you poor little soul, " said Robert. 

Suddenly Amabel burst into tears, and began to wriggle herself freefrom his arms. "Let me go, " she demanded; "let me go. I want Ellen. "

When Robert loosened his grasp she fled to Ellen, and was in her lapwith a bound. 

"I want my mamma--I want my mamma, " she moaned. 

Ellen leaned her cheek against the poor little flaxen head. "There, there, darling, " she whispered, "don't. Mamma will come home as soonas she gets better. "

"How long will that be, Ellen?"

"Pretty soon, I hope, darling. Don't. "

Poor Eva Tenny had been in the asylum some four months, and thereports as to her condition were no more favorable. Ellen's voice, in spite of herself, had a hopeless tone, which the child was quickto detect. 

"I want my mamma, " she repeated. "I want her, Ellen. It has beento-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow after that, and theto-morrows are yesterdays, and she hasn't come. "

"She will come some time, darling. "

Robert sat eying the two with intensest pity. "Do you likechocolates, Amabel?" he asked. 

The child repeated that she wanted her mother still, as with a sortof mechanical regularity of grief, but she fastened her eyes on him. 

"Because I am going to send you a big box of them to-morrow, " saidRobert. 

Amabel turned to Ellen. "Does he mean it?" she asked. 

"I guess so, " replied Ellen, laughing. 

Amabel, looking from one to the other, also began to laughunwillingly. 

Then the sitting-room door opened, and Fanny called sharply andimperatively, "Amabel, Amabel; come!"

Amabel clung more tightly to Ellen, who began to gently loosen herarms. 

"Amabel Tenny, come this minute. It is your bed-time, " said Fanny. 

"I guess you had better go, darling, " whispered Ellen. 

"I don't want to go to bed till you do, Ellen, " whispered the child. 

Ellen gently but firmly unclasped the clinging arms. "Run along, dear, " she whispered. 

"I will send those chocolates to-morrow, " suggested Robert. 

Amabel seemed to do everything by sudden and violent impulses. Allat once she ceased resisting. She slid down from Ellen's lap asquickly as she had gotten into it. She clutched her neck with twolittle wiry arms, kissed her hard on the mouth, darted across theroom to Robert, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, thenflew out of the room. 

"She is an interesting child, " said Robert, who felt, like mostpeople, the delicate flattery of a child's unsolicited caresses. 

"I am very fond of her, " replied Ellen. 

Then the two were silent. Robert suddenly realized that there waslittle to say unless he ventured on debatable ground. It would betoo absurd of him to commence making love at once, and as for askingEllen about her work, that seemed a subject better let alone. 

Ellen herself opened the conversation by inquiring for his aunt. 

"Aunt Cynthia is very well, " replied Robert. "I was in there lastevening. You have not been to see her lately, Miss Brewster. "

Robert realized as soon as he had said that that he had made amistake. 

"No, " replied Ellen. She obviously paled a little, and looked at himwistfully. The young man could not stand it any longer, so straightinto the heart of the matter he lunged. 

"Look here, Miss Brewster, " he said, "why on earth didn't you tellAunt Cynthia?"

"Tell her?" repeated Ellen, vaguely. 

"Yes; make a clean breast of it to her. Tell her just why you wentto work, and gave up college?"

Ellen colored, and looked at him half defiantly, half piteously. "Itold her all I ought to, " she said. 

"But you did not; pardon me, " said Robert, "you did not tell herhalf enough. You let her think that you actually of your own freechoice went to work in the factory rather than go to college. "

"So I did, " replied Ellen, looking at him proudly. 

"Of course you did, in one sense, but in another you did not. Youdeliberately chose to make a sacrifice; but it was a sacrifice. Youcannot deny that it was a sacrifice. "

Ellen was silent. 

"But you gave Aunt Cynthia the impression that it was not asacrifice, " said Robert, almost severely. 

Ellen's face quivered a little. "I saw no other way to do, " shesaid, faintly. The authoritative tone which this young man wastaking with her stirred her as nothing had ever stirred her in herlife before. She felt like a child before him. 

"You have no right to give such a false impression of your owncharacter, " said Robert. 

"It was either that or a false impression of another, " returnedEllen, tremulously. 

"You mean that she might have blamed your parents, and thought thatthey were forcing you into this?"

Ellen nodded. 

"And I suppose you thought, too, that maybe Aunt Cynthia wouldsuspect, if you told her all the difficulties, that you were hintingfor more assistance. "

Ellen nodded, and her lip was quivering. Suddenly all her force ofcharacter seemed to have deserted her, and she looked more like achild than Amabel. She actually put both her little fists to hereyes. After all, the girl was very young, a child forced by thestress of circumstances to premature development, but she couldrelapse before the insistence of another nature. 

Robert looked at her, his own face working, then he could bear it nolonger. He was over on the sofa beside Ellen and had her in hisarms. "You poor little thing, " he whispered. "Don't. I have lovedyou ever since the first time I saw you. I ought to have told you sobefore. Don't you love me a little, Ellen?"

But Ellen released herself with a motion of firm elusiveness andlooked at him. The tears still stood in her eyes, but her face wassteady. "I have been putting you out of my mind, " said she. 

"But could you?" whispered Robert, leaning over her. 

Ellen did not reply, but looked down and trembled. 

"Could you?" repeated Robert, and there was in his voice thatmasculine insistence which is a true note of nature, and means thesubjugation of the feminine into harmony. 

Ellen did not speak, but every line in her body betrayed helplessyielding. 

"You know you could not, " said Robert with triumph, and took her inhis arms again. 

But he reckoned without the girl, who was, after all, stronger thanher natural instincts, and able to rise above and subjugate them. She freed herself from him resolutely, rose, and stood before him, looking at him quite unfalteringly and accusingly. 

"Why do you come now?" she asked. "You say you have loved me fromthe first. You came to see me, you walked home with me, and saidthings to me that made me think--" She stopped. 

"Made you think what, dear?" asked Robert. He was pale andindescribably anxious and appealing. It was suddenly revealed to himthat this plum was so firmly attached to its bough of individualitythat possibly love itself could not loosen it. 

"You made me think that perhaps you did care a little, " said Ellen, in a low but unfaltering voice. 

"You thought quite right, only not a little, but a great deal, " saidRobert, firmly. 

"Then, " said Ellen, "the moment I gave up going to college and wentto work you never came to see me again; you never even spoke to mein the shop; you went right past me without a look. "

"Good God! child, " Robert interposed, "don't you know why I didthat?"

Ellen looked at him bewildered, then a burning red overspread herface. "Yes, " she replied. "I didn't. But I do now. They would havetalked. "

"I thought you would understand that, " said Robert. "I had only thebest motives for that. I cannot speak to you in the factory any morethan I have done. I cannot expose you to remark; but as for my notcalling, I believed what you said to my aunt and to me. I thoughtthat you had deliberately preferred a lower life to a higherone--that you preferred earning money to something better. Ithought--"

Robert fairly started as Ellen began talking with a fire whichseemed to make her scintillate before his eyes. 

"You talk about a lower and a higher life, " said she. "Is it true?Is Vassar College any higher than a shoe-factory? Is any labor whichis honest, and done with the best strength of man, for the bestmotives, to support the lives of those he loves, or to supply theneeds of his race, any higher than another? Where would even booksbe without this very labor which you despise--the books which Ishould have learned at college? Instead of being benefited by theresults of labor, I have become part of labor. Why is that lower?"

Robert stared at her. 

"I have come to feel all this since I went to work, " said Ellen, speaking in a high, rapid voice. "When I went to work, it was, asyou thought, for my folks, to help them, for my father was out ofwork, and there was no other way. But since I have been at work Ihave realized what work really is. There is a glory over it, asthere is over anything which is done faithfully on this earth forgood motives, and I have seen the glory, and I am not ashamed of it;and while it was a sacrifice at first, now, while I should like theother better, I do not think it is. I am proud of my work. "

The girl spoke with a sort of rapt enthusiasm. The young man stared, bewildered. 

Robert caught Ellen's little hands, which hung, tightly clinched, inthe folds of her dress, and drew her down to his side again. "Seehere, dear, " he said, "maybe you are right. I never looked at it inthis way before, but you do not understand. I love you; I want tomarry you. I want to make you my wife, and lift you out of thisforever. "

Then again Ellen freed herself, and straightened her head and facedhim. "There is nothing for me to be lifted out of, " said she. "Youspeak as if I were in a pit. I am on a height. "

"My God! child, how many others feel as you, do you think, out ofthe whole lot?" cried Robert. 

"I don't know, " replied Ellen, "but it is true. What I feel istrue. "

Robert caught up her little hand and kissed it. Then he looked atits delicate outlines. "Well, it may be true, " he said, "but look atyourself. Can't you see that you are not fashioned for manual labor?Look at this little hand. "

"That little hand can do the work, " Ellen replied, proudly. 

"But, dear, " said Robert, "admitting all this, admitting that youare not in a position to be lifted--admitting everything--let uscome back to our original starting-point. Dear, I love you, and Iwant you for my wife. Will you marry me?"

"No, I never can, " replied Ellen, with a long, sobbing breath ofrenunciation. 

"Why not? Don't you love me?"

"Yes. I think it must be true that I do. I said I wouldn't; I havetried not to, but I think it must be true that I do. "

"Then why not marry me?"

"Because it will be impossible for my father and mother to get alongand support Amabel and Aunt Eva without my help, " said Ellen, directly. 

"But I--" began Robert. 

"Do you think I will burden you with the support of a whole family?"said Ellen. 

"Ellen, you don't know what I would be willing to do if I could haveyou, " cried the young man, fervently. And he was quite in earnest. At that moment it seemed to him that he could even come and livethere in that house, with the hideous lamp, and the crushed-plushfurniture, and the eager mother; that he could go without anythingand everything to support them if only he could have this girl whowas fairly storming his heart. 

"I wouldn't be willing to have you, " said Ellen, firmly. "As thingsare now I cannot marry you, Mr. Lloyd. Then, too, " she added, "youasked me just now how many people looked at all this labor as I do, and I dare say not very many. I know not many of your kind ofpeople. I know how your uncle looks at it. It would hurt yousocially to marry a girl from a shoe-shop. Whether it is just ornot, it would hurt you. It cannot be, as matters are now, Mr. Lloyd. "

"But you love me?"

Ellen suddenly, as if pushed by some mighty force outside herself, leaned towards him, and he caught her in his arms. He tipped backher face and kissed her, and looked down at her masterfully. 

"We will wait a little, " he said. "I will never give you up as longas I live if you love me, Ellen. "

Chapter XXXIX

When Ellen went out into the sitting-room that evening, after RobertLloyd had taken leave, her father and mother were still there, although the callers had gone. Both of them looked furtively at heras she went through the room to the kitchen to get a lamp, then theylooked at each other. Fanny was glowing with half shamefacedtriumph; Andrew was pale. Ellen did not re-enter the room, butsimply paused at the door, before going up-stairs, and they had avision of a face in a tumult of emotions, with eyes and hairilluminated to excess of brilliancy by the lamp which she held. 

"Good-night, " she called, and her voice did not sound like her own. 

"Something has happened, " Fanny whispered to Andrew, when Ellen'schamber door had closed. 

"Do you suppose she's goin' to?" whispered Andrew, in a sort ofbreathless fashion. His eyes on his wife's face were sad andwistful. 

"Hush! How do I know?" asked Fanny. "I always told you he likedher. "

However, Fanny looked disturbed. Presently she went out in thekitchen to mix up some bread, and she wept a little, standing in acorner, with her face hidden in the folds of an old shawl which hungthere on a peg. Dictatorial towards circumstances as she was whenher beloved daughter came in question, and proud as she was at theprospect of an advantageous marriage for her, she remembered hersister in the asylum, she remembered how Andrew was out of work, andshe could not understand how it was to be managed. And all this wasaside from the grief which she would have felt in any case at losingEllen. 

As for Andrew, the next morning he put on his best clothes and wentby trolley-cars to the next manufacturing town, not a city likeRowe, but a busy little place with two large factories, and tried invain to get a job there. As he came home on the crowded car, hisface was so despairing that the people looked curiously at him. Andrew had always been mild and peaceable, but at that momentanarchistic principles began to ferment in him. When a portly man, swelling ostentatiously with broadcloth and fine linen, wearing asilk hat, and carrying a gold-headed cane like a wand of office, gotinto the car, Andrew looked at him with a sidelong glance which wasalmost murderous. The spiritual bomb, which is in all our souls forour fellow-men, began to swell towards explosion. This man was theproprietor of one of the great factories in Leavitt, the town whereAndrew had vainly sought a job. He had been in the office whenAndrew entered, and the latter had heard his low voice ofinstruction to the foreman that the man was too old. Themanufacturer, who weighed heavily, and described a vast curve ofopulence from silk hat to his patent-leathers, sat opposite, hisgold-headed cane planted in the aisle, his countenance a blank ofcomplacent power. Andrew felt that he hated him. 

The man's face was not intellectual, not as intellectual asAndrew's. He gave the impression of the force of matter oncoming andirresistible, some inertia which had started Heaven knew how. Thisman had inherited great wealth, as Andrew knew. He had capital withwhich to begin, and he had strength to roll the accumulating ball. Andrew felt more and more how he hated this man. He had told hisforeman that Andrew was too old, and Andrew knew that he was noolder, if as old, as the man himself. 

"If I had been born under the Czar, and done with it, I should havefelt differently, " he told himself. "But who is this man? What righthas he to say that his fellow-men shall or shall not? Does even hisown property give him the right of dictation over others? What isproperty? Is it anything but a temporary lease while he draws thebreath of life? What of it in the tomb, to which he shall surelycome? Shall a temporary possession give a man the right to wieldeternal power? For the power of giving or withholding the means oflife may produce eternal results. "

When the man rose and moved down the car, oscillating heavily, steadying himself with his gold-headed cane, and got out in front ofa portentous mansion, Andrew would scarcely have recognized the lookin his own eyes had he seen himself in a mirror. 

"That chap is pretty well fixed, " said a man next him, to one on theother side. 

"A cool half-million, " replied the other. 

"More than that, " said the first speaker. "His father left him halfa million to start with, besides the business, and he's been pilingup ever since. "

"Do you work there?"

"Did, but I had what was mighty nigh a sunstroke last summer; had toquit. It was damned hot up there under the roof. It's the same oldfactory his father had. "

"Goin' to work again?"

"Next week, if I'm able, but I dun'no' whether I can stay therelonger than till spring. It's damned hot up there under the roof. "

The man who spoke had a leaden hue of face, something ghastly, as ifthe deadly heat had begun a work of decomposition. Andrew looked athim, and his hatred against the rich man who had built himself astately mansion, and kept his fellow-creatures at work for him in anunhealthy factory in tropical heat, and had condemned him for beingtoo old, was redoubled. 

"Andrew Brewster, where have you been?" Fanny asked, when he gothome. 

"I've been to Leavitt, " answered Andrew, shortly. 

"To see if you could get a job there?"

"Yes. "

Fanny did not ask if he had been successful. She sighed, and tookanother stitch in the wrapper which she was making. That sigh almostdrove Andrew mad. 

"I don't see what has got you into such a habit of sighing, " hesaid, brutally. 

Fanny looked at him with reproachful anger. "Andrew Brewster, youain't like yourself, " said she. 

"I can't help it. "

"There's no need for you to pitch into me because you can't getwork; I ain't to blame. I'm doing all I can. I won't stand it, andyou might as well know it first as last. "

Fanny glared angrily at her husband, then the tears sprang to hereyes. 

Andrew hesitated a moment, then he leaned over her and put his thincheek against her rough black hair. "The Lord knows I don't mean tobe harsh to you, you poor girl, " said he, "but I wish I was dead. "

Fanny seemed to spring into resistance like a wire. "Then you are acoward, Andrew Brewster, " said she, hotly. "Talk about wishin' youwas dead. I 'ain't got time to die. You'd 'nough sight better go outinto the yard and split up some of that wood. "

"I didn't mean to speak so, Fanny, " said Andrew, "but sometimes Iget desperate, and I've been thinking of Ellen. "

"Don't you suppose I have?" asked Fanny, angrily. 

"Well, there's one thing about it; we won't stand in her way, " saidAndrew. 

"No, we won't, " replied Fanny. "I'll go out washing first. "

"She hasn't said anything?"

"No. "

As time went on Ellen still said nothing. She had made a curiouscompact for a young girl with her lover. She had stipulated that noengagement was to exist, that she should be perfectly free--when shesaid that she thought of Maud Hemingway, but she said it without atremor--and if years hence both were free and of the same mind theymight talk of it again. 

Robert had rebelled strenuously. "You know this will shut me offfrom seeing much of you, " he said. "You know I told you how it willbe about my even talking much to you in the factory. "

"Yes, I understand that now, " replied Ellen, blushing; "and Iunderstand, too, that you cannot come to see me very often undersuch circumstances without making talk. "

"How often?" Robert asked, impetuously. 

Ellen hesitated, her lip quivered a little, but her voice was firm. "Not oftener than two or three times a year, I am afraid, " said she. 

"Great Scott!" cried Robert. Then he caught her in his arms again. "Do you suppose I can stand that?" he whispered. "Ellen, I cannotconsent to this!"

"It is the only way, " said she. She freed herself from him enough tolook into his eyes with a brave, fearless gaze of comradeship, whichsomehow seemed to make her dearer than anything else. 

"But to see you to speak to only two or three times a year!" groanedRobert. "You are cruel, Ellen. You don't know how I love you. "

"There isn't any other way, " said Ellen. Then she looked up into hisface with a brave innocence of confession like a child. "It hurtsme, too, " said she. 

Robert had her in his arms, and was covering her face with kisses. "You darling, " he whispered. "It shall not be long. Something willhappen. We cannot live so. We will let it go so a little while, butsomething will turn up. I shall have a more responsible place and alarger salary, then--"

"Do you think I will let you?" asked Ellen, with a great blush. 

"I will, whether you will let me or not, " cried Robert; and at thatmoment he felt inclined to marry the entire Brewster family ratherthan give up this girl. 

However, as he went home, walking that he might think the better, hehad to confess to himself that the girl was right; that, as matterswere, anything definite was out of the question. He had to admitthat it might be a matter of years. 

Chapter XL

When Ellen had been at work in the factory a year, she was running amachine and working by the piece, and earning on an average eighteendollars a week. Of course that was an unusual advance for a girl, but Ellen was herself unusual. She came to work in those days withsuch swiftness and unswerving accuracy that she seemed fairly a partof the great system of labor itself. While she was at her machine, her very individuality seemed lost; she became an integral part of asystem. 

"She's one of the best hands we ever had, " Flynn told Norman Lloydone day. 

"I am glad to hear that, " Lloyd responded, smiling with thatpeculiar smile of his which was like a cold flash of steel. 

"Curse him, he thinks no more of anybody in this shop than he doesof the machine they work, " Flynn thought as he watched theproprietor walking with his stately descent down the stairs. Thenoon whistle was blowing, and the younger Lloyd went leaping downthe stairs and joined his uncle, then the two walked down thestreet, away from the factory. The factory at that time of yearbegan to present, in spite of its crude architecture, quite acharming appearance, from the luxuriant vines which covered it andwere beginning to get autumnal tints of red and russet. All thefront of Lloyd's was covered with vines, which had grown withamazing swiftness. Mrs. Lloyd often used to look at them and reflectupon them with complacency. 

"I should think it would make it pleasanter for the men to work inthe factory, when it looks so pretty and green, " she told herhusband one of the hottest days of the preceding summer. As shespoke she compressed her lips in a way which was becoming habitualto her. It meant the endurance of a sharp stab of vital pain. Therewas a terrible pathos in the poor woman's appearance at that time. She still kept about. Her malady did not seem to be on the increase, but it endured. Her form had changed indescribably. She had not lostflesh, but she had a curious, distorted look, and one on seeing herhad a bewildered feeling, and looked again to be sure that he hadseen aright. Her ghastly pallor she concealed in a manner which shethought distinctly sinful. She painted and powdered. She did notdare purchase openly the concoctions which were used for improvingher complexion, but she went to a manicure and invested in a coloredsalve for her finger-nails. This, with rather surprising skill forsuch a conscience-pricked tyro, she applied to the pale curves ofher cheeks and her blue lips. She took more pains than ever beforewith her dress, and it was all to deceive her husband, that heshould not be annoyed. She felt a desperate shame because of herillness; she felt it to be a direct personal injury to thismasculine power which had been set over her gentle femininity. Itwas not so much because she was afraid of losing his affection thatshe concealed her affliction from him, as because she felt that theaffliction itself was somehow an act of disloyalty. Her terriblemalady had in a way affected her reasoning powers, so that they hadbecome distorted by a monstrous growth of suffering, like her body. She would not give up going about as usual, and was never absentfrom church. She drove about with her husband in his smart trap. Twice she had gone with Robert to consult the New York specialist, taking times when Norman was away on business. She still would notconsent to an operation, and lately the specialist had been lukewarmin advising it. He had indeed been doubtful from the first. 

Mrs. Lloyd treated Robert with a soft affection which was almostlike that of a mother. One night, when he returned late from a callon Ellen, she sat up waiting for him. He had not called on Ellenbefore for several months, and it was nearly midnight when hereturned. 

"Why, Aunt Lizzie, are you up?" he cried, as he entered the librarydoor and saw his aunt's figure, clad in shining black satin, gleaming with jet, in the depths of an easy-chair. 

Mrs. Lloyd looked up at him with an expression of patient suffering. "I couldn't go to sleep if I went to bed, Robert, " she replied, in ahushed voice. She found it a comfort sometimes to confess her painto him. Robert went over to her, and drew her large, crinkled, blondhead to his shoulder as if she had been a child. 

"Poor thing, " he whispered, stroking her face pitifully. "Is it veryterrible?" he asked, with his lips close to her ear. 

"Terrible, " she whispered back. "Oh, Robert, you do not know; prayGod you may never know. "

"I wish to God I could bear it for you, Aunt Lizzie, " Robert said, fervently. 

"Oh, hush! If you or Norman had to bear anything like this, I shouldcurse God and die, " she answered, and she shut her mouth hard, andher whole face was indicative of a repressed shriek. 

"Aunt Lizzie, don't you think you ought to go to New York, that youought--" Robert began, but she stopped him with an almost fierceperemptoriness. "Robert Lloyd, I have trusted you, " she said. "ForGod's sake, don't forsake me. Don't say a word to me about that;when I can I will. It means my death, anyhow. Dr. Evarts thought so;you can't deny it. "

"I think he thought there was a chance, Aunt Lizzie, " Robertreturned, but he said it faintly. 

"You can't cheat me, " replied Mrs. Lloyd. "I know. " She had a lapsefrom pain, and her features began to assume their naturalexpression. She looked at him almost smiling, and as if she turnedher back upon her own misery. "Where have you been, Robert?" sheasked. 

Robert colored a little, but he answered directly enough. "I havebeen to make a call on Miss Brewster, " he said. 

"You don't go there very often, " said Mrs. Lloyd. 

"No, not very often. "

"She's a beautiful girl, as beautiful a girl as I ever laid eyes on, if she does work in the shop, " said Mrs. Lloyd, "and she's a goodgirl, too; I know she is. She was the sweetest little thing when shewas a child, and she 'ain't altered a mite!" Then Mrs. Lloyd lookedwith a sort of wistful curiosity at Robert. 

"I think it is all true, what you say, Aunt Lizzie, " replied Robert. 

Mrs. Lloyd continued to look at him with that wistful scrutiny. 

"Robert, " she began, then she hesitated. 

"What, Aunt Lizzie?"

"If--ever you wanted to marry that girl, I don't see any reason whyyou shouldn't, for my part. "

Robert pulled a chair close to his aunt, and sat down beside her, still holding her hand. 

"I've a good mind to tell you the whole story, Aunt Lizzie, " hesaid. 

"I wish you would, Robert. You know I think as much of you as if youwere my own son, and I won't tell anybody, not even your uncle, ifyou don't want me to. "

"Well, then, it is all in a nutshell, " said Robert. "I like her, youknow, and I think I have ever since I saw her in her little whitegown at the high-school exhibition. "

"Wasn't she sweet?" said his aunt. 

"And she likes me, too, I think. "

"Of course she does. "

"But you know what my salary is, and her whole family is in ameasure dependent upon her. "

"Hasn't her father got work?"

"No. "

"I'll speak to Norman, " cried Mrs. Lloyd, quickly. "I know he woulddo it for me. "

"But even then, Aunt Lizzie, there is the aunt in the asylum, andthe child, and--"

"Your uncle will pay you more. "

"It isn't altogether that; in fact, it isn't that at all which is atthe bottom of the difficulty. The difficulty is with Ellen herself. She will never consent to my marrying her, and having to support herfamily, while matters are as now. You don't know how proud she is, Aunt Lizzie. "

"She is a splendid girl. "

"As far as I am concerned I would marry the whole lot on a littlemore than I have now, but she would not let me do it. There'snothing to do but to wait. "

"Perhaps the aunt will get well and her husband will come back; andI will see, anyway, if Norman won't give her father work, " said Mrs. Lloyd. 

"I think you had better not, Aunt Lizzie. "

"Why not, Robert?"

"There are reasons why I think you had better not. " Robert wouldnot tell her that Ellen had begged him not to use any influence ofhis to get her father work. 

"After the way father has been turned off, I can't stand it, " shehad said, with a sort of angry dignity which was unusual to her. Infact, her father himself had begged her not to make use of Robert inany way for his own advancement. 

"If they don't want me for my work, I don't want to crawl in becausethe nephew of the boss likes my daughter, " he had said. This speechwas fairly rough for him, but Ellen had understood. 

"I know what you mean, father, " she said. 

"I'd rather work in the road, " said Andrew. That autumn he wasgetting jobs of clearing up yards of fallen leaves, and gatheringfeed-corn and pumpkins, and earning a pittance. Fanny continued towork on her wrappers. "It's a mercy wrappers don't go out offashion, " she often said. 

"I suppose things that folks can get for nothing ain't so apt to goout of fashion, " Andrew retorted, bitterly. He hated the wrapperswith a deadly hatred. He hated the sight of the limp row of them onhis bedroom wall. Nobody knew how the family pinched and screwed inthose days. 

They were using the small fund which they secured from the housemortgage, Ellen's earnings, and Fanny's and Andrew's, and every centhad to be counted, but there was something splendid in their loyaltyto poor Eva in the asylum. The thought of deserting her in herextremity never occurred to them. 

Mrs. Lloyd spoke of her that night, when she and Robert were talkingtogether in the library. 

"They are good folks, to keep on doing for that poor woman in theasylum, " she said. 

"They would never desert a dog that belonged to them, " Robertanswered, fervently. "I tell you that trait is worth a good manyothers, Aunt Lizzie. "

"I guess it is, " said his aunt. Then another paroxysm of pain seizedher. She looked at Robert with a convulsed, speechless face. He heldher hands more tightly, his own face contracting in sympathy, andwatched his aunt with a sort of angry helplessness. But he felt asif he wanted to fight something for the sake of this poor, oppressed, innocent creature; indeed, he felt fairly blasphemous. But this time the pain passed quickly, and Mrs. Lloyd looked at hernephew with an expression of relief and gentleness which was almostangelic. When the pain was over she thought again of the Brewsters, and how they would not have forsaken her in her misery, had shebelonged to them, any more than they had forsaken the insane aunt. 

"They are good folks, " said she, "and that is the main thing. Thatis the main thing to consider when you are marrying into a family, Robert. It is more than riches and position. The power they've gotof loving and standing by each other is worth more than anythingelse. "

"You are right, Aunt Lizzie, I guess there's no doubt of that, " saidRobert. 

"And that girl's beautiful, " said Mrs. Lloyd. She gazed at the youngman with a delicate understanding and sympathy which was almostbeyond that of a sweetheart. Robert felt as if a soft hand oftenderness and blessing were laid on his inmost heart. He looked ather like a grateful child. 

"There isn't anybody like her, is there, Aunt Lizzie?" he asked. 

"No, I don't think there is, dear boy, " said Mrs. Lloyd. "I do thinkshe is the sweetest little thing I ever saw in my life. "

Robert brought his aunt's hand to his lips and kissed it. It seemedto him for a minute as if the love and sympathy of this martyr werealmost more precious than the love of Ellen herself. 

He realized when he was in his own room, and the house was quiet, how much he loved his aunt, and how hard her pain and probablyinevitable doom were for him to bear. Then something came to himwhich he had never felt before--a great, burning anxiety andtenderness and terror over Ellen, because she was of the weaker halfof creation, which is born to the larger share of pain in the world. He felt that he would almost have given her up, yielded up foreverall his delight in her, to spare her; for the pain of knighthood, which is in every true lover, awoke in his heart. 

Chapter XLI

Nahum Beals was a laster in Lloyd's. Late in the autumn, when Ellenhad been in the factory a little over a year, there began to be asubtle condition of discontent and insubordination. Men gathered inmuttering groups, of which Nahum Beals seemed always to be thenucleus. His high, rampant voice, restrained by no fear ofconsequences, always served as the key-note to the chorus ofrebellion. Ellen paid little attention to it. She was earning goodwages, and personally she had nothing of which to complain. She hadcome to regard Beals as something of a chronic fanatic, but as sheknew that the lasters were fairly paid, she had not supposed itmeant anything. However, one night, going home from the factory, hereyes were opened. Abby and Maria Atkins and Mamie Brady were withher, and shortly after they had left the shop Abby stopped GranvilleJoy, Frank Dixon, and Willy Jones, who with another young man wereswinging past without noticing the girls, strange to say. Abbycaught Joy by the arm. 

"Hold on a minute, Granville Joy, " said she. "I want to know what'sup with the lasters. "

Granville laughed, with an uneasy, sidelong, deprecating glance atEllen. "Oh, nothing much, " said he. 

Willy Jones stood still, coloring, gazing at Abby with ahalf-terrified expression. Dixon walked on, and the other young man, Amos Lee, who was dark and slight and sinewy, stared from one to theother with quick flashes of black eyes. He looked almost as if hehad gypsy blood in him, and he came of a family which was further onthe outskirts of society than the Louds had been. 

When Granville replied "nothing much" to Abby's question, Amos Leefrowned with a swift contraction of dissent, but did not speak untilAbby had retorted. "You needn't talk that way to me, Granville Joy, "said she. "You can't cheat me. I know something's up. "

"It ain't nothin', Abby, " said Granville, but it was quite evidentthat he was lying. 

Then Lee spoke up, in a sudden fury of enthusiasm. "There issomethin' up, " said he, "and I don't care if you do know it. There's--" he stopped as Granville clutched his arm violently andwhispered something. 

"Well, maybe you're right, " said Lee to Joy. "Look here, " hecontinued to Abby, "you and Ellen come along here a little ways, andI'll tell you. "

After Maria and Mamie had passed on, Joy and Jones and Lee, standingclose to the two girls, began to talk, Lee leading. 

"Well, look here, " he said, in a hushed voice. "We've found out--nomatter how, but we've found out--that the boss is goin' to dock thelasters' pay. "

"How much?" asked Abby. 

"Fifteen per cent. "

"Good Lord!" said Abby. 

"We ain't going to stand it, " said Lee. 

"I don't see how we can stand it, " said Willy Jones, with a slightlyinterrogative tone directed towards Abby. Granville looked at Ellen. 

"Are you sure?" she asked. 

"Perfectly sure, " replied Granville. "What do you think about it, Ellen?"

"What are you going to do?" asked Ellen, thoughtfully. 

"Strike for fifteen per cent. More before he has a chance to dockus, " cried Lee, with a hushed vehemence, looking about warily tomake sure that no one overheard. 

"The worst of it is, I know it all comes from Nahum Beals, and he'shalf cracked, " said Abby, bluntly. 

"He's got the right of it, anyhow, " said Lee. 

The two girls walked on, while the men lingered behind to talk. 

"Do you suppose it is true, Abby?" asked Ellen. 

"I don't know. I should, if it wasn't for that Lee fellow. I can'tbear him. And that Nahum Beals, I believe he's half mad. "

"I feel the same way about him, " said Ellen; "but think what itwould mean, fifteen per cent. Less on their wages. "

"It doesn't mean so much for those young fellows, except WillyJones; he's got enough on his shoulders. "

"No, but ever so many of the lasters have large families. "

"I hope they don't drag Willy Jones into it, " said Abby. She lookedback as she spoke. Willy, in the little knot of men, was lookingafter her, and their eyes met. Abby colored. 

"It's a shame to dock his wages, " she said. 

"Whose--Willy Jones's?"

"Yes. I hope he won't get into any trouble. I can't bear that Lee. "

"Still, to dock their wages fifteen per cent. , " said Ellen, thoughtfully. 

"What right has Mr. Lloyd?"

"I suppose he'd say he has the right because he has the capital. "

"I don't see why that gives him the right. "

"You'd better go and talk to him, " said Abby. "As for me, I made upmy mind when I went to work in the shop that I'd got to be abond-slave, all but my soul. That can kick free, thank the Lord. "

"I didn't make up my mind to it, " said Ellen. "I am not going to bea slave in any way, and I am not going to approve of others beingslaves. "

"You think they ought to strike?"

"Yes, if it is true that Mr. Lloyd is going to dock their wages, butI don't feel sure that it is true. Mr. Beals is a queer man. Sometimes I have thought he was dangerous. "

Chapter XLII

Tuesday evening was one of those marvellously clear atmospheres ofautumn which seem to be clearer from the contrast to the mists ofthe recent summer. The stars swarmed out in unnumbered hosts. 

"Seems to me I never saw so many stars, " one would say to another. The air had the sharp cleave of the frost in it. Everything wasglittering with a white rime--the house roofs, and the levels offields on the outskirts of the little city. 

Ellen had an errand down-town that evening, and she wrapped herselfup warmly, putting on a fur collar which she had not worn since thewinter before. She felt strangely nervous and disturbed as she setout. 

"Don't you want your father to go with you?" asked Fanny, for insome occult fashion the girl's perturbation seemed to becommunicated to her. She followed her to the door. 

"Seems kind of lonesome for you to go alone, " she said, anxiously. 

"As if I minded! Why, it is as bright as day with theelectric-lights, and there are houses almost all the way, " laughedEllen. 

"Your father could go with you, or he could go for you. "

"No, he couldn't go for me. I want to get one of the new cataloguesat the library and pick out a book, and there is no sense indragging father out. He has a cold, too. Why, there is nothing inthe world to be afraid of, mother. "

"Well, don't be any longer than you can help, " said Fanny. 

Ellen, as she passed her grandmother's house, saw a curtain drawnwith a quick motion. That happened nearly every time she passed. Sheknew that the old woman was always on the lookout for her, andalways bent on concealing it. Mrs. Zelotes never went into her son'shouse, and never spoke to Ellen in those days. She had aged rapidlyduring the past year, and even her erect carriage had failed her. She stooped rigidly when she walked. She was fairly racked with loveand hatred of Ellen. She adored her, she could have kissed theground she walked on, and yet she was so full of wrath against herfor thwarting her hopes for her own advancement that she wasconscious of cruel impulses in her direction. 

Ellen walked along rapidly under the vast canopy of stars, aboutwhich she presently began to have a singular impression. She felt asif they were being augmented, swelled as if by constantly oncominglegions of light from the space beyond space, and as if her littlespace of individuality, her tiny foothold of creation, was beingconstantly narrowed by them. 

"I never saw so many stars, " she said to herself. She looked withwonder at the Milky Way, which was like a zone of diamond dust. Suddenly a mighty conviction of God, which was like the blazingforth of a new star, was in her soul. Ellen was not in a sensereligious, and had never united with the Congregational Church, which she had always attended with her parents; she had never beenresponsive to efforts made towards her so-called conversion, but allat once, under the stars that night, she told herself with anabsolute certainty of the truth of it. "There is something beyondeverything, beyond the stars, and beyond all poor men, and beyondme, which is enough for all needs. We shall have our portion in theend. "

She had been feeling discouraged lately, although she would not ownit even to herself. She saw Robert but seldom, and her aunt was nobetter. She often wondered if there could be anything before her butthat one track of drudgery for daily bread upon which she had setout. She wondered if she ought not to say positively to Robert thatthere must be no thought of anything between them in the future. Shewondered if she were not wronging him. Once or twice she had seenhim riding with Miss Hemingway, and thought that, after all, thatwas a girl better suited to him, and perhaps if he had no hopewhatever of her he might turn to the other to his own advantage. Butto-night, with the clear stimulus of the frost in her lungs, and hereyes and soul dazzled with the multiplicity of stars, she began tohave a great impetus of courage, like a soldier on the morning ofbattle. She felt as if she could fight for her joy and the joy ofothers, and victory would in the end be certain; that the chances ofvictory ran to infinity, and could not be measured. 

However, all the while, in spite of her stimulation of spirits, there was that vague sense of excitement, as over some impendingcrisis. That she could not throw off. Suddenly she found herselfsearching the road ahead of her, and often turning at the fanciedsound of a footstep. She began to wish that her father had come withher; then she told herself how foolish she was, for he had a cold, and this keen air would have been sure to give him more. Theelectric-car passed her, and she had a grateful sense ofcompanionship. She looked after its diminishing light in thedistance, and almost wished that she had stopped it, but car-fareshad to be counted carefully. 

She began to dread unspeakably passing the factories. She toldherself that there was no sense in it, that it was not late, thatthe electric-light made it like high noon, that there was a watchmanin each building, that there was nothing whatever to fear; but itwas in vain. It was only by a great effort of her will that she didnot turn and go back home when she reached Lloyd's. 

Lloyd's came first; then, a few rods farther, on the other side ofthe street, McGuire's, and then Briggs's. 

Ellen had a library book under her arm, and she clutched herdress-skirt firmly. A terror as to the supernatural was stealingover her. She felt as she had when waking in the night from somedreadful dream, though all the time she was dinning in her ears howfoolish she was. She saw the lantern of the night-watchman inLloyd's moving down a stair which crossed a window. 

She came opposite Lloyd's, and, just as she did so, saw a darkfigure descending the right-hand flight of stairs from the entranceplatform. She thought, from something in the carriage, that it wasMr. Lloyd, and hung back a little, reflecting that she would keepbehind him all the way to town. 

The man reached the ground at the foot of the stairs, then there wasa flash of fire from the shadow underneath, and a shot rang out. Ellen did what she could never have counted upon herself for doing. She ran straight towards the man, who had fallen prostrate like alog, and was down on the ground beside him, with his head on herlap, shouting for the night-watchman, whose name was McLaughlin. 

"McLaughlin!" she shouted. But there was no need of it, for he hadheard the shot. The cry had not left Ellen's lips before she wassurrounded by men, one of whom was Granville Joy, one was Dixon, andone was John Sargent. 

Joy and Sargent had met down-town, and were walking home together, when the shot rang out, and they had rushed forward. Then there wasMcLaughlin, the watchman of Lloyd's, and the two watchmen fromBriggs's and McGuire's came pelting down their stairs, swingingtheir lanterns. 

They all stood around the wounded man and Ellen, and stared for asecond. They were half stupefied. 

"My God! this is a bad job, " said Dixon. 

"Go for a doctor, " cried Ellen, hoarsely. 

"We're a pack of fools, " ejaculated Sargent, suddenly. Then he gaveGranville Joy a push on the back. "Run for your life for the firstdoctor, " he cried, and was down on his knees beside the wounded man. Lloyd seemed to be quite insensible. There was a dark spot which wasconstantly widening in a hideous circle of death on his shirt-frontwhen Sargent opened his coat and vest tenderly. 

"Is he--" whispered Ellen. She held one of Lloyd's hands in a firmclutch as if she would in such wise hold him to life. 

"No, not yet, " whispered Sargent. Dixon knelt down on the otherside, and took Lloyd's other hand and felt his pulse. McLaughlin wasrushing aimlessly up and down, talking as he went. 

"I never heard a thing till that shot came, " he kept repeating. "He'd jest been in to get his pocketbook he'd left in the office. Inever heard a thing till I heard that shot. "

Sargent was opening Lloyd's shirt. "McLaughlin, for God's sake stoptalking and run for another doctor, in case Joy does not get one atonce, " he cried; "then go to his house, and tell young Lloyd, butdon't say anything to his wife. "

"Poor Mrs. Lloyd, " whispered Ellen. 

The sick man sighed audibly. It seemed as if he had heard. The otherwatchmen stood looking on helplessly. 

"Why in thunder don't you two scatter, and see if you can't catchhim, " cried Dixon to them. "He can't be far off. "

But the words had no sooner left his mouth than up came a greatSwede who was one of the workmen in Lloyd's, and he had Nahum Bealsin a grasp as imperturbable as fate. The assassin, even with thestrength of his fury of fanaticism, was as a reed in the grasp ofthis Northern giant. The Swede held him easily, walking him beforehim in a forced march. He had a hand of Nahum's in each of his, andhe compelled Nahum's right hand to retain the hold of the dischargedpistol. There was something terrible about the Swede as he drewnear, a captor as unyielding and pitiless as justice itself. He waseven smiling with a smile which showed his gums from ear to ear, butthere was no joy in his smile, and no triumph. His blue eyessurveyed them all with the placid content of achievement. 

"I have him, " he said. "I heard him shoot, and I heard him run, andI stood still until he ran into my arms. I have him. "

Nahum, in the grasp of this fate, was quivering from head to foot, but not from fear. 

"Is he dead?" he shouted, eagerly. 

"Hush up, you murderer, " cried Dixon. "We didn't want any such workas this, damn you. Keep fast hold of him, Olfsen. "

"I will keep him fast, " replied the Swede, smiling. 

Then there was a swift clatter of wheels, and two doctors drove up, and men came running. The space in front of Lloyd's was black withmen. Robert Lloyd was among them. Granville Joy had met him on thestreet. 

"You'd better go down to the factory, quick, " he had said, hoarsely. "There's trouble there; your uncle--"

Robert pushed through the crowd, which made way respectfully forhim. He knelt down beside the wounded man. "Is he--" he whispered toSargent. 

"Not yet, " whispered Sargent, "but I'm afraid it's pretty bad. "

"You here?" Robert said to Ellen. 

"Yes, " she answered, "I was passing when I heard the shot. "

"See here, " said Robert, "I don't know but I am asking a good deal, but will you get into Dr. James's buggy, and let his man drive youto my aunt's, and you break it to her? She likes you. I must staywith him. I don't want her to know it first when he is broughthome. "

"Yes, that will be the best way, " said the other physician, who wasthe one regularly employed by the Lloyds. "Some one must tell herfirst, and if she knows this young lady--"

"I will go, " said Ellen. 

Dr. Story whispered something to Ellen as she was getting into thebuggy. Then Dr. James's man drove her away down the street. 

There was a little black mare harnessed to the buggy, and she wentwith nervous leaps of speed. When Ellen reached the Lloyd house shesaw that it was blazing with light. Norman Lloyd was fond ofbrilliant light, and would have every room in his house illuminatedfrom garret to cellar. 

As Ellen went up the stone steps she saw a woman's figure in theroom at the right, which moved to an attitude of attention when sherang the bell. 

Before Ellen could inquire for Mrs. Lloyd of the maid who answeredher ring there was a shrill cry from the room on the right. 

"Who is it? Who is it?" demanded the voice. 

Then, before Ellen could speak, Mrs. Lloyd came running out. 

"What is it?" she said. "Tell me quick. I know something hashappened. Tell me quick. You came in Dr. James's buggy, and the manwas driving fast. Tell me. "

"Oh, Mrs. Lloyd, " said Ellen. Then she could say no more, but theother woman knew. 

"Is he dead?" she asked, hoarsely. 

"Oh, no, no, not dead. "

"Hurt?"

Ellen nodded, trembling. 

"How?"

"He was shot. "

"Who shot him?"

"One of the workmen. They have him. Carl Olfsen found him. "

"One of the workmen, when he has always been so good!"

Suddenly Mrs. Lloyd seemed to gather herself together into thestrength of action. 

"Are they bringing him home?" she asked Ellen, in a sharp, decisivevoice. 

"I think they must be by this time. "

"Then I've got to get ready for him. Come, quick. "

There was by that time a man and two women servants standing nearthem, aghast. Mrs. Lloyd turned to the man. 

"Go down to the drug-store and get some brandy, there isn't any inthe house, " said she; "then come back as quick as you can. Maggie, you see that there is plenty of hot water. Martha, you and Ellencome up-stairs with me, quick. "

Ellen followed Mrs. Lloyd and the maid up-stairs, and, before sheknew what she was doing, was assisting to put the room in perfectreadiness for the wounded man. The maid was weeping all the time sheworked, although she had never liked Mr. Lloyd. There was somethingabout her mistress which was fairly abnormal. She kept looking ather. This gentle, soft-natured woman had risen above her own painand grief to a sublime strength of misery. 

"Get the camphor, quick, Martha, " she said to the maid, who flewout, with the tears streaming. Ellen stood on one side of the bed, and Mrs. Lloyd on the other. Mrs. Lloyd had stripped off theblankets, and was pinning the sheet tightly over the mattress. Sheseemed to know instinctively what to do. 

"I wish you would bring that basin over here, and put it on thestand, " said Mrs. Lloyd. "Martha, you fetch more towels, and, Maggie, you run up garret and bring down some of those old sheetsfrom the trunk under the window, quick. "

This maid, who was as large and as ample as her mistress, fled outof the room with heavy, noiseless pads of flat feet. 

All the time Mrs. Lloyd worked she was evidently listening. She paidno attention to Ellen except to direct her. All at once she gave agreat leap and stood still. 

"They're coming, " said she, though Ellen had heard nothing. Ellenwent close to her, and took her two fat, cold hands. She could saynothing. Then she heard the roll of carriage-wheels in the streetbelow. 

Mrs. Lloyd pulled her hands away from Ellen's and went to the headof the stairs. 

"Bring him right up here, " she ordered, in a loud voice. 

Ellen stood back, and the struggling procession with the prostrateman in the midst labored up the broad stairs. 

"Bring him in here, " said Mrs. Lloyd, "and lay him on the bed. "

When Lloyd was stretched on the bed, the crowd drew back a little, and she bent over him. 

Then she turned with a sort of fierceness to the doctors. 

"Why don't you do something?" she demanded. She raised a hand with arepellant gesture towards the other men. 

"You had better go now, " said she. "I thank you very much. If thereis anything you can do, I will let you know. "

When Mrs. Lloyd was left with the two doctors and a young assistant, Robert, and Ellen, she said, cutting her words short as if shereleased every one from a mental grip:

"I have got everything ready. Shall I go out now?"

"I think you had better, Mrs. Lloyd, " said the family physician, pityingly. He went close to Ellen. 

"Can't you stay with her a little while?" he whispered. 

Ellen nodded. 

Then the physician spoke quite loudly and cheerfully to Mrs. Lloyd. 

"We are going to probe for the ball, " he said. "We must all hope forthe best, Mrs. Lloyd. "

Mrs. Lloyd made no reply. She bent again over her husband with arigid face, and kissed him on his white lips, then she went out, with Ellen following. 

Norman Lloyd lived only two hours after he was shot. The efforts toremove the ball had to be abandoned. He was conscious only a fewminutes. He suddenly began to look about him with comprehension. 

"Robert, " he said, in a far-away voice. 

Robert stooped closely over his uncle. The dying man looked up athim with an expression which he had never worn in life. 

"That man was insane, " whispered he, faintly. Then he added, "Lookout for her, if she has to go through the operation. Take care ofher. Make it as easy for her as you can. "

"Then you know, Uncle Norman, " gasped Robert. 

"All the time, but it--pleased her to think I--did not. Don't lether know I knew. Take care--"

Then Norman Lloyd relapsed into unconsciousness, and the whole roomand the whole house became clamorous with his stertorous breathing. Mrs. Lloyd and Ellen came and stood in the doorway. The doctorwhispered to them. Then the breathing ceased, although at first itwas inconceivable that the silence did not continue to ring with it, and Mrs. Lloyd came into the room. 

Chapter XLIII

When Mrs. Lloyd entered the room, the attention of every one wastaken from the dead man on the bed and concentrated upon the woman. Dr. Story, a nervous, intense, elderly man with a settled frown ofperplexity over keen eyes, which he had gotten from a struggle offorty years with unanswerable problems of life and death, steppedtowards her hastily. Robert pressed close to her side. Ellen camebehind her, holding in a curious, instinctive fashion to a fold ofthe older woman's gown, as if she had been a mother holding back achild from a sudden topple to its hurt. Everybody expected her tomake some heart-breaking manifestation. She did nothing. At thatmoment the sublime unselfishness of the woman, which was her onestrength of character, seemed actually to spread itself, as withwings, before them all. She moved steadily, close to her husband onthe bed. She gazed at that profile of rigid calmness and enforcedpeace, which, although the head lay low, seemed to have an effect ofupward motion, as if it were cleaving the mystery of space. Mrs. Lloyd laid her hand upon her husband's forehead; she felt a slightincredulousness of death, because it was still warm. She took hishands, drew them softly together, and folded them upon his breast. Then she turned and faced them all with an angelic expression. 

"He did not realize it to suffer much?" she said. 

"No, Mrs. Lloyd, " replied Dr. Story, quickly. "No, I assure you thathe suffered very little. "

"He seemed very happy when he died, Aunt Lizzie, " said Robert, huskily. 

Mrs. Lloyd looked away from them all around the room. It was amagnificent apartment. Norman Lloyd had had an artistic taste aswell as wealth. The furnishings had always been rather beyond Mrs. Lloyd's appreciation, but she admired them kindly. She took in everydetail; the foam of rich curtains at the great windows, thecut-glass and silver on the dressing-table, the pale softness of apolar-bear skin beside the bed, the lifelike insistence of thecostly pictures on the walls. 

"He's gone where it is a great deal more beautiful, " she said tothem, like a child. "He's gone where there's better treasures thanthese which he had here. "

They all looked at her in amazement. It actually seemed as if, forthe moment, the woman's sole grief was over the loss to her husbandof those things which he had on earth--the treasures of his mortalstate. 

Robert took hold of his aunt's arm and led her, quite unresisting, from the room, and as she went she felt for Ellen's hand. "It istime she was home, " she said to Robert. "Her folks will be worriedabout her. She's been a real comfort to me. "

It was the first time that Ellen had ever seen death, that she hadever seen the living confronted with it. She felt as if a wave werebreaking over her own head as she clung fast to Mrs. Lloyd's hand. 

"Sha'n't I stay?" she whispered, pitifully, to her. "If I can sendword to my mother--"

"No, you dear child, " replied Mrs. Lloyd, "you've done enough, andyou will have to be up early in the morning. " Then she checkedherself. "I forgot, " said she to Robert; "the factory will be closedtill after the funeral, won't it?"

"Of course it will, Aunt Lizzie. "

"And the workmen will be paid just the same, of course, " said Mrs. Lloyd. "Now, can't you take her home, Robert?"

"Oh, don't mind about me, " cried Ellen. 

"You can have a horse put into the buggy, " said Mrs. Lloyd. 

"Oh, you mustn't leave her now, " Ellen whispered to Robert. "Letsomebody else take me--Dr. James--"

"I would rather you took her, " said Mrs. Lloyd. "And you needn'tworry about his leaving me, dear child; the doctor will stay untilhe comes back. "

As Robert was finally going out his aunt caught his arm and lookedat him with a radiant expression. "He will never know about _me_now, " said she, "and it won't be long before I-- Oh, I feel as if Ihad gotten rid of my own death. "

She was filled with inexpressible thankfulness that she had herselfto bear what she had dreaded for her husband. "Only think how hardit would have been for Norman, " she said to Cynthia, the next day. 

Cynthia looked at her wonderingly. She could have understood thisfeeling over a dearly beloved child. "You are a good woman, Lizzie, "she said, in a tone of pitiful respect. 

"Not half as good a woman as he was a man, " returned Mrs. Lloyd, jealously. "Norman wasn't a professor, I know, but he was abeliever. You don't think it is necessary to be a professor in orderto be saved, do you, Cynthia?"

"I certainly do not, " Cynthia replied. "I wish you would go and liedown, Lizzie. "

"Oh, I can't. I wouldn't let anybody do these things but me, for thewhole world. " Mrs. Lloyd was arranging flowers, tuberoses and whitecarnations, in vases, and the whole house was scented with them. Shelooked ghastly, yet still unconquerably happy. She had now no reasonto conceal the ravages of disease, and her color was somethingfrightful. Still, she did not suffer as much, for her mind hadoverborne her body to such an extent that she had the mastery forthe time, to a certain extent, of those excruciating stabs of pain. People looked at her incredulously. They could not believe that shefelt as she talked, that she was as happy and resigned as shelooked, but it was all true. It was either an abnormal state intowhich her husband's death had thrown her, or one too normal to becredited. She looked at it all with a supreme childishness andsimplicity. She simply believed that her husband was in heaven, where she should join him; that he was beyond all suffering whichmight have come to him through her, and all that troubled her wasthe one consideration of his having been forced to leave histreasures of earth. She looked at various things which had beenprized by the dead man, and found her chief comfort in saying to theminister or Cynthia or Robert that Norman had loved these, but hewould have that which was infinitely more precious. She even gazedout of the window, that Tuesday night, and saw her nephew drivingaway with Ellen, and reflected, with pain, that her husband had beenfond and proud of that bay. She was a little at a loss to conceivewhat could make up to her husband for that in another world, but shesucceeded, and evolved from her own loving fancy, and herrecollection of the Old Testament, a conception of some wonderfulcreature, shod with thunder and maned with a whirlwind. Her disease, and a drug she had been taking of late, stimulated her imaginationto results of grotesque pathos, but she was comforted. 

That night when they were alone, Robert turned to the girl at hisside with a sudden motion. It was no time for love-making, for thatwas in the mind of neither of them, but the bereavement of thisother woman, and the tragedy of her state, filled him with a sort ofprotective pain towards the girl who might some time have to sufferthrough him the same loss. 

"Are you all tired out, dear?" he said, and passed his free armaround her waist. 

"No, " replied Ellen. Then, since she was only a girl, andoverwrought, having been through a severe strain, she broke down, and began to cry. 

Robert drew her closer, and she hid her face on his shoulder. "Poorlittle girl, it has been very hard for you, " he whispered. 

"Oh, don't think of me, " sobbed Ellen. "But I can't bear it, the wayshe acts and looks. It is sadder than grief. "

"She is not going to live long herself, dear, " said Robert, in astifled voice. 

"And he--did not know?"

"Hush! yes; but you must never tell any one. She tried to keep itfrom him. That is her comfort. "

"Oh, " said Ellen. She looked up at the white face of the young manbending over her, and suddenly the realization of a love that wasmightier than all the creatures who came of it and all who followedit was over her. 

Chapter XLIV

When Ellen did not return, there was some alarm in the Brewsterhousehold. Mrs. Zelotes came over, finally, in a quiver of anxiety. 

"Maybe I had better start out and see if I can find her, " saidAndrew. 

"I think you had better, " returned his mother. "She went beforeeight o'clock, and it's most midnight, and I've set at my windowwatchin' ever since. I don't see what you've been thinkin' about, waitin' all this time. I guess if I was a man I shouldn't havewaited. "

"I think she may have gone in to see Abby Atkins--it's on theway--and not realized how late it was, " said Fanny, obstinately, butwith a very white face. She drew her thread through with a jerk. Itknotted, and she broke it off viciously. 

"Fiddlesticks!" said her mother-in-law. 

"There's no use imaginin' things, " said Fanny, angrily; "but I thinkmyself you'd better go now, Andrew, and see if you can see anythingof her. "

"I'm goin' with him, " announced Mrs. Zelotes. 

"Now, mother, you'd better stay where you be, " said Andrew, puttingon his hat. Then the door flew open, and Amos Lee, who had seen thelight in the windows, and was burning to impart the news of thetragedy, rushed in. 

"Heard what's happened?" he cried out. 

They all thought of Ellen. "What?" demanded Andrew, in a terriblevoice. Fanny dropped her work and stared at him, with her chinfalling as if she were dying. Mrs. Zelotes made a queer gurglingnoise in her throat. Lee stared at them a second, bewildered by theeffect of his own words, although they had for him such a tragicimport. Andrew caught hold of him in a grasp like the clamp of amachine. "What?" he demanded again. 

"The boss has been shot, " cried Lee, getting his breath. 

Andrew dropped his arm, and they all stared at him. Lee went onfluently, as if he were a fakir at a fair. 

"Nahum Beals did it. The boss went back to the office to get hispocketbook; McLaughlin saw him; then he went down the stairs; Nahum, he--he fired; he had been hidin' underneath the stairs. Carl Olfsencaught him, and he's in jail. Your daughter she was there when theshot came, and run up and held his head. The young boss he sent herin Dr. James's buggy to Mrs. Lloyd to break the news. She 'ain't gothome?"

"No, " gasped Andrew. 

"The boss has been shot; he's dead by this time, " repeated Lee. "Beals did it; they've got him. " There was the most singularevenness and impartiality in his tone, although he was evidentlystrained to a high pitch of excitement. It was impossible to tellwhether he exulted in or was aghast at the tragedy. 

"Oh, that poor woman!" cried Fanny. 

"I'd like to know what they'll do next, " cried Mrs. Zelotes. "Ishould call it pretty work. "

"Nahum Beals has acted to me as if he was half crazy for some time, "said Fanny. 

"No doubt about it, " said Lee; "but I shouldn't wonder if he had toswing. "

"It's dreadful, " said Fanny. "I wonder when she's comin' home. "

"Seems as if they might have got somebody besides that girl to havegone there, " said Mrs. Zelotes. 

"She happened to be right on the spot, " said Lee, importantly. 

Andrew seemed speechless; he leaned against the mantel-shelf, gazingfrom one to the other, breathing hard. He had had bitter feelingsagainst the murdered man, and a curious sense of guilt was over him. He felt almost as if he were the murderer. 

"Andrew, I dun'no' but you'd better go up there and see if she'scomin' home, " said Fanny; and he answered heavily that maybe he hadbetter, when they heard wheels, which stopped before the house. 

"They're bringin' her home, " said Lee. 

Andrew ran and threw open the front door. He had a glimpse ofRobert's pale face, nodding to him from the buggy as he drove away, and Ellen came hastening up the walk. 

"Well, Ellen, this is pretty dreadful news, " said her father, tremulously. 

"So you have heard?"

"Amos Lee has just come in. It's a terrible thing, Ellen. "

"Yes, it's terrible, " returned Ellen, in a quick, strained voice. She entered the sitting-room, and when she met her mother's anxious, tender eyes, she stood back against the wall, with her hands to herface, sobbing. Fanny ran to her, but her grandmother was quicker. She had her arms around the girl before the mother had a chance. 

"If they couldn't get somebody besides you, " she said, in a voice ofintensest love and anger, "I should call it pretty work. Now you gostraight to bed, Ellen Brewster, and I'm goin' to make a bowl ofsage tea, and bring it up, and see if it won't quiet your nerves. Icall it pretty work. "

"Yes, you'd better go to bed, Ellen, " said Andrew, gulping as if hewere swallowing a sob. 

Mrs. Zelotes fairly forced Ellen towards the door, Fanny following. 

"Don't talk and wake Amabel, " whispered Ellen, forcing back hersobs. 

"Was he dead when you got there, Ellen?" called out Lee. 

Mrs. Zelotes turned back and looked at him. "It's after midnight, and time for you to be goin' home, " she said. Then the threedisappeared. Lee grinned sheepishly at Andrew. 

"Your mother is a stepper of an old woman, " said he. 

"It's awful news, " said Andrew, soberly. "Whatever anybody may havefelt, nobody expected--"

"Of course they didn't, " retorted Lee, quickly. "Nahum went a steptoo far. " He started for the door as he spoke. 

"Well, he was crazy, without any doubt!" said Andrew. 

"He'll have to swing for it all the same, " said Lee, going out. 

"It don't seem right, if he wasn't himself when he did it. "

"Lord, we're all crazy when it comes to things like that, " returnedLee. Before closing the door he flashed his black eyes and whiteteeth at Andrew, who felt repelled. 

He sat down beside the table and leaned his head upon it. To hisfancy all creation seemed to circle about that one dead man. Mr. Lloyd had been for years the arbiter of his destiny, almost of hislife. Andrew had regarded him with almost feudal loyalty andadmiration, and lately with bitter revolt and hatred, and now he wasdead. He felt no sorrow, but rather a terrible remorse because hefelt no sorrow. All the bitter thoughts which he had ever hadagainst Lloyd seemed to marshal themselves before him like anaccusing legion of ghosts. And with it all there was a sense ofdesolation, as if some force which had been necessary to his fullliving had gone out of creation. 

"It's over thirty years since I went to work under him, " Andrewthought, and he gave a dry sob. At that moment a wonderful pity andsorrow for the dead man seemed to spring up in his soul like alight. He felt as if he loved him. 

Norman Lloyd's funeral was held in the First Baptist Church of Rowe. It was crowded. Mr. Lloyd had been the most prominent manufacturerand the wealthiest man in the city. His employés filled up a greatspace in the body of the church. 

Andrew went with his mother and wife. They arrived quite early. WhenAndrew saw the employés of Lloyd's marching in, he drew a greatsigh. He looked at the solemn black thing raised on trestles beforethe pulpit with an emotion which he could not himself understand. "That man 'ain't treated me well enough for me to care anythingabout him, " he kept urging upon himself. "He never paid any moreattention to me than a gravel-stone under his feet; there ain't anyreason why I should have cared about him, and I don't; it can't bethat I do. " Yet arguing with himself in this way, he continued toeye the casket which held his dead employer with an unyieldinggrief. 

Mrs. Zelotes sat like a black, draped statue at the head of the pew, but her eyes behind her black veil were sharply observant. Shemissed not one detail. She saw everything; she counted the wreathsand bouquets on the casket, and stored in her mind, as vividly asshe might have done some old mourning-piece, the picture of the nearrelatives advancing up the aisle. 

Mrs. Lloyd came leaning on her nephew's arm, and there were CynthiaLennox and a distant cousin, an elderly widow who had been summonedto the house of death. 

Ellen sat in the body of the church, with the employés of Lloyd's, between Abby Atkins and Maria. She glanced up when the littlecompany of mourners entered, then cast her eyes down again andcompressed her lips. Maria began to weep softly, pressing herhandkerchief to her eyes. Ellen's mother had begged her not to sitwith the employés, but with her and her father and grandmother intheir own pew, but the girl had refused. 

"I must sit where I belong, " said she. 

"Maybe she thinks it would look as if she was putting on airs onaccount of--" Fanny said to Andrew when Ellen had gone out. 

"I guess she's right, " returned Andrew. 

The employés had contributed money for a great floral piece composedof laurel and white roses, in the shape of a pillow. Mamie Brady, who sat behind Ellen, leaned over, and in a whisper whistled intoher ear. 

"Ain't it handsome?" said she. "Can you see them flowers from thehands?"

Ellen nodded impatiently. The great green and white decoration wasin plain view from her seat, and as she looked at it she wondered ifit were a sarcasm or poetic truth beyond the scope of the givers, the pillow of laurel and roses, emblematic of eternal peace, presented by the hard hands of labor to dead capital. 

Of course the tragic circumstances of Norman Lloyd's death increasedthe curiosity of the public. Gradually the church became crowded bya slow and solemn pressure. The aisles were filled. The air washeavy with the funeral flowers. The minister spoke at length, descanting upon the character of the deceased, his uprightness andstrict integrity in business, avoiding pitfalls of admissions ofweaknesses with the expertness of a juggler. He was always regardedas very apt at funerals, never saying too much and never too little. The church was very still, the whole audience wrapped in a solemnhush, until the minister began to pray; then there was a generalbending of heads and devout screening of faces with hands. Then allat once a sob from a woman sounded from the rear of the church. Itwas hysterical, and had burst from the restraint of the weeper. People turned about furtively. 

"Who was that?" whispered Mamie Brady, after a prolonged stare overher shoulders from under her red frizzle of hair. "It ain't any ofthe mourners. "

Ellen shook her head. 

"Do keep still, Mamie Brady, " whispered Abby Atkins. 

The sob came again, and this time it was echoed from the pew wheresat the members of the dead man's family. Mrs. Lloyd began weepingconvulsively. Her state of mind had raised her above naturalemotion, and yet her nerves weakly yielded to it when given such animpetus. She wept like a child, and now and then a low murmur ofheart-broken complaint came from her lips, and was heard distinctlyover the church. Other women began to weep. The minister prayed, andhis words of comfort seemed like the air in a discordant medley ofsorrow. 

Andrew Brewster's face twitched; he held his hands clutched tightly. Fanny was weeping, but the old woman at the head of the pew satimmovable. 

When the services were over, and the great concourse of people hadpassed around the casket and viewed the face of the dead, with keen, sidewise observation of the funeral flowers, Mrs. Zelotes pressedout as fast as she was able without seeming to crowd, and caught upwith Mrs. Pointdexter, who had sat in the rear of the church. 

She came alongside as they left the church, and the two old womenmoved slowly down the sidewalk, with lingering glances at thefuneral procession drawn up in front of the church. 

"Who was that cryin' so in back; did you see?" asked Mrs. Zelotes ofMrs. Pointdexter, whose eyes were red, and whose face bore anexpression of meek endurance of a renewal of her own experience ofsorrow. 

"It was Joe Martin's wife, " said she. "I sat just behind her. "

"What made her?"

Then both started, for the woman who had sobbed came up behind them, her brother, an elderly man, trying to hold her back. 

"You stop, John, " she cried. "I heard what she said, and I'm goin'to tell her. I'm goin' to tell everybody. Nobody shall stop me. There the minister spoke and spoke and spoke, and he never said aword as to any good he'd done. I'm goin' to tell. I wanted to stan'right up in the church an' tell everybody. He told me not to say aword about it, an' I never did whilst he was livin', but now I'mgoin' to stan' up for the dead. " The woman pulled herself loosefrom her brother, who stood behind her, frightened, and continuallythrusting out a black-gloved hand of remonstrance. People began togather. The woman, who was quite old, had a face graven with hardlines of habitual restraint, which was now, from its utter abandon, at once pathetic and terrible. She made a motion as if she werethrusting her own self into the background. 

"I'm goin' to speak, " she said, in a high voice. "I held my tonguefor the livin', but I'm goin' to speak for the dead. My poor husbanddied twenty years ago, got his hand cut in a machine in Lloyd's, andhad lockjaw, and I was left with my daughter that had spinaldisease, and my little boy that died, and my own health none toogood, and--and he--he--came to my house, one night after thefuneral, and--and told me he was goin' to look out for me, and hehas, he has. That blessed man gave me five dollars every week of mylife, and he buried poor Annie when she died, and my little boy, andhe made me promise never to say a word about it. Five dollars everyweek of my life--five dollars. "

The woman's voice ended in a long-drawn, hysterical wail. The otherwomen who had been listening began to weep. Mrs. Pointdexter, whenshe and Mrs. Zelotes moved on, was sobbing softly, but Mrs. Zelotes's face, though moved, wore an expression of sternconjecture. 

"I'd like to know how many things like that Norman Lloyd did, " saidshe. "I never supposed he was that kind of a man. "

She had a bewildered feeling, as if she had to reconstruct her ownidea of the dead man as a monument to his memory, and reconstructionwas never an easy task for the old woman. 

Chapter XLV

A Short time after Norman Lloyd's death, Ellen, when she had reachedthe factory one morning, met a stream of returning workmen. Theyswung along, and on their faces were expressions of mingledsolemnity and exultation, as of children let out to play because ofsorrow in the house, which will not brook the jarring inconsequenceof youth. 

Mamie Brady, walking beside a young man as red-haired as herself, called out, with ill-repressed glee, "Turn round, Ellen Brewster;there ain't no shop to-day. "

The young man at her side, nervously meagre, looked at Ellen with ahumorous contortion of this thin face, then he caught Mamie Brady bythe arm, and swung her into a hopity-skip down the sidewalk. Justbehind them came Granville Joy, with another man. Ellen stopped. "What is it?" she said to him. "Why is the shop closed?"

Granville stopped, and let the stream of workmen pass him and Ellen. They stood in the midst of it, separating it, as rock will separatea current. "Mrs. Lloyd is dead, " Granville replied, soberly. 

"I heard she was very low last night, " Ellen returned, in a hushedvoice. 

Then she passed Granville, who stood a second gazing wistfully afterher, before he resumed his homeward way. He told himself quiteaccurately that she had purposely refrained from turning, in orderto avoid walking with himself. A certain resentment seized him. Itseemed to him that something besides his love had been slighted. "She needn't have thought I was going to make love to her going homein broad daylight with all these folks, " he reflected, and he threwup his head impatiently. 

The man with whom he had been walking when Ellen appeared lingeredfor him to rejoin him. "Wonder how many shops they'd shut up for youand me, " said the man, with a sort of humorous bitterness. He had abroad face, seemingly fixed in an eternal mask of laughter, and yetthere were hard lines in it, and a forehead of relentless judgmentoverhung his wide bow of mouth and his squat and wrinkled nose. 

"Guess not many, " replied Granville, echoing the man in a wayunusual to him. 

"And yet if it wa'n't for us they couldn't keep the shop running atall, " said the man, whose name was Tom Peel. 

"That's so, " said Granville, with a slight glance over his shoulder. 

Ellen had met the Atkins girls, and had turned, and was coming backwith them. It was as he had thought. 

"If the new boss cuts down fifteen per cent. , as the talk is, whatbe you goin' to do?" asked Tom Peel. 

"I ain't goin' to stand it, " replied Granville, fiercely. 

"Ain't goin' to be swept clean by the new broom, hey?" said the man, with a widened grin. 

"No!" thundered Granville--"not by him, nor any one like him. Damnhim!"

Tom Peel's grin widened still further into an intense but silentlaugh. 

Meantime Ellen was walking with Abby and Maria. 

"I wonder how we're going to get along with young Lloyd, " said Abby. 

Ellen looked at her keenly. "Why?" she said. 

"Oh, I heard the men talking the other night after I'd gone to bed. Maybe it isn't true that he's thinking of cutting down the wages. "

"It can't be, " said Ellen. 

"I say so, too, " said Maria. 

"Well, I hope not, " said Abby. "You can't tell. Some chimneys alwayshave the wind whistling in them, and I suppose it's about so with aboot and shoe shop. It don't follow that there's going to be ahurricane. "

They had come to the entrance of the street where the Atkins sisterslived, and Ellen parted from them. 

She kept on her way quite alone. They had walked slowly, and theother operatives had either boarded cars or had gone out of sight. 

Ellen, when she turned, faced the northwest, out of which a stiffwind was blowing. She thrust a hand up each jacket-sleeve, foldingher arms, but she let the fierce wind smite her full in the facewithout blenching. She had a sort of delight in facing a wind likethat, and her quick young blood kept her from being chilled. Thesidewalk was frozen. There was no snow, and the day before there hadbeen a thaw. One could see on this walk, hardened into temporarystability, the footprints of hundreds of the sons and daughters oflabor. Read rightly, that sidewalk in the little manufacturing citywas a hieroglyphic of toil, and perhaps of toil as tending to theadvance of the whole world. Ellen did not think of that, for she wasoccupied with more personal considerations, thinking of the deadwoman in the great Lloyd house. She pictured her lying dead on thatsame bed whereon she had seen her husband lie dead. All the ghastlyconcomitants of death came to her mind. "They will turn off all thatsummer heat, and leave her alone in this freezing cold, " shethought. She remembered the sound of that other woman's kind voicein her ears, and she saw her face when she told her the dreadfulnews of her husband's death. She felt a sob rising in her throat, but forced it back. What Abby had told concerning Mrs. Lloyd'shappiness in the face of death seemed to her heart-breaking, thoughshe knew not why. That enormous, almost transcendent trust in thatwhich was absolutely unknown seemed to engulf her. 

When she reached home, her mother looked at her in astonishment. Shewas sewing on the interminable wrappers. Andrew was paring applesfor pies. "What be you home for--be you sick?" asked Fanny. Andrewgazed at her in alarm. 

"No, I am not sick, " replied Ellen, shortly. "Mrs. Lloyd is dead, and the factory's closed. "

"I heard she was very low--Mrs. Jones told me so yesterday, " saidFanny, in a hushed voice. Andrew began paring another apple. He wasquite pale. 

"When is the funeral to be, did you hear?" asked Fanny. Ellen washanging up her hat and coat in the entry. 

"Day after to-morrow. "

"Have you heard anything about the hands sending flowers?"

"No. "

"I suppose they will, " said Fanny, "as long as they sent one to him. Well, she was a good woman, and it's a mark of respect, and I 'ain'tanything to say against it, but I can't help feeling as if it was atax. "

Chapter XLVI

It was some time after Mrs. Lloyd's death. Ellen had not seen Robertexcept as she had caught from time to time a passing glimpse of himin the factory. One night she overheard her father and mothertalking about him after she had gone to bed, the sitting-room doorhaving been left ajar. 

"I thought he'd come and call after his aunt died, " she heard Fannysay. "I've always thought he liked Ellen, an' here he is now, withall that big factory, an' plenty of money. "

"Mebbe he will, " replied Andrew, with a voice in which wereconflicting emotions, pride and sadness, and a struggle forself-renunciation. 

"It would be a splendid thing for her, " said Fanny. 

"It would be a splendid thing for _him_, " returned Andrew, with aflash. 

"Land, of course it would! You needn't be so smart, Andrew Brewster. I guess I know what Ellen is, as well as you. Any man might be proudto get her--I don't care who--whether he's Robert Lloyd, or who, butthat don't alter what I say. It would be a splendid chance forEllen. Only think of that great Lloyd house, and it must be full ofbeautiful things--table linen, and silver, and what-not. I say itwould be a splendid thing for her, and she'd be above want all herlife--that's something to be considered when we 'ain't got any morethan we have to leave her, and she workin' the way she is. "

"Yes, that's so, " assented Andrew, with a heavy sigh, as of one wholooks upon life from under the mortification of an incubus of fate. 

"We'd ought to think of her best good, " said Fanny, judiciously. "I've been thinkin' every evening lately that he'd be comin'. I'vehad the fire in the parlor stove all ready to touch off, an' I'vekept dusted in there. I know he liked her, but mebbe he's like allthe rest of the big-bugs. "

"What do you mean?" asked Andrew, with an inward qualm of repulsion. He always hated unspeakably to hear his wife say "big-bugs" in thattone. Although he was far from being without humility, he wasrepublican to the core in his estimate of his own status in his ownfree country. In his heart, as long as he kept the law of God andman, he recognized no "big-bugs. " It was one of the taints of hiswife's ancestry which grated upon him from time to time. 

"Oh, well, mebbe he don't want to be seen callin' on a shop-girl. "

"Then he'd better keep away, that's all!" cried Andrew, furiously. 

"Oh, well, mebbe it ain't so, " said Fanny. "He's always seemed to melike a sensible feller, and I know he's liked Ellen, an' lots ofgirls that work in shops marry rich. Look at Annie Graves, marriedthat factory boss over to Pemberton, an' has everythin'. She'dworked in his factory years. Mebbe it ain't that. "

"Ellen don't act as if she minded anything about his not comin', "said Andrew, anxiously. 

"Land, no; she ain't that kind. She's too much like her grandmother, but there 'ain't been a night lately that she 'ain't done her hairover when she got home from the shop and changed her dress. "

"She always changes her dress, don't she?" said Andrew. 

"Oh yes, she always has done that. I guess she likes to get rid ofthe leather smell for a while; but she has put on that pretty, new, red silk waist, and I've seen her watchin', though she's never saidanything. "

"You don't suppose she--" began Andrew, in a voice of intensestanxiety and indignant tenderness. 

"Land, no; Ellen Brewster ain't a girl to fret herself much over anyman unless she's sure he wants her; trust her. Don't you worry aboutthat. All I mean is, I know she's had a kind of an idea that hemight come. "

Ellen, up-stairs, lay listening against her will, and felt herselfburning with mortified pride and shame. She said to herself that shewould never put on that red silk waist again of an evening; shewould not even do her hair over. It was quite true that she hadthought that Robert might come, that he might renew his offer, nowthat he was so differently situated, and the obstacles, on his side, at least, removed. She told herself all the time that the obstacleson her own were still far from removed. She asked herself how couldshe, even if this man loved her and wished to marry her, allow himto support all her family, although he might be able to do so. Sheoften told herself that she ought perhaps to have pride enough torefuse, and yet she watched for him to come. She had reflected atfirst that it was, of course, impossible for him to seem to takeadvantage of the deaths which had left him with this independence, that he must stay away for a while from motives of delicacy; but nowthe months were going, and she began to wonder if he never wouldcome. Every night, when she took off the pretty, red silk waist, donned in vain, and let down her fair lengths of hair, it was witha sinking of her heart, and a sense of incredulous unhappiness. Ellen had always had a sort of sanguinity of happiness and of thepetting of Providence as well as of her friends. However, the girlhad, in spite of her childlike trust in the beauty of her life, plenty of strength to meet its refutal, and a pride equal to hergrandmother's. In case Robert Lloyd should never approach her again, she would try to keep one face of her soul always veiled to herinmost consciousness. 

The next evening she was careful not to put on her red silk waist, but changed her shop dress for her old blue woollen, and onlysmoothed her hair. She even went to bed early in order to prove toher mother that she expected nobody. 

"You ain't goin' to bed as early as this, Ellen?" her mother said, as she lighted her lamp. 

"Yes, I'm going to bed and read. "

"Seems as if somebody might be in, " said Fanny, awkwardly. 

"I don't know who, " Ellen returned, with a gentle haughtiness. 

Andrew colored. He was at his usual task of paring apples. Andrew, in lieu of regular work outside, assisted in these household tasks, that his wife might have more time to sew. He looked unusually wornand old that night. 

"If anybody does come, Ellen will have to get up, that's all, " saidFanny, when the girl had gone up-stairs. Then she pricked up herears, for the electric-car had stopped before the house. Then itwent on, with a sharp clang of the bell and a gathering rush ofmotion. 

"That car stopped, " Fanny said, breathlessly, her work falling fromher fingers. Andrew and she both listened intently, then footstepswere heard plainly coming around the path at the side of the house. 

Fanny's face fell. "It's only some of the men, " said she, in a lowvoice. Then there came a knock on the side door, and Andrew usheredin John Sargent, Joe Atkins, and Amos Lee. Nahum Beals did not comein those days, for he was in prison awaiting trial for the murder ofNorman Lloyd. However, Amos Lee's note was as impressive as his. Hecalled often with Sargent and Atkins. They could not shake him off. He lay in wait for them at street corners, and joined them. He neversaw Ellen alone, and did not openly proclaim his calls as meant forher. She prevented him from doing that in a manner which he couldnot withstand, full of hot and reckless daring as he was. When heentered that night he looked around with keen furtiveness, and wasevidently listening and watching for her, though presently his voicerose high in discussion with the others. After a while the man wholived next door dropped in, and his wife with him. She and Fannywithdrew to the dining-room with their sewing--for the woman alsoworked on wrappers--and left the sitting-room to the men. 

"It beats all how they like to talk, " said the woman, with alarge-minded leniency, "and they never get anywhere, " she added. "They work themselves all up, and never get anywhere; but men areall like that. "

"Yes, they be, " assented Fanny. 

"Jest hear that Lee feller, " said the woman. 

Amos Lee's voice was audible over the little house, and could havebeen heard in the yard, for it had an enormous carrying quality. Itwas the voice of a public ranter. Ellen, up in her chamber, lying inher bed, with a lamp at her side, reading, closely covered from thecold--for the room was unheated--heard him with a shiver of disgustand repulsion, and yet with a fierce sympathy and loyalty. She couldnot distinguish every word he said, but she knew well what he wastalking about. 

Mrs. Lloyd's death had made a certain hush in the ferment of revoltat Lloyd's, but now it was again on the move. There was a strongfeeling of dislike to young Lloyd among the workmen. His uncle hadheaped up ill-feeling as well as wealth as a heritage for him. Theolder Lloyd had never been popular, and Robert had succeeded to allhis unpopularity, and was fast gathering his own. He was undoubtedlydisposed to follow largely his uncle's business methods. He hadadmired them, they had proved successful, and he had honestly seennothing culpable in them as business methods go; so it was notstrange that he tried to copy them when he came into charge ofLloyd's. He was inclined to meet opposition with the same coolinflexibility of persistency in his own views, and was disposed toconsult his own interests and carry out his own plans with no morebrooking of interference than the skipper of a man-o'-war. Therefore, when it happened, shortly after his aunt's death, that heconceived a dissatisfaction with some prominent spirits among unionmen, he discharged them without the slightest reference to the factthat they were old and skilful workmen, and employed non-union menfrom another town in their places. He had, indeed, the object ofmaking in time his factory entirely non-union. He said to himselfthat he would be dictated to by no labor organization under the sun, and that went a step beyond his uncle, inasmuch as the elder Lloydhad always made his own opinion subservient to good business policy;but Robert was younger and his blood hotter. It happened, also, amonth later, when he began to see that business had fallen offconsiderably (indeed, it was the beginning of a period of extremebusiness depression), and that he could no longer continue on thesame scale with the same profits, that instead of assembling the menin different departments, communicating the situation to them, andsubmitting them a reduced price-list for consideration, as was thecustom with the more pacific of the manufacturers in the vicinity, he posted it up in the different rooms with no ado whatever. Thathad been his uncle's method, but never in the face of such brewingdiscontent as was prevalent in Lloyd's at that time. It was anoccasion when the older man would have shut down, but Robert had, along with his arbitrary impetuosity, a real dislike to shut down onaccount of the men, for which they would have been the last to givehim credit. "Poor devils, " he told himself, standing in the officewindow one night, and seeing them pour out and disappear into theearly darkness beyond the radius of the electric-lights, "I can'tturn them adrift without a dollar in midwinter. I'll try to run thefactory a while longer on a reduced scale, if I only meet expenses. "

He saw Ellen going out, descending the steps with the Atkins girls, and as she passed the light, her fair head shone out for a secondlike an aureole. A great wave of tenderness came over him. Hereflected that it would make no difference to her, that it was onlya question of time before he lifted her forever out of the ranks oftoil. The impulse was strong upon him to go to see her that night, but he had set himself to wait three months after his aunt's death, and the time was not yet up. He had a feeling that he might seem tobe, and possibly would be, taking advantage of his bereavement if hewent sooner, and that Ellen herself might think so. 

It was that very night that Ellen had gone to bed early, to provenot only to her mother but to herself that she did not expect him, and the men came to see Andrew. Once she heard Amos Lee's voiceraised to a higher pitch than ever, and distinguished every word. 

"I tell you he's goin' to cut the wages to-morrow, " said he. 

There was a low rumble of response, which Ellen could notunderstand, but Lee's answer made it evident. 

"How do I know?" he thundered. "It is in the air. He don't tell anymore than his uncle did; but you wait and see, that's all. "

"I don't believe it, " the girl up-stairs said to herself, indignantly and loyally. "He can't cut the wages of all those poormen, he with all his uncle's money. "

But the next morning the reduced price-list was posted on the wallsof the different rooms in Lloyd's. 

Chapter XLVII

There was a driving snow-storm the next day. When Ellen started forthe factory the white twilight of early morning still lingered. Everywhere were the sons and daughters of toil plodding laboriouslyand noiselessly through the snow, each keeping in the track of theone who went before. There was no wind blowing, and the snow was ina blue-white level; the trees bent stiffly and quietly beneath aheavy shag of white, and now and then came a clamor of birds, whichserved to accentuate the silence and peace. Ellen could always beforced by an extreme phase of nature to forgetfulness of her ownstresses. For the time being she forgot everything; her vainwatching for Robert, the talk of trouble in the factory, thedisappointment in her home--all were forgotten in the contemplation, or rather in the absorbing, of this new-old wonder of snow. 

There was a survival of the old Greek spirit in the girl, and hadshe come to earth without her background of orthodox traditions, shemight have easily found her own deities in nature. The peace of thesnow enveloped her soul as well as the earth, and she became abeneficiary of the white storm; the graceful droop of the pineboughs extended to her thoughts, and the clamor of the birds arousedin her a winged freedom, so that she felt at once peace and a sortof ecstasy. She walked in the track of a stolidly plodding manbefore her, as different a person as if she were an inhabitant ofanother planet. He was digesting the soggy, sweet griddle-cakeswhich he had eaten for breakfast, and revolving in his mind twoerrands for his wife--one, a pail of lard; the other, three yards ofblack dress braid; he was considering the surface scum of existence, that which pertained solely to his own petty share of it; the girl, the clear residue of life which was, and had been, and would be. Each was on the way to humble labor for daily bread, but with adifference of eternity between them. 

But when Ellen reached the end of the cross street where the Atkinsgirls lived, she heard a sound which dispelled her rapt state. Herfar vision became a near one; she saw, as it were, the cloudedwindow-glass between her mortal eyes and the beyond, and the soundof a cough brought it about. Abby and Maria were coming towards herthrough the snow. Maria was coughing violently, and Abby wasscolding her. 

"I don't care anything about it, Maria Atkins, " Abby was saying, "you ought to be ashamed of yourself coming out such a morning asthis. There isn't any sense in it. You know you'll catch cold, andthen there'll be two of you to take care of. You don't help a mitedoing so, you needn't think you do. "

When Abby caught sight of Ellen she hastened forward, while Maria, still coughing, trailed behind, lifting her little, heavy, snow-bound feet wearily. 

"Ellen, I wish you'd tell Maria to turn around and go home, " shesaid. "Just hear her cough, and out in all this snow, and gettingher skirts draggled. She hasn't got common-sense, you tell her so. "

Ellen stopped, nodding assentingly. "I think she's right, Maria, "she said. "You ought not to be out such a morning as this. You hadbetter go home. "

Maria came up smiling, though her lips were quite white, and shecontrolled her cough to convulsive motions of her chest. 

"I am no worse than usual, " said she. "I feel better than Igenerally do in the morning. I haven't coughed any more, if I haveas much, and I am holding my dress up high, and you know how warmthe factory is. It will be enough sight warmer than it is at home. It is cold at home. "

"Lloyd don't have to save coal, " said Abby, bitterly, "but thatdon't alter the fact of your getting your skirts draggled. "

Maria pulled up her skirts so high that she exposed her slenderankles, then seeing that she had done so, she let them fall with aquick glance at two men behind them. 

"The snow will shake right off; it's light, Abby, " she said. 

"It ain't light. I should think you might listen to Ellen, if youwon't to me. "

Ellen pressed close to Maria, and pulled her thin arm through herown. "Look here, " she said, "don't you think--"

Then Maria burst out with a pitiful emphasis. "I've got to go, " shesaid. "Father had a bad spell last night; he can't get out. He'lllose his place this time, we are afraid, and there's a note comingdue that father says he's paid, but the man didn't give it up, andhe's got to pay it over again; the lawyer says there is no otherway, and we can't let John Sargent do everything. He's got a sisterout West he's about supporting since her husband died last fall. I've got to go to work; we've got to have the money, Ellen, and asfor my cough, I have always coughed. It hasn't killed me yet, and Iguess it won't yet for a while. " Maria said the last with areckless gayety which was unusual to her. 

Abby trudged on ahead with indignant emphasis. "I'd like to knowwhat good it is going to do to work and earn and pay up money ifeverybody is going to be killed by it?" she said, without turningher head. 

Ellen pulled up Maria's coat-collar around her neck and put an extrafold of her dress-skirt into her hand. 

"There, you can hold it up as high as that, it looks all right, "said she. 

"I wish Robert Lloyd had to get up at six o'clock and trudge a milein this snow to his work, " said Abby, with sudden viciousness. "He'll be driven down in his Russian sleigh by a man looking like adrum-major, and cut our poor little wages, and that's all he cares. Who's earning the money, he or us, I'd like to know? I hate therich!"

"If it's true, what you say, " said Maria, "it seems to me it's likehating those you have given things to, and that's worse than hatingyour enemies. "

"Don't say given, say been forced to hand over, " retorted Abby, fiercely; "and don't preach, Maria Atkins, I hate preaching; and dohave sense enough not to talk when you are out in this awful storm. You can keep your mouth shut, if you can't do anything else!"

Ellen had turned quite white at Abby's words. 

"You don't think that he means to cut the wages?" she said, eagerly. 

"I know he does. I had it straight. Wait till you get to the shop. "

"I don't believe it. "

"You wait. Norman Lloyd was as hard as nails, and the young one isjust like him. " Abby looked relentlessly at Ellen. 

"Maybe it isn't so, " whispered Maria to Ellen. 

"I don't believe it is, " responded Ellen, but Abby heard them, andturned with a vicious jerk. 

"Well, you wait!" said she. 

The moment Ellen reached the factory she realized that somethingunwonted had happened. There were groups of men, talking, obliviouseven of the blinding storm, which was coming in the last few minuteswith renewed fury, falling in heavy sheets like dank shrouds. 

Ellen saw one man in a muttering group throw out an arm, whitenedlike a branch of a tree, and shake a rasped, red fist at thesplendid Russian sleigh of the Lloyd's, which was just gliding outof sight with a flurry of bells and a swing of fur tails, the wholesurmounted by the great fur hat of the coachman. Abby turned andlooked fiercely at Ellen. 

"What did I tell you?" she cried. 

Even then Ellen would not believe. She caught a glimpse of Robert'sfair head at the office window, and a great impulse of love andloyalty came over her. 

"I don't believe it, " she said aloud to Maria. Maria held her armtightly. 

"Maybe it isn't so, " she said. 

But when they entered the room where they worked, there was a sullengroup before a placard tacked on the wall. Ellen pressed closely, and saw what it was--a reduced wage-list. Then she went to hermachine. 

Chapter XLVIII

Ellen had a judicial turn of mind, as her school-master had oncesaid of her. She was able to look at matters from more than onestand-point, but she reasoned with a New Testament clearness ofimpartiality. She was capable of uncompromising severity, since shebrought such a clear light of youth and childhood to bear upon eventhose things which needed shadows for their true revelation. Everything was for her either black or white. She had not lived longenough, perhaps she never would, for a comprehension of half-tones. The situation to her mind was perfectly simple, and she viewed itwith a candor which was at once terrible and cruel, for it involvedcruelty not only to Robert but to herself. She said to herself, herewas this rich man, this man with accumulation of wealth, not onedollar of which he had earned himself, either by his hands or hisbrains, but which had been heaped up for his uncle by the heart andback breaking toil of all these poor men and women; and now he wasgoing to abuse his power of capital, his power to take the bread outof their mouths entirely, by taking it out in part. He was going toreduce their wages, he was deliberately going to cause privation, and even suffering where there were large families. She felt themost unqualified dissent and indignation, and all the love which shehad for the man only intensified it. Love, with a girl like this, tended to clearness of vision instead of blindness. She judged himas she would have judged herself. As she stood working at hermachine, stitching linings to vamps, she kept a sharply listeningear for what went on about her, but there was very little to hearafter work had fairly commenced and the great place was in full hum. The demand of labor was so imperative that the laborers themselveswere merged in it; they ceased to be for the time, and, instead ofliving, they became parts of the struggle for life. A man hustlingas if the world were at stake to get his part of a shoe finished assoon as another man, so as not to clog and balk the whole system, had no time for rebellion. He was in the whirlpool which wasmightier than himself and his revolt. After all, a man is a smalland helpless factor before his own needs. For a time those whirringmachines, which had been evolved in the first place from the brainsof men, and partook in a manner of both the spirit and the grosserelements of existence, its higher qualities and its sordidmechanism, like man himself, had the best of it. The swart arms ofthe workmen flew at their appointed tasks, they fed thoseunsatisfied maws, the factory vibrated with the heavy thud of thecutting-machines like a pulse, the racks with shoes in differentstages of completion trundled from one department to another, propelled by men with tense arms and doggedly bent heads. 

Ellen worked with the rest, but she was one of the few whose braincould travel faster than her hands. She thought as she worked, forher muscles did not retard her mind. She was composed of twomotions, one within the other, and the central motion was so swiftthat it seemed still. 

Ed Flynn came down the room and bent over her. 

"Good-morning, " he said. He was too gayly confident to be entirelyrespectful, but he had always a timidity of bearing which sat oddlyupon him before Ellen. He looked half boldly, half wistfully at herfair face, and challenged her with gay eyes, which had in theirdepths a covert seriousness. 

Ellen stood between Abby Atkins and Sadie Peel at her work. SadiePeel turned on the foreman coquettishly and said, "You'd better goan' talk to Mamie Brady, she's got on a new blue bow on her redhair. Why don't you give her some better work than tying those oldshoes? Here she's been workin' in this shop two years. You needn'tcome shinin' round Ellen an' me! We don't want you. "

Flynn colored angrily and shot a vicious glance at the girl. 

"It's a pretty hard storm, " he said to Ellen, as if the other girlhad not spoken. 

"You needn't pretend you don't hear me, Ed Flynn, " called out thegirl. Her cheap finery was in full force that morning, not a lock ofher brown hair was unstudied in its arrangement, and she was asconscious of her pose before her machine as if she had been on thestage. She knew just how her slender waist and the graceful slope ofher shoulders appeared to the foreman, and her voice, in spite ofits gay rallying and audacity, was wheedling. 

Flynn caught hold of her shoulders, round and graceful under herflannel blouse, and shook her, half in anger, half in weakness. 

"You shut up, you witch, " said he. Then he turned to Ellen again, and his whole manner and expression changed. 

"I'm sorry about that new list, " he said, very low, in her ear. Ellen never looked at him, and did not make a motion as if sheheard. 

"It's a hard storm, " the foreman said again, almost appealingly. 

"Yes, it is very hard, " replied Ellen, slipping another shoe underthe needles. 

"What on earth ails you this morning, Ellen Brewster?" Sadie Peelsaid to her, when the foreman had gone. "You look queer and actqueer. "

"Ellen ain't in the habit of joking with Ed Flynn, " said AbbyAtkins, on the other side, with sarcastic emphasis. 

"My, don't you feel big!" sneered Sadie Peel. There was always ajarring inconsequence about this girl, she was so delicately prettyand refined in appearance, her ribbons were so profuse and cheap, and her manners were so recklessly coarse. 

Ellen said nothing, but worked steadily. 

"Mame Brady's just gone on Ed Flynn, and he goes with her justenough to keep her hangin', and I don't believe he means to marryher, and I think it's mean, " said Sadie Peel. 

"She ought to have more sense than to take any stock in him, " saidAbby. 

"She ain't the only one, " said Sadie. "Nellie Stone in the officehas been daft over him since she's been there, and he don't look ather. I don't see what there is about Ed Flynn, for my part. "

"I don't, " said Abby, dryly. 

"Well, I don't know. He's pretty good-looking, " said Sadie Peel, "and he's got a sort of a way with him. " All the time the girl wastalking her heart was aching. The foreman had paid her some littleattention, which she had taken seriously, but nobody except herfather had known it, or known when he had fallen off. SometimesFlynn, meeting the father's gaze as he passed him at his work at thecutting-bench, used to waver involuntarily, though he asked himselfwith perfect good faith what was it all about, for he had done thegirl no harm. He felt more guilty concerning Mamie Brady. 

Ellen worked on, with her fingers flying and her forehead tense withthought. The chatter of the girls ceased. They were too busy to keepit up. The hum of work continued. Once Ellen knew, although she didnot see him, by some subtle disturbance of the atmosphere, a littlecommotion which was perfectly silent, that Robert Lloyd had enteredthe room. She knew when he passed her, and she worked more swiftlythan ever. After he had gone out there was a curiously inarticulatesound like a low growl of purely animal dissent over the room; aword of blasphemy sounded above the din of the machines. Then allwent on as before until the noon whistle blew. 

Even then there was not so much discussion as might have beenexpected. Robert, since the storm was so heavy, remained in theoffice, and sent a boy out for a light luncheon, and the foremenwere much in evidence. There was always an uncertainty about theirsentiments, occupying as they did a position half-way betweenemployer and employés; and then, too, they were not affected by thecut in wages. The sentiments of the unaffected are always a matterof suspicion to those who suffer themselves. There were grumblingscarried on in a low key behind Flynn's back, but the atmosphere forthe most part was one of depression. Ellen ate her luncheon withMaria and Abby. Willy Jones came up timidly when they were nearlyfinished, feeling his way with a remark about the storm, which wasincreasing. 

"All the cars are tied up, " he said, "and the noon train isn't in. "

He leaned, with a curious effort at concealment from them all andhimself, upon the corner of the bench near Abby. Then a young manpassed them, with such an air of tragedy and such a dead-white facethat they all stared after him. 

"What in the world ails you, Ben Simmons?" called out Sadie Peel. But he did not act as if he heard. He crossed vehemently to theother side of the room, and stood at a window, looking out at thefierce white slant of the storm. 

"What in creation ails him?" cried Sadie Peel. 

"I guess I know, " Willy Jones volunteered, timidly. 

"What?"

"He was going to get married, and this cut in his wages is going toput a stop to it. I heard him say so this morning. "

"Married! Who to?" asked Sadie Peel. 

"Floretta Vining. "

"My land!" cried Sadie Peel. "So she did take up with him after theschool-teacher went away. I always said she would. I always knewEdward Harris wouldn't marry her, and I always said Ben Simmonswould get her if he hung on long enough. Floretta was bound to marrysomebody; she wasn't going to wind up an old maid; and if shecouldn't get one, she'd take another. I suppose Ben has got thatsick sister of his to do for since her father died, and thinks hecan't get married with any less pay. Floretta won't make a verycheap wife. She's bound to have things whether or no, and Ben 'ain'tnever earned so much as some. He's awful steady, but he's slow ascold molasses, and he won't let his sister suffer for no Floretta. "

"That's so; I don't believe he would, " said Abby. "What any man inhis senses wants a doll like that for enough to look as if he wasdead when he's got to put off marrying her!"

"That's because you ain't a man, Abby Atkins, " said Sadie Peel. "Allthe men think of is looks, and little fine airs and graces. "

"It seems as if they might get along, " ventured Willy Jones, "as ifthey might do with less for a while. "

Then Ellen turned to him unexpectedly. "There's no use in talkingabout doing with less when every single cent has to count, " saidshe, sternly. "Ben Simmons has his taxes and insurance, and a steadydoctor's bill for his sister, and medicines to buy. He can't havelaid up a cent, for he's slow, though he's a good workman. You can'tdo with less when you haven't any more than enough. "

"That's so, " said Abby. Then she turned a tender, conciliating, indulgent gaze on the young man at her side. "If I were FlorettaVining, " said she, "and if Ellen were, we would go without things, and never know it. We'd go to work; but Floretta, she's different. We went to school with Floretta Vining. "

"Floretta Vining is dreadful fond of men, but she wouldn't gowithout a yard of ribbon for one if he was dying, " said Sadie Peel, conclusively. "It's awful hard on Ben Simmons, and no mistake. "

"What?" said Amos Lee, coming up. 

"Oh, what's hard on all of us? What's the use of asking?" said thegirl, with a bitter coquetry. "I shouldn't think any man withhorse-sense would ask what's hard on us when he's seen the ornamentstacked up all over the shop this morning. "

"That's so, " said Lee, with a glance over his shoulder. Flynn was atthe other end of the room. Granville Joy, Dixon, and one or twoother men were sauntering up. For a second the little group lookedat one another. 

"What are you going to do?" asked Ellen, in a low voice, which hadan intonation that caused the others to start. 

"I know what I'll do, if I can get enough to back me, " cried Lee, ina loud voice. 

"Hush up!" said Sadie Peel. Then her father came along smiling hisimperturbable smile on his wide face, which had a Slavonic cast, although he was New England born and bred. He looked from one to theother without saying a word. 

"We're deciding whether to strike or not, father, " said Sadie, in aflippant manner. She raised a hand and adjusted a stray lock of hairas she spoke, then she straightened her ribbon stock. Her fathersaid nothing, but his face assumed a stolidity of expression. 

"I know what I'll do, " proclaimed Amos Lee again. 

"Hush up!" cried Sadie Peel again, with a giggle. "Here's Ed Flynn. " And the foreman came sauntering up as the one-o'clock whistle blew, and the workers sprang to their posts of work. 

Chapter XLIX

The snow increased all day. When the six-o'clock whistle blew, andthe workmen streamed out of the factories, it was a wild waste ofwinter and storm. The wind had come up, and the light snow arose inthe distance like white dancers of death, spinning furiously overthe level, then settling into long, gravelike ridges. Ellen glancedinto the office as she passed the door, and saw Robert Lloyd talkingbusily with Flynn and another foreman by the name of Dennison. Asshe passed, Robert turned with a look as if he had been watching forher, and came forward hastily. 

"Miss Brewster!" he called. 

Mamie Brady, following close behind, gave Ellen an admonishingnudge. "Boss wants to see you, " she whispered, loudly. Ellenstopped, and Robert came up. 

"Please step in here a moment, Miss Brewster, " he said, and coloreda little. 

Granville Joy, who was following Ellen, looked keenly at him, someone sniggered aloud, and a girl said quite audibly, "My land!"

Ellen followed Robert into the office, and he bent over her, speaking rapidly, in a low voice. 

"You must not walk home in this snow, " he said, "and the cars arenot running. You must let me take you. My sleigh is at the door. "

Ellen turned white. Somehow this protecting care for herself, in theface of all which she had been considering that day, gave her atremendous shock. She felt at once touched and more indignant thanshe had ever been in her whole life. She had been half believingthat Robert was neglecting her, that he had forgotten her; all dayshe had been judging his action of cutting the wages of the workmenfrom her unswerving, childlike, unshadowed point of view, and nowthis little evidence of humanity towards her, in the face of whatshe considered wholesale inhumanity towards others, made her at oncesevere to him and to herself, and she forced back sternly the leapof pleasure and happiness which this thought of her awakened. "No, thank you, " she said, shortly; "I am much obliged, but I wouldrather walk. "

"But you cannot, in this storm, " pleaded Robert, in a low voice. 

"Yes, I can; it is no worse for me than for others. There is MariaAtkins, she has been coughing all day. "

"I will take her too. Ellen, you cannot walk. You must let me takeyou. "

"I am much obliged, but I would rather not, " replied Ellen, in anicy tone. She looked quite hard in his face. 

Robert looked at her perplexed. "But it is drifting, " he said. 

"It is no worse for me than for the others. " Ellen turned to go. Her attitude of rebuff was unmistakable. 

Robert colored. "Very well; I will not urge you, " he said, coldly. Then he returned to his desk, and Ellen went out. She caught up withMaria Atkins, who was struggling painfully through the drifts, leaning on Abby's arm, and slipped a hand under her thin shoulder. 

"I expect nothing but she'll get her death out in this storm, "grumbled Abby. "What did he want, Ellen?"

"Nothing in particular, " replied Ellen. Uppermost in her mind atthat moment was the charge of cruelty against Robert for not takingher hint as to Maria. "He can ask me to ride because he has amusedhimself with me, but as for taking this poor girl, whom he does notlove, when it may mean life or death to her, he did not thinkseriously of doing that for a moment, " she thought. 

Maria was coughing, although she strove hard to smother the coughs. Granville Joy, who was plodding ahead, turned and waited until theycame up. 

"You had better let me carry you, Maria, " he said, jocularly, buthis honest eyes were full of concern. 

"He is enough sight kinder than Robert Lloyd, " thought Ellen; "hehas a better heart. " And then the splendid Lloyd sleigh came upbehind them and stopped, tilting to a drift. Robert, in hisfur-lined coat, sprang out and went up to Maria. 

"Please let me take you home, " he said, kindly. "You have a cold, and this storm is too severe for you to be out. Please let me takeyou home. "

Maria looked at him, fairly gasping with astonishment. She tried tospeak, but a cough choked her. 

"You had better go if Mr. Lloyd will take you, " Abby said, decisively. "Thank you, Mr. Lloyd; she isn't fit to be out. " Sheurged her sister towards the sleigh, and Robert assisted her intothe fur-lined nest. 

"I can sit with the driver, " said Robert to Abby, "if you will comewith your sister. "

"No, thank you, " replied Abby. "I am able to walk, but I will bemuch obliged if you will take Maria home. "

Robert sprang in beside Maria, and the sleigh slid out of sight. 

"I never!" said Abby. Ellen said nothing, but plodded on, her eyesfixed on the snowy track. 

"I am glad she had a chance to ride, " said Granville Joy, in atentative voice. He looked uneasily at Ellen. 

"It beats the Dutch, " said Abby. She also regarded Ellen withsympathy and perplexity. When they reached the street where shelived, up which the sleigh had disappeared, she let Granville go onahead, and she spoke to Ellen in a low tone. "Why didn't he askyou?" she said. 

"He did, " replied Ellen. 

"In the office?"

"Yes. "

"And you wouldn't?"

"No. "

"Why not?"

"I don't care to accept favors from a man who oppresses all myfriends!"

"He was good to take in Maria, " said Abby, in a perplexed voice. "His uncle would never have thought of it. "

Ellen made no reply. She stood still in the drifting snow, with hermouth shut hard. 

"You feel as if this cutting wages was a pretty hard thing?" saidAbby. 

"Yes, I do. "

"Well, so do I. I wonder what they will do about it. I don't knowhow the men feel. Somehow, folks can't seem to think or plan much ina storm like this. There's the sleigh coming back. "

"Good-night, " Ellen said, hurriedly, and trudged on as fast as shewas able in order not to have the Lloyd sleigh pass her; it had toturn after reaching the end of the street. Ellen caught up withGranville Joy. Robert, glancing over the waving fringe of fur tails, saw disappearing in the pale gleam of the electric-light the two dimfigures veiled by the drifting snow. He thought to himself, with asharp pain, that perhaps, after all, Granville Joy was the reasonfor her rebuff. It never occurred to him that his action in cuttingthe wages could have anything to do with it. 

Ellen went along with Granville, who was anxious to offer her hisarm, but did not quite dare. He kept thrusting out an elbow in herdirection, and an inarticulate invitation died in his throat. Finally, when they reached an unusually high drift of snow, heplucked up sufficient courage. 

"Take my arm, won't you?" he said, with a pitiful attempt at ease, then stared as if he had been shot, at Ellen's reply. 

"No, thank you, " she said. "I think it is easier to walk alone insnow like this. "

"Maybe it is, " assented Granville, dejectedly. He walked on, scuffling as hard as he could to make a path for Ellen with thepatient faithfulness of a dog. 

"What are you going to do about the cut in wages?" Ellen asked, presently. 

Granville started. The sudden transition from personalities togeneralities confused him. 

"What?" he said. 

Ellen repeated her question. 

"I don't know, " said Granville. "I don't think the boys have made uptheir minds. I don't know what they will do. They have been weedingout union men. I suppose the union would have something to say aboutit otherwise. I don't know what we will do. "

"I shouldn't think there would be very much doubt as to what to do, "said Ellen. 

Granville stared at her over his shoulder in a perplexed, admiringfashion. "You mean--?" he asked. 

"I shouldn't think there would be any doubt. "

"Well, I don't know. It is a pretty serious thing to get out of workin midwinter for a good many of us, and as long as the union isn'tin control, other men can come in. I don't know. "

"I know, " said Ellen. 

"You mean--?"

"I mean that I do not think it right, that it is unjust, and Ibelieve in resisting injustice. "

"Men have resisted injustice ever since the Creation, " saidGranville, in a bitter voice. 

"Well, resistance can continue as long as life lasts, " returnedEllen. Just then came a fiercer blast than ever, laden with astinging volley of snow, and seemed to sweep the words from thegirl's mouth. She bent before it involuntarily, and the convictionforced itself upon her that, after all, resistance to injusticemight be as futile as resistance to storm, that injustice might beone of the primal forces of the world, and one of the conditions ofits endurance, and yet with the conviction came the renewedresolution to resist. 

"What can poor men do against capital unless they are backed up bysome labor organization?" asked Granville. "And I don't believethere are a dozen in the factory who belong to the union. There hasbeen an understanding, without his ever saying so that I know of, that the old boss didn't approve of it. So lots of us kept out ofit, we wanted work so bad. What can we do against such odds?"

"When right is on your side, you have all the odds, " said Ellen, looking back over her snow-powdered shoulder. 

"Then you would strike?"

"I wouldn't submit. "

"Well, I don't know how the boys feel, " said Granville. "I supposewe'll have to talk it over. "

"I shouldn't need to talk it over, " said Ellen. "You've gone pastyour house, Granville. "

"I ain't going to let you go home alone in such a storm as this, "said Granville, in a tender voice, which he tried to make facetious. "I wouldn't let any girl go home alone in such a storm. "

Ellen stopped short. "I don't want you to go home with me, thankyou, Granville, " she said. "Your mother will have supper ready, andI can go just as well alone. "

"Ellen, I won't let you go alone, " said the young man, as a wildergust came. "Suppose you should fall down?"

"Fall down!" repeated Ellen, with a laugh, but her regard of theyoung man, in spite of her rebuff, was tender. He touched her withhis unfailing devotion; the heavy trudging by her side of this poorman meant, she told herself, much more than the invitation of therich one to ride behind his bays in his luxurious sleigh. This meantthe very bone and sinew of love. She held out her little, mittenedhand to him. 

"Good-night, Granville, " she said. 

Granville caught it eagerly. "Oh, Ellen, " he murmured. 

But she withdrew her hand quickly. "We have always been goodfriends, and we always will be, " said she, and her tone wasunmistakable. The young man shrank back. 

"Yes, we always will, Ellen, " he said, in a faithful voice, with anote of pain in it. 

"Good-night, " said Ellen again. 

"Good-night, " responded Granville, and turned his plodding back onthe girl and retraced his laborious steps towards his own home, which he had just passed. There come times for all souls when thebroad light of the path of humanity seems to pale to insignificancebefore the intensity of the one little search-light of personality. Granville Joy felt as if the eternal problem of the rich and poor, of labor and capital, of justice and equality, was as nothing beforethe desire of his heart for that one girl who was disappearing fromhis sight behind the veil of virgin snow. 

Chapter L

When Ellen came in sight of her house that night she saw herfather's bent figure moving down the path with sidewise motions of abroom. He had been out at short intervals all the afternoon, thatshe should not have to wade through drifts to the door. Theelectric-light shone full on this narrow, cleared track and thetoiling figure. 

"Hullo, father!" Ellen called out. Andrew turned, and his face litwith love and welcome and solicitude. 

"Be you dreadful snowy?" he asked. 

"Oh no, father, not very. "

"It's an awful storm. "

"Pretty bad, but I got along all right. The snow-plough has beenout. "

"Wait a minute till I get this swept, " said Andrew, sweepingviolently before her. 

"You needn't have bothered, father, " said Ellen. 

"I 'ain't anything else to do, " replied Andrew, in a sad voice. 

"There's mother watching, " said Ellen. 

"Yes, she's been diggin' at them wrappers all day. "

"I suppose she has, " Ellen returned, in a bitter tone. Her fatherstared at her. Ellen never spoke like that. For the first time sheechoed him and her mother. Something like terror came over him atthe sound of that familiar note of his own life from this youngerone. He seemed to realize dimly that a taint of his nature haddescended upon his child. 

When Ellen entered the house, the warm air was full of savory odorsof toast and tea and cooking meat and vegetables. 

"You'd better go right up-stairs and put on a dry dress, Ellen, "said Fanny. "I put your blue one out on your bed, and your shoes arewarming by the sitting-room stove. I've been worrying as to how youwere going to get home all day. " Then she stopped short as shecaught sight of Ellen's face. "What on earth is the matter, EllenBrewster?" she said. 

"Nothing, " said Ellen. "Why?"

"You look queer. Has anything happened?"

"Yes, something has happened. "

"What?"

Andrew turned pale. He stood in the entry with his snowy broom inhand, staring from one to the other. 

"Nothing that you need worry about, " said Ellen. "I'll tell you whenI get my dress changed. "

Ellen pulled off her rubbers, and went up-stairs to her chamber. Fanny and Andrew stood looking at each other. 

"You don't suppose--" whispered Andrew. 

"Suppose what?" responded Fanny, sharply. 

They continued to look at each other. Fanny answered Andrew as if hehad spoken, with that jealous pride for her girl's self-respectwhich possessed her even before the girl's father. 

"Land, it ain't that, " said she. "You wouldn't catch Ellen lookin'as if anything had come across her for such a thing as that. "

"No, I suppose she wouldn't, " said Andrew; and he actually blushedbefore his wife's eyes. 

That afternoon Mrs. Wetherhed had been in, and told Fanny that shehad heard that Robert Lloyd was to be married to Maud Hemingway; andboth Andrew and Fanny had thought of that as the cause of Ellen'schanged face. 

"You'd better take that broom out into the shed, and get the snowoff yourself, and come in and shut the door, " Fanny said, shortly. "You're colding the house all off, and Amabel has got a cold, andshe's sitting right in the draught. "

"All right, " replied Andrew, meekly, though Fanny had herself beenholding the sitting-room door open. In those days Andrew felt belowhis moral stature as head of the house. Actually, looking at Fanny, who was earning her small share towards the daily bread, she seemedto him much taller than he, though she was a head shorter. Hethought so little of himself, he seemed to see himself as throughthe wrong end of a telescope. Fanny went into the sitting-room andshut the door with a bang. Amabel did not look up from her book. Shewas reading a library book much beyond her years, and sniffingpathetically with her cold. Amabel had begun to discover anomnivorous taste for books, which stuck at nothing. She understoodnot more than half of what she read, but seemed to relish it likeindigestible food. 

When Ellen came down-stairs, and sat beside the coal stove to changeher shoes, she looked at the book which Amabel was reading. "Youought not to read that book, dear, " she said. "Let Ellen get you abetter one for a little girl to-morrow. "

But Amabel, without paying the slightest heed to Ellen's words, looked up at her with amazement, as Andrew and Fanny had done. "What's the matter, Ellen?" she asked, in her little, hoarse voice. 

Fanny and Andrew, who had just entered, stood waiting. Ellen bentover her shoe, drawing in the strings firmly and evenly. 

"Mr. Lloyd has reduced the wage-list, " she said. 

"How much?" asked Andrew, in a hoarse voice. 

"Ten per cent. "

There was a dead silence. Andrew and Fanny looked at Ellen likepeople who are uncertain of their next move; Amabel stared from oneto the other with her weak, watery eyes. Ellen continued to lace hershoes. 

"What do you think about it, Ellen?" asked Andrew, almost timidly. 

"I know of only one thing to think, " replied Ellen, in a doggedvoice. 

As she spoke she pulled the tag off a shoe-string because it wouldnot go through the eyelet. 

"What is that?" asked Fanny, in a hard voice. 

"I think it is cruelty and tyranny, " said Ellen, pulling the roughend of the string through the eyelet. 

"I suppose the times are pretty hard, " ventured Andrew; but Ellencut him short. 

"Robert Lloyd has half a million, which has been accumulated by thelabor of poor men in prosperous times, " said she, with her childlikeseverity and pitilessness. "There is no question about the matter. "

Then Fanny flung all self-interest to the wind and was at herdaughter's side like a whirlwind. The fact that the two were of oneblood was never so strongly evident. Red spots glowed in the elderwoman's cheeks and her black eyes blazed. 

"Ellen's right, " said she; "she's right. For a man worth half amillion to cut down the wages of poor, hard-working folks inmidwinter is cruelty. I don't care who does it. "

"Yes, it is, " said Ellen. 

Fanny opened her mouth to tell Ellen of the rumor concerningRobert's engagement to Maud Hemingway, then she refrained, for somereason which she could not analyze. In her heart she did not believethe report to be true, and considered the telling of it a slight toEllen, but it influenced her in her indignation against Robert forthe wage-cutting. 

"What are they going to do?" asked Andrew. 

"I don't know, " replied Ellen. 

"Did he--young Lloyd--talk to the men?"

"No; notices were tacked up all over the shop. "

"That was the way his uncle would have done, " said Andrew, in acurious voice of bitterness and respect. 

"So you don't know what they are going to do?" said Fanny. 

"No. "

"Well, I know what I would do, " said Fanny. "I never would give in, if I starved--never!"

Chapter LI

When Ellen started for the factory the next morning the storm hadnot ceased; the roads were very heavy, although the snow-plough hadbeen out at intervals all night, and there was a struggling line ofshovelling men along the car-track, but the cars were still unableto penetrate the drifts. When Ellen passed her grandmother's housethe old woman tapped sharply on the window and motioned her backfrantically with one bony hand. The window was frozen to the sillwith the snow, and she could not raise it. Ellen shook her head, smiling. Her grandmother continued to wave her back, the lines offorbidding anxiety in her old face as strongly marked as an etchingin the window frame. This love, which had at once coerced andfondled the girl since her birth, was very precious to her. Thisprotection, which she was forced to repel, smote her like a pain. 

"Poor old grandmother!" she thought; "there she will worry about meall day because I have gone out in the storm. " She turned back andwaved her hand and nodded laughingly; but the old woman continuedthat anxiously imperative backward motion until Ellen was out ofsight. 

Ellen walked in the car-track, as did everybody else, that beingbetter cleared than the rest of the road. She was astonished thatshe heard nothing of the cut in wages from the men. There seemed tobe no excitement at all. They merely trudged heavily along, theirwhitening bodies bent before the storm. There was an unusualdoggedness about this march to the factory this morning, but thatwas all. Ellen returned the muttered greeting of several, and walkedalong in silence with the rest. Even when Abby Atkins joined herthere was little said. Ellen asked for Maria, and Abby replied thatshe had taken more cold yesterday, and could not speak aloud; thenrelapsed into silence, making her way through the snow with a sortof taciturn endurance. Ellen looked at the struggling procession ofwhich she was a part, all slanting with the slant of the storm, anda fancy seized her that rebellion and resistance were hopeless, thatthose parallel lines of yielding to the onslaughts of fate were asinevitable as life itself, one of its conditions. Men could not helpwalking that way when the bitter storm-wind was blowing; they couldnot help living that way when fate was in array against theirprogress. Then, thinking so, a mightier spirit of revolt than shehad ever known awoke within her. She, as she walked, straightenedherself. She leaned not one whit before the drive of the storm. Sheadvanced with no yielding in her, her brave face looking aheadthrough the white blur of snow with a confidence which was almostexultation. 

"What do you think the men will do?" she said to Abby when they camein sight of Lloyd's, shaggy with fringes and wreaths and overhangingshelvings of snow, roaring with machinery, with the steady stream oflabor pouring in the door. 

"Do?" repeated Abby, almost listlessly. "Do about what?"

"About the cut in wages?"

Abby turned on her with sudden fire. "Oh, my God, what can they do, Ellen Brewster?" she demanded. "Haven't they got to live? Hasn'tLloyd got it all his own way? How are men to live in weather likethis without work? Bread without butter is better than none at all, and life at any cost is better than death for them you love. Whatcan they do?"

"It seems to me there is only one thing to do, " replied Ellen. 

Abby stared at her wonderingly. "You don't mean--" she said, as theyclimbed up the stairs. 

"I mean I would do anything, at whatever cost to myself, to defeatinjustice, " said Ellen, in a loud, clear voice. 

Several men turned and looked back at her and laughed bitterly. 

"It's easy talking, " said one to another. 

"That's so, " returned the other. 

The people all settled to their work as usual. One of the foremen(Dennison), who was anxious to curry favor with his employer, reported to him in an undertone in the office that everything wasquiet. Robert nodded easily. He had not anticipated anything else. In the course of the morning he looked into the room where Ellen wasemployed, and saw with relief and concern her fair head before hermachine. It seemed to him that he could not bear it one instantlonger to have her working in this fashion, that he must lift herout of it. He still tingled with his rebuff of the night before, buthe had never loved her so well, for the idea that the cut in wagesaffected her relation to him never occurred to him. As he walkedthrough the room none of the workers seemed to notice him, butworked with renewed energy. He might have been invisible for all theattention he seemed to excite. He looked with covert tenderness atthe back of Ellen's head, and passed on. He reflected that he hadadopted the measure of wage-cutting with no difficulty whatever. 

"All it needs is a little firmness, " he thought, with a boyishcomplacency in his own methods. "Now I can keep on with the factory, and no turning the poor people adrift in midwinter. "

At noon Robert put on his fur-lined coat and left the factory, springing into the sleigh, which had drawn up before the door with aflurry of bells. He had an errand in the next town that afternoon, and was not going to return. When the sleigh had slid swiftly out ofsight through the storm, which was lightening a little, the peoplein the office turned to one another with a curious expression ofliberty, but even then little was said. Nellie Stone was at the deskeating her luncheon; Ed Flynn and Dennison and one of the lasters, who had looked in and then stepped in when he saw Lloyd was gone, were there. The laster, who was young and coarsely handsome, had anadmiration for the pretty girl at the desk. Presently she addressedhim, with her mouth full of apple-pie. 

"Say, George, what are you fellows going to do?" she asked. 

Dennison glanced keenly from one to the other; Flynn shrugged hisshoulders and looked out of the window. 

"Looks as if it was clearing up, " he remarked. 

"What are you going to do?" asked Nellie Stone again, with acoquettish flirt of her blond fluff of hair. 

"Grin and bear it, I s'pose, " replied the young laster, with anadoring look at her. 

"My land! grin and bear a cut of ten per cent. ? Well, I don't thinkyou've got much spunk, I must say. Why don't you strike?"

"Who's going to feed us?" replied the laster, in a tender voice. 

"Feed you? Oh, you don't want much to eat. Join the union. It'sridiculous so few of the men in Lloyd's belong to it, anyway; andthen the union will feed you, won't it?"

"The union did not do what it promised in the Scarboro strike, "interposed Dennison, curtly. 

"Oh, we all know where you are, Frank Dennison, " said the girl, witha soft roll of her blue eyes. "Besides, it's easy to talk when youaren't hit. Your wages aren't cut. But here is George May here, he'sin a different box. "

"He's got nobody dependent on him, anyway, " said Flynn. 

"If I wasn't going to get married I'd strike, " cried the young man, with a fervent glance at the girl. She colored, half pleased, halfangry, and the other men chuckled. She took another bite of pie toconceal her confusion. She preferred Flynn to the laster, and whileshe was not averse to proving to the former the triumph of hercharms over another man, did not like too much concessions. 

"You'd better go and eat your dinner, George May, " she said, in hersweet, shrill voice. "First thing you know the whistle will blow. Here's yours, Ed. " With that she pulled out a leather bag fromunder the desk, where she had volunteered to place it for warmth andsafety against the coil of steam-pipes. 

"I don't believe your coffee is very cold, Ed, " said she. 

The laster glared from one to the other jealously. Dennison wenttowards a shelf where he had stored away his luncheon, when hestopped suddenly and listened, as did the others. There came a greatuproar of applause from the next room beyond. Then it subsided, anda girl's clear, loud voice was heard. 

"What is going on?" cried Nellie Stone. She jumped up and ran to thedoor, still eating her pie, and the men followed her. 

At the end of one of the work-rooms, backed against a snowy window, clung about with shreds of the driving storm, stood Ellen Brewster, with some other girls around her, and a few men on the outskirts, and a steady, curious movement of all the other workmen towards her, as of iron filings towards a magnet, and she was talking. 

Her voice was quite audible all over the great room. It waslow-pitched, but had a wonderful carrying quality, and there wassomething marvellous in its absolute confidence. 

"If you men will do nothing, and say nothing, it is time for a girlto say and act, " she proclaimed. "I did not dream for a minute thatyou would yield to this cut in wages. Why should you have your wagescut?"

"The times are pretty hard, " said a doubtful voice among herauditors. 

"What if the times are hard? What is that to you? Have you made themhard? It is the great capitalists who have made them hard byshifting the wealth too much to one side. They are the ones whoshould suffer, not you. What have you done, except come here morningafter morning in cold or heat, rain or shine, and work with all yourstrength? They who have precipitated the hard times are the ones whoshould bear the brunt of them. Your work is the same now as it wasthen, the strain on your flesh and blood and muscles is the same, your pay should be the same. "

"That's so, " said Abby Atkins, in a reluctant, surly fashion. 

"That's so, " said another girl, and another. Then there was afusilade of hand-claps started by the girls, and somewhat feeblyechoed by the men. 

One or two men looked rather uneasily back towards Dennison andFlynn and two more foremen who had come forward. 

"It ain't as though we had something to fall back on, " said a man'sgrumbling voice. "It's easy to talk when you 'ain't got a wife andfive children dependent on you. "

"That's so, " said another man, doggedly. 

"That has nothing to do with it, " said Ellen, firmly. "We can allclub together, and keep the wolf from the door for those who arehardest pressed for a while; and as for me, if I were a man--"

She paused a minute. When she spoke again her voice was full ofchildlike enthusiasm; it seemed to ring like a song. 

"If I were a man, " said she, "I would go out in the street anddig--I would beg, I would steal--before I would yield--I, a free manin a free country--to tyranny like this!"

There was a great round of applause at that. Dennison scowled andsaid something in a low voice to another foreman at his side. Flynnlaughed, with a perplexed, admiring look at Ellen. 

"The question is, " said Tom Peel, slouching on the outskirts of thethrong, and speaking in an imperturbable, compelling, drawlingvoice, "whether the free men in the free country are going to kickthemselves free, or into tighter places, by kicking. "

"If you have got to stop to count the cost of bravery and standingup for your rights, there would be no bravery in the world, "returned Ellen, with disdain. 

"Oh, I am ready to kick, " said Peel, with his mask-like smile. 

"So am I, " said Granville Joy, in a loud voice. Amos Lee camerushing through the crowd to Ellen's side. He had been eating hisdinner in another room, and had just heard what was going on. Heopened his mouth with a motion as of letting loose a flood ofranting, but somebody interposed. John Sargent, bulky andirresistible in his steady resolution, put him aside and stoodbefore him. 

"Look here, " he said to them all. "There may be truth in what MissBrewster says, but we must not act hastily; there is too much atstake. Let us appoint a committee and go to see Mr. Lloyd thisevening, and remonstrate on the cutting of the wages. " He turned toEllen in a kindly, half-paternal fashion. "Don't you see it would bebetter?" he said. 

She looked at him doubtfully, her cheeks glowing, her eyes likestars. She was freedom and youth incarnate, and rebellious againstall which she conceived as wrong and tyrannical. She could hardlyadmit, in her fire of enthusiasm, of pure indignation, of anycompromise or arbitration. All the griefs of her short life, she hadtold herself, were directly traceable to the wrongs of the system oflabor and capital, and were awakening within her as freshly as ifthey had just happened. 

She remembered her father, exiled in his prime from his place in theworking world by this system of arbitrary employment; she rememberedher aunt in the asylum; poor little Amabel; her own mother toilingbeyond her strength on underpaid work; Maria coughing her life away. She remembered her own life twisted into another track from the onewhich she should have followed, and there was for the time verylittle reason or justice in her. That injustice which will arise tomeet its kind in equal combat had arisen in her heart. Still, sheyielded. "Perhaps you are right, " she said to Sargent. She hadalways liked John Sargent, and she respected him. 

"I am sure it is the best course, " he said to her, still in thatlow, confidential voice. 

It ended in a committee of four--John Sargent, Amos Lee, Tom Peel, and one of the older lasters, a very respectable man, a deacon inthe Baptist Church--being appointed to wait on Robert Lloyd thatevening. 

When the one-o'clock whistle blew, Ellen went back to her machine. She was very pale, but she was conscious of a curious steadiness ofall her nerves. Abby leaned towards her, and spoke low in the roarof wheels. 

"I'll back you up, if I die for it, " she said. 

But Sadie Peel, on the other side, spoke quite openly, with a laughand shrug of her shoulders. "Land, " she said, "father'll be withyou. He's bound to strike. He struck when he was in McGuire's. Catchfather givin' up anything. But as for me, I wish you'd all slow upan' stick to work, if you do get a little less. If we quit work Ican't have a nearseal cape, and I've set my heart on a nearseal capethis winter. "

Chapter LII

Ellen resolved that she would say as little as possible about thetrouble at home that night. She did not wish her parents to worryover it until it was settled in one way or another. 

When her mother asked what they had done about the wage-cutting, shereplied that a committee had been appointed to wait on Mr. Lloydthat evening, and talk it over with him; then she said nothing more. 

"He won't give in if he's like his uncle, " said Fanny. 

Ellen went on eating her supper in silence. Her father glanced ather with sharp solicitude. 

"Maybe he will, " said he. 

"No, he won't, " returned Fanny. 

Ellen was very pale and her eyes were bright. After supper she wentto the window and pressed her face against the glass, shielding hereyes from the in-door light, and saw that the storm had quiteceased. The stars were shining and the white boughs of the treeslashing about in the northwest wind. She went into the entry, whereshe had hung her hat and coat, and began putting them on. 

"Where are you going, Ellen?" asked her mother. 

"Just down to Abby's a minute. "

"You don't mean to say your are goin' out again in this snow, EllenBrewster? I should think you were crazy. " When Fanny said crazy, she suddenly started and shuddered as if she had struck herself. Shethought of Eva. Always the possibility of a like doom was in her ownmind. 

"It has stopped snowing, mother, " Ellen said. 

"Stopped snowing! What if it has? The roads ain't cleared. You can'tget down to Abby Atkins's without gettin' wet up to your knees. Ishould think if you got into the house after such a storm you'd havesense enough to stay in. I've worried just about enough. "

Ellen took off her coat and hat and hung them up again. "Well, Iwon't go if you feel so, mother, " she said, patiently. 

"It seems as if you might get along without seein' Abby Atkins tillto-morrow mornin', when you'd seen her only an hour ago, " Fanny wenton, in the high, nagging tone which she often adopted with thosewhom she loved the dearest. 

"Yes, I can, " said Ellen. It seemed to her that she must seesomebody with whom she could talk about the trouble in the factory, but she yielded. There was always with the girl a perfect surfacedocility, as that she seemed to have no resistance, but a little waydown was a rock-bed of firmness. She lighted her lamp, and took herlibrary book and went up-stairs to bed to read. But she could notread, and she could not sleep when she had put aside her book andextinguished her lamp. She could think of nothing except Robert, andwhat he would say to the committee. She lay awake all night thinkingof it. Ellen was a girl who was capable of the most devoted love, and the most intense dissent and indignation towards the sameperson. She could love in spite of faults, and she could see faultsin spite of love. She thought of Robert Lloyd as of the one humansoul whom she loved best out of the whole world, whom she put beforeeverybody else, even her own self, and she also thought of him witha wrath which was pitiless and uncompromising, and which seemed totear her own heart to pieces, for one cannot be wroth with lovewithout a set-back of torture. "If he does not give in and raise thewages, I shall hate him, " thought Ellen; and her heart stung her asif at the touch of a hot iron, and then she could have struckherself for the supposition that he would not give in. "He must, "she told herself, with a great fervor of love. "He must. "

But when she went down to breakfast the next morning her motherstared at her sharply. 

"Ellen Brewster, what is the matter with you?" she cried. 

"Nothing. Why?"

"Nothing! You look like a ghost. "

"I feel perfectly well, " said Ellen. She made an effort to eat asmuch breakfast as usual in order that her mother should not suspectthat she was troubled. When at last she set out for the factory, inthe early morning dusk, she was chilled and trembling withexcitement. 

The storm had quite ceased, and there was a pale rose-and-violetdawn-light in the east, and presently came effects likegolden-feathered shafts shooting over the sky. The road was alivewith shovelling men, construction-cars of the railroad company werelaboring back and forth to clear the tracks, householders weremaking their way from their doors to their gates, clearing theirpaths, lifting up the snow in great, glittering, blue-white blockson their clumsy shovels. Everywhere were the factory employéshastening to their labor; the snow was dropping from the overladentree branches in great blobs; there was an incessant, shrill chatterof people, and occasional shouts. It was the rally of mankind aftera defeat by a primitive force of nature. It was the eternalreassertion of human life and a higher organization over theelemental. Men who had walked doggedly the morning before now movedwith a spring of alacrity, although the road was very heavy. Therewas a new light in their eyes; their cheeks glowed. Ellen had nodoubt whatever that if Robert Lloyd had not yielded the attitude ofthe employés of Lloyd's would be one of resistance. She herselfseemed to breathe in resistance to tyranny, and strength for theright in every breath of the clear, crisp morning air. She felt asif she could trample on herself and her own weakness, for the sakeof justice and the inalienable good of her kind, with as littlehesitation as she trampled on the creaking snow. Yet she trembledwith that deadly chill before a sense of impending fate. When shereturned the salutations of her friends on the road she felt thather lips were stiff. 

"You look dreadful queer, Ellen, " Abby Atkins said, anxiously, whenshe joined her. Maria also was out that morning. 

"Have you heard what they are going to do?" Ellen asked, in a sortof breathless fashion. 

"You mean about the wage-cutting? Don't look so, Ellen. "

Maria pressed close to Ellen, and slid her thin arm through hers. 

"Yes, " said Ellen. "What did John Sargent say when he got home lastnight?"

Abby hesitated a second, looking doubtfully at Ellen. "I don't seethat there is any need for you to take all this so much to heart, "she said. 

"What did he say?"

"Well, " Abby replied, reluctantly, "I believe Mr. Lloyd wouldn'tgive in. Ellen Brewster, for Heaven's sake, don't look so!"

Ellen walked on, her head high, her face as white as death. Mariaclung closely to her, her own lips quivering. 

"What are the men going to do, do you think?" asked Ellen, presently, in a low voice. 

"I don't know, " replied Abby. "John Sargent seems to think they'llgive in. He says he doesn't know what else they can do. The timesare hard. I believe Amos Lee and Tom Peel are for striking, but hesays he doesn't believe the men will support them. The amount of itall is, a man with money has got it all his own way. It's likefighting with bare hands to oppose him, and getting yourself cut, and not hurting him at all. He's got all the weapons. We simplycan't go without work all winter. It is better to do with less thanwith nothing at all. What can a man like Willy Jones do if he hasn'tany work? He and his mother would actually suffer. What could wedo?"

"I don't think we ought to think so much about that, " said Ellen. 

"What do you think we ought to think about, for goodness' sake?"

"Whether we are doing right or not, whether we are furthering thecause of justice and humanity, or hindering it. Whether it is forgood in the long run or not. There have always been martyrs; I don'tsee why it is any harder for us to be martyrs than for those we readabout. "

Sadie Peel came pressing up behind eagerly, her cheeks glowing, holding up her dress, and displaying a cheap red petticoat. "EllenBrewster, " she exclaimed, "if you dare say anything more to-day I'mgoin' to talk. Father is tearing, though he goes around looking asif he wouldn't jump at a cannon-ball. Do, for Heaven's sake, keepstill; and if you can't get what you want, take what you can get. Iain't goin' to be cheated out of my nearseal cape, nohow. "

"Sadie Peel, you make me tired, " cried Abby Atkins. "I don't saythat I'm striking, but I'd strike for all a nearseal cape. I'mashamed of you. "

"I don't care if you be, " said the girl, tossing her head. "Anearseal cape means as much to me as some other things to you. Iwant Ellen Brewster to hold her tongue. "

"Ellen Brewster will hold her tongue or not, just as she has a mindto, " responded Abby, with a snap. She did not like Sadie Peel. 

"Oh, stick up for her if you want to, and get us all into trouble. "

"I shall stick up for her, you can be mighty sure of that, " declaredAbby. 

Ellen walked on as if she heard nothing of it at all, with littleMaria clinging closely to her. Robert Lloyd got out of his sleighand went up-stairs just before they reached the factory, and sheheard a very low, subdued mutter of execration. 

"They don't mean to strike, " she told herself. "They mean tosubmit. "

All went to their tasks as usual. In a minute after the whistle blewthe great pile was in the full hum of labor. Ellen stood for a fewmoments at her machine, then she left it deliberately, and made herway down the long room to where John Sargent stood at his benchcutting shoes, with a swift faithfulness born of long practice. Shepressed close to him, while the men around stared. 

"What is going to be done?" she asked, in a low voice. 

Sargent turned and looked at her in a troubled fashion, and spoke ina pacific, soothing tone, as her father might have done. He was mucholder than Ellen. 

"Now look here, child, " he said, "I don't dare take theresponsibility of urging all these men into starvation this kind ofweather. The times are hard. Lloyd has some reason--"

Ellen walked away from him swiftly and went to the row oflasting-machines where Amos Lee and Tom Peel stood. She walked up tothem and spoke in a loud, clear voice. 

"You are not going to give in?" said she. "You don't mean to givein?"

Lee turned and gave her one stare, and left his machine. 

"Not another stitch of work will I do under this new wage-list, sohelp me, God!" he proclaimed. 

Tom Peel stood for a second like an automaton, staring at them both. Then he turned back to his post. 

"I'm with ye, " he said. 

The lasters, for some occult reason, were always the most turbulentelement in Lloyd's. In less than three minutes the enthusiasm ofrevolt had spread, and every laster had left his machine. In ahalf-hour more there was an exodus of workmen from Lloyd's. Therewere very few left in the factory. Among them were John Sargent, thelaster who was a deacon and had formed one of the consultingcommittee, Sadie Peel, who wanted her nearseal cape, and MamieBrady, who would do nothing which she thought would displease theforeman, Flynn. 

"If father's mind to be such a fool, it's no reason why I should, "said Sadie Peel, stitching determinedly away. Mamie Brady looked atFlynn, when he came up to her, with a gentle, wheedling smile. Therewas no one near, and she fancied that he might steal a kiss. Butinstead he looked at her, frowning. 

"No use you tying away any longer, Mamie, " he said. "The strike'son. "

Chapter LIII

That was one of the strangest days which Ellen had ever passed. Theenforced idleness gave her an indefinite sense of guilt. She triedto assist her mother about the household tasks, then she tried tosew on the wrappers, but she was awkward about it, from long disuse. 

"Do take your book and sit down and read and rest a little, nowyou've got a chance, " said Fanny, with sharp solicitude. 

She said never one word concerning it to Ellen, but all the time shethought how Ellen had probably lost her lover. It was reallydoubtful which suffered the more that day, the mother or thedaughter. Fanny, entirely faithful to her own husband, had yet thatstrange vicarious affection for her daughter's lover, and arealization of her state of mind, of which a mother alone iscapable. It is like a cord of birth which is never severed. Not oneshadow of sad reflection passed over the bright enthusiastic face ofthe girl but was passed on, as if driven by some wind of spirit, over the face of the older woman. She reflected Ellen entirely. 

As for Andrew, his anxiety was as tender, and less subtle. He didnot understand so clearly, but he suffered more. He was clumsy withthis mystery of womanhood, but he was unremitting in his efforts todo something for the girl. Once he tiptoed up to Fanny andwhispered, when Ellen was in the next room, that he hoped she hadn'tmade any mistake, that it seemed to him she looked pretty pale. 

"Mistake?" cried Fanny, tossing her head, and staring at himproudly. "Haven't you got any spirit, and you a man, AndrewBrewster?"

"I ain't thinking about myself, " said Andrew. 

And he was quite right. Andrew, left to himself and his purelyselfish interests, could have struck with the foremost. He wouldnever have considered himself when it came to a question of aconscientious struggle against injustice, though he was so prone tolook upon both sides of an argument that his decision would havebeen necessarily slow; but here was Ellen to consider, and she wasmore than himself. While he had been, in the depths of his heart, fiercely jealous of Robert Lloyd, yet the suspicion that his girlmight suffer because of her renunciation of him hurt him to thequick. Ellen had told him all she had done in the interests of thestrike, and he had no doubt that her action would effectually put anend to all possible relations between the two. He tried to imaginehow a girl would feel, and being a man, and measuring all passion bythe strength of his own, he exaggerated her suffering. He could eatnothing, and looked haggard. He remained out-of-doors the greaterpart of the day. After he had cleared his own paths, he secured ajob clearing some for a more prosperous neighbor. Andrew in thosedays grasped eagerly at any little job which could bring him in afew pennies. He worked until dark, and when he went home he saw witha great throb of excitement the Lloyd sleigh waiting before hisdoor. 

Robert had heard from Dennison of Ellen's attitude about the strike. He had been incredulous at first, as indeed he had been incredulousabout the strike. He had looked out of the office window with thegaze of one who does not believe what he sees when he had heard thatretreating tramp of the workmen on the stairs. 

"What does all this mean?" he said to Dennison, who entered, pale tohis lips. 

"It means a strike, " replied Dennison. Nellie Stone rolled herpretty eyes around at the two men from under her fluff of blondhair. Flynn came in and stood in a curious, non-committal attitude. 

"A strike!" repeated Robert, vaguely. "What for?"

It seemed incredible that he should ask, but he did. The calmmasterfulness of his uncle, which could not even imagine opposition, had apparently descended upon him. 

Both foremen stared at him. Nellie Stone smiled a little covertly. 

"Why, you know you had a committee wait upon you last night, Mr. Lloyd, " replied Dennison. 

Flynn looked out of the window at the retreating throngs of workmen, and gave a whistle under his breath. 

"Have they struck because of the wage-cutting?" asked Robert, in acurious, boyish, incredulous, aggrieved tone. Then all at once hecolored violently. "Let them strike, then!" he cried. He threwhimself into a chair and took up the morning paper, with its glaringheadlines about the unprecedented storm, as if nothing had happened. Nellie Stone, after a sly wink at Flynn, which he did not return, began writing again. Flynn went out, and Dennison remainedstanding in a rather helpless attitude. A strike in Lloyd's wasunprecedented, but this manner of receiving the news was moreunprecedented still. The proprietor was apparently reading themorning paper with much interest, when two more foremen, heads ofother departments, came hurrying in. 

"I have heard already, " said Robert, in response to their gaspedinformation. Then he turned another page of the paper. 

"What's to be done, sir?" said one of the new-comers, after aprolonged stare at his companion and Dennison. He was a spare man, with a fierce glimmer of blue eyes under bent brows. 

"Let them strike if they want to, " replied Robert. 

It was in his mind to explain at length to these men his reasons forcutting the wages--for his own attitude as he knew it himself wasentirely reasonable--but the pride of a proud family was up in him. 

"The strike would never have been on, for the men went to workquietly enough, if it hadn't been for that Brewster girl, " Dennisonsaid, presently, but rather doubtfully. He was not quite sure howthe information would be received. 

Robert dropped his paper, and stared at him with angry incredulity. 

"What are you talking about?" he said. "What had Miss Brewster to dowith it?"

He said "Miss Brewster" with a meaning emphasis of respect, andDennison was quick to adopt the hint. 

"Oh, nothing, " he replied, uneasily, "only she talked with them. "

"You mean that Miss Brewster talked to the men?"

"Yes; she said a good deal yesterday, and to-day the men would nothave struck if it had not been for her. It only needs a spark to setthem off sometimes. "

Robert was very pale. "Well, " he said, coolly, "there is no need foryou to remain longer, since the factory is shut down. You may aswell go. "

"The engineer is seeing to the fires, Mr. Lloyd, " said Dennison. 

"Very well. " Robert turned to the girl at the desk. "The factory isclosed, Miss Stone, " he said; "there is no need for you to remainlonger to-day. Come to-morrow at ten o'clock, and I will havesomething for you to do with regard to settling up accounts. Thereis nothing in shape now. "

That afternoon Robert went to see Ellen. He could not wait untilevening. 

Fanny greeted him at the door, and there was the inevitable flurryabout lighting the parlor stove, and presently Ellen entered. 

She had changed the gown which she had worn at her factory-work forher last winter's best one. Her young face was pale, almost severe, and she met him in a way which made her seem a stranger. 

Robert realized suddenly that she had, as it were, closed the doorupon all their old relations. She seemed years older, and at thesame time indefinably younger, since she was letting the childishimpulses, which are at the heart of all of us untouched by time andexperience, rise rampant and unchecked. She was following the leadof her own convictions with the terrible unswerving of a child, evenin the face of her own hurt. She was, metaphorically, bumping herown head against the floor in her vain struggles for mastery overthe mighty conditions of her life. 

She bowed to Robert, and did not seem to see his proffered hand. 

"Won't you shake hands with me?" he asked, almost humbly, althoughhis own wrath was beginning to rise. 

"No, I would rather not, " she replied, with a straight look at him. Her blue eyes did not falter in the least. 

"May I sit down?" he said. "I have something I would like to say toyou. "

"Certainly, if you wish, " she replied. Then she seated herself onthe sofa, with Robert opposite in the crushed-plush easy-chair. 

The room was still very cold, and the breath could be seen at thelips of each in white clouds. Robert had on his coat, but Ellen hadnothing over her blue gown. It was on Robert's tongue to ask if shewere not cold, then he refrained. The issues at stake seemed to makethe question frivolous to offensiveness. He felt that any approachto tenderness when Ellen was in her present mood would invoke anindignation for which he could scarcely blame her, that he must tryto meet her on equal fighting-ground. 

Ellen sat before him, her little, cold hands tightly folded in herlap, her mouth set hard, her steady fire of blue eyes on his face, waiting for him to speak. 

Robert felt a decided awkwardness about beginning to talk. Suddenlyit occurred to him to wonder what there was to say. It amounted tothis: they were in their two different positions, their two pointsof view--would either leave for any argument of the other? Then hewondered if he could, in the face of a girl who wore an expressionlike that, stoop to make an argument, for the utter blindness anddeafness of her very soul to any explanation of his position was tooevident in her face. 

"I called to tell you, if you will permit me, how much I regret theunfortunate state of affairs at the factory, " Robert said, and thegirl's eyes met his as with a flash of flame. 

"Why did you not prevent it, then?" asked she. Ellen had all thefire of her family, but a steadiness of manner which never desertedher. She was never violent. 

"I could not prevent it, " replied Robert, in a low voice. 

Ellen said nothing. 

"You mistake my position, " said Robert. It was in his mind then tolay the matter fully before her, as he had disdained to do beforethe committee, but her next words deterred him. 

"I understand your position very fully, " said she. 

Robert bowed. 

"There is only one way of looking at it, " said Ellen, in herinexpressibly sweet, almost fanatical voice. She tossed her head, and the fluff of fair hair over her temples caught a beam ofafternoon sunlight. 

"She is only a child, " thought Robert, looking at her. He rose andcrossed over to the sofa, and sat down beside her with a masterfulimpatience. "Look here, Ellen, " he said, leaving all general issuesfor their own personal ones, "you are not going to let this comebetween us?"

Ellen sat stiff and straight, and made no reply. 

"All this can make very little difference to you, " Robert urged. "You know how I feel. That is, it can make very little difference toyou if you still feel as you did. You must know that I have onlybeen waiting--that I am eager and impatient to lift you out of itall. "

Ellen faced him. "Do you think I would be lifted out of it now?" shesaid. 

"Why, but, Ellen, you cannot--"

"Yes, I can. You do not know me. "

"Ellen, you are under a total misapprehension of my position. "

"No, I am not. I apprehend it perfectly. "

"Ellen, you cannot let this separate us. "

Ellen looked straight ahead in silence. 

"You at least owe it to me to tell me if, irrespective of this, yourfeelings have changed, " Robert said, in a low voice. 

Ellen said nothing. 

"You may have come to prefer some one else, " said Robert. 

"I prefer no one before my own, before all these poor people who area part of my life, " Ellen cried out, suddenly, her face flaming. 

"Then why do you refuse to let me act for their final good? You mustknow what it means to have them thrown out of work in midwinter. Youknow the factory will remain closed for the present on account ofthe strike. "

"I did not doubt it, " said Ellen, in a hard voice. All the bitterthoughts to which she would not give utterance were in her voice. 

"I cannot continue to run the factory at the present rate and meetexpenses, " said Robert; "in fact, I have been steadily losing forthe last month. " He had, after all, descended to explanation. "Itamounts to my either reducing the wage-list or closing the factoryaltogether, " he continued. "For my own good I ought to close thefactory altogether, but I thought I would give the men a chance. "

Robert thought by saying that he must have finally settled matters. It did not enter his head that she would really think it advisablefor him to continue losing money. The pure childishness of herattitude was something really beyond the comprehension of a man ofbusiness who had come into hard business theories along with hisuncle's dollars. 

"What if you do lose money?" said Ellen. 

Robert stared at her. "I beg your pardon?" said he. 

"What if you do lose money?"

"A man cannot conduct business on such principles, " replied Robert. "There would soon be no business to conduct. You don't understand. "

"Yes, I do understand fully, " replied Ellen. 

Robert looked at her, at the clear, rosy curve of her young cheek, the toss of yellow hair above a forehead as candid as a baby's, ather little, delicate figure, and all at once such a rage ofmasculine insistence over all this obstinacy of reasoning was uponhim that it was all he could do to keep himself from seizing her inhis arms and forcing her to a view of his own horizon. He felthimself drawn up in opposition to an opponent at once too delicate, too unreasoning, and too beloved to encounter. It seemed as if theabsurdity of it would drive him mad, and yet he was held to it. Hetried to give a desperate wrench aside from the main point of thesituation. He leaned over Ellen, so closely that his lips touchedher hair. 

"Ellen, let us leave all this, " he pleaded; "let me talk to you. Ihad to wait a little while. I knew you would understand that, butlet me talk to you now. "

Ellen sat as rigid as marble. "I wish to talk of nothing besides thematter at hand, Mr. Lloyd, " said she. "That is too close to my heartfor any personal consideration to come between. "

Chapter LIV

When Robert went home in the winter twilight he was more miserablethan he had ever been in his life. He felt as if he had beenassaulting a beautiful alabaster wall of unreason. He felt as ifthat which he could shatter at a blow had yet held him in defiance. The idea of this girl, of whom he had thought as his future wife, deliberately setting herself against him, galled him inexpressibly, and in spite of himself he could not quite free his mind ofjealousy. On his way home he stopped at Lyman Risley's office, andfound, to his great satisfaction, that he was alone, writing at hisdesk. Even his stenographer had gone home. He turned around whenRobert entered, and looked at him with his quizzical, yet kindly, smile. 

"Well, how are you, boy?" he said. 

Robert dropped into the first chair, and sat therein, haunched up asin a lapse of despair and weariness. 

"What is the matter?" asked Risley. 

"You have heard about the trouble in the factory?"

For answer Risley held up a night's paper with glaring head-lines. 

"Yes, of course it is in the papers, " assented Robert, wearily. 

Risley stared at him in a lazily puzzled fashion. "Well, " he said, "what is it all about? Why are you so broken up about it?" Risleylaid considerable emphasis on the _you_. 

"Yes, " cried Robert, in a sudden stress of indignation. "You look atit like all the rest. Why are all the laborers to be petted andcoddled, and the capitalists held up to execration? Good Lord, isn'tthere any pity for the rich man without his drop of water, in theBible or out? Are all creation born with blinders on, and can theyonly see before their noses?"

"What are you talking about, Robert?" said Risley, laughing alittle. 

"I say why should all the sympathy go to the workmen who are actinglike the pig-headed idiots they are, and none for the head of thefactory, who has the sharp-edged, red-hot brunt of it all to bear?"

"You wouldn't look at it that way if you were one of the poor menjust out on strike such weather as this, " said Risley, dryly. Heglanced as he spoke at the window, which was beginning to be thicklyfurred with frost in spite of the heat of the office. Robertfollowed his gaze, and noted the spreading fairy jungle ofcrystalline trees and flowers on the broad field of glass. 

"Do you think that is the worst thing in the world to bear?" hedemanded, angrily. 

"What? Cold and hunger not only for yourself, but for those youlove?"

"Yes. "

"Well, I think it is pretty bad, " replied Risley. 

"Well, suppose you had to bear that, at least for those you loved, and--and--" said the young man, lamely. 

Risley remained silent, waiting. 

"If I had been my uncle instead of myself I should simply have shutdown with no ado, " said Robert, presently, in an angry, argumentative voice. 

"I suppose you would; and as it was?"

"As it was, I thought I would give them a chance. Good God, Risley, I have been running the factory at a loss for a month as it is. Withthis new wage-list I should no more than make expenses, if I didthat. What was it to me? I did it to keep them in some sort of work. As for myself, I would much rather have shut down and done with it, but I tried to keep it running on their account, poor devils, andnow I am execrated for it, and they have deliberately refused whatlittle I could offer. "

"Did you explain all this to the committee?" asked Risley. 

"Explain? No! I told them my course was founded upon strict businessprinciples, and was as much for their good as for mine. Theyunderstood. They know how hard the times are. Why, it was only lastweek that Weeks & McLaughlin failed, and that meant a heavy loss. Ididn't explain. " Then Robert hesitated and colored. "I have justexplained to her, " he said, with a curious hang of his head, like aboy, "and if my explanation was met in the same fashion by theothers in the factory I might as well have addressed the north wind. They are all alike; they are a different race. We cannot help them, and they cannot help themselves, because they are themselves. "

"You mean by her, Ellen Brewster?" Risley said. 

Robert nodded gloomily. 

"That is all in the paper, " said Risley--"what she said to the men. "

Robert made an impatient move. 

"If ever there was a purely normal outgrowth, a perfect flower ofher birth and environments and training, that girl is one, " saidRisley, with an accent of admiration. 

"She is infected with the ranting idiocy of those with whom she hasbeen brought in daily contact, " said Robert; but even as he spoke heseemed to see the girl's dear young face, and his voice faltered. 

"Even as you may be infected with the conservatism of those withwhom you are brought in contact, " said Risley, dryly. 

"What a democrat you are, Risley!" said Robert, impatiently. "Ibelieve you would make a good walking delegate. "

Risley laughed. "I think I would myself, " he said. "Wouldn't shelisten to you, Robert?"

"She listened with such utter dissent that she might as well havebeen dumb. It is all over between us, Risley. "

"How precipitate you are, you young folks!" said the other, good-humoredly. 

"How precipitate? Do you mean to say--?"

"I mean that you are forever thinking you are on the brink ofnothingness, when the true horizon-line is too far for you ever toreach in your mortal life. "

"Not in this case, " said Robert. 

"You know nothing about it. But if you will excuse me, it seems tome that the matter of all these people being reduced to starvationin a howling winter is of more importance than the coming togetherof two people in the bonds of wedlock. It is the aggregate againstthe individual. "

"I don't deny that, " said Robert, doggedly, "but I am notresponsible for the starvation, and the aggregate have brought it onthemselves. "

"You have shut down finally?"

"Yes, I have. I would rather shut down than not, as far as I amconcerned. It is distinctly for my interest. The only one objectionis losing experienced workmen, but in a community like this, and intimes like this, that objection is reduced to a minimum. I can hireall I want in the spring if I wish to open again. I should run arisk of losing on every order I should have to fill in the nextthree months, even with the reduced list. I would rather shut downthan not; I only reduced the wages for them. "

Robert rose as he spoke. He felt in his heart that he had gottenscant sympathy and comfort. The older man looked with pity at theyoung fellow's handsome, gloomy face. 

"There's one thing to remember, " he said. 

"What?"

"All the troubles of this world are born with wings. " Risleylaughed, as he spoke, in his half-cynical fashion. 

As Robert walked home--for there was no car due--he felt completelydesolate. It seemed to him that everybody was in league against him. When he reached his uncle's splendid house and entered, he felt suchan isolation from his kind in the midst of his wealth that somethinglike an actual terror of solitude came over him. 

The impecunious cousin of his aunt's who had come to her during herlast illness acted as his housekeeper. There was somethinginexpressibly irritating about this woman, who had suffered so much, and was now nestling, with a sense of triumph over the passing ofher griefs, in a luxurious home. 

She asked Robert if it were true that the factory was closed, and hefelt that she noted his gloomy face, and realized a greater extentof comfort from her own exemption from such questions. 

"Business must be a great care, " said she, and a look of utterpeaceful reflection upon her own lot overspread her face. 

After supper Robert went down to his aunt Cynthia's. He had not beenthere for a long time. The minute he entered she started up with aneagerness which had been completely foreign to her of late years. 

"What is the matter, Robert?" she asked, softly. She took both hishands as she spoke, and her look in his face was full of delicatecaressing. 

Robert succumbed at once to this feminine solicitude, of which hehad had lately so little. He felt as if he had relapsed intochildhood. A sense of injury which was exquisite, as it broughtalong with it a sense of his demand upon love and sympathy, seizedhim. 

"I am worried beyond endurance, Aunt Cynthia, " said he. 

"About the strike? I have read the night papers. "

"Yes; I tried to do what was right, even at a sacrifice to myself, and--"

Cynthia had read about Ellen, but she was a woman, and she saidnothing as to that. 

"I tried to do what was right, " Robert said, fairly broken downagain. 

Cynthia had seated herself, and Robert had taken a low foot-stool ather side. It came over him as he did so that it had been a favoriteseat of his when a child. As for Cynthia, influenced by theappealing to the vulnerable place of her nature, she put her slimhands on her nephew's head, and actually seemed to feel his babycurls. 

"Poor boy, " she whispered. 

Robert put both his arms around her and hid his face on hershoulder, for love is a comforter, in whatever guise. 

Chapter LV

On the day after the strike Ellen went to McGuire's and to Briggs's, the two other factories in Rowe, to see if she could obtain aposition; but she was not successful. McGuire had discharged some ofhis employés, reducing his force to its smallest possible limits, since he had fewer orders, and was trying in that way to avert thenecessity of a cut in wages, and a strike or shut-down. McGuire'swas essentially a union factory, as was Briggs's. Ellen would havefound in either case difficulty about obtaining employment, becauseshe did not belong to the union, if for no other reason. At Briggs'sshe encountered the proprietor himself in the office, and hedismissed her with a bluff, almost brutal, peremptoriness which hurther cruelly, although she held up her head high as she left. Briggsturned to a foreman who was standing by before she was well out ofhearing. 

"I like that!" he said. "Mrs. Briggs read about that girl in thepaper last night, and the strike wouldn't have been on at Lloyd's ifit hadn't been for her. I would as soon take a lighted match into apowder-magazine. "

The foreman grinned. "She's a pretty, mild-looking thing, " he said;"doesn't look as if she could say boo to a goose. "

"That's all you can tell, " returned Briggs. "Deliver me from alight-complexioned woman. They're all the very devil. Mrs. Briggssays it's the same girl that read that composition that made such astir at the high-school exhibition. She'd make more trouble in afactory than a dozen ordinary girls, and just now, when everythingis darned ticklish-looking. "

"That's so, " assented the foreman, "and all the more because she'sgood-looking. "

"I don't know what you call good-looking, " returned Briggs. 

He had two daughters, built upon the same heavy lines as himself andwife, and he adored them. Insensibly he regarded all more delicatefeminine beauty as a disparagement of theirs. As Briggs spoke, theforeman seemed to see in the air before his eyes the faces of thetwo Briggs girls, large and massive, and dull of hue, the femininecounterpart of their father's. 

"Well, maybe you're right, " said he, evasively. "I suppose somemight call her good-looking. "

As he spoke he glanced out of the window at Ellen's retreatingfigure, moving away over the snow-path with an almost dancing motionof youth and courage, though she was sorely hurt. The girl hadscarcely ever had a hard word said to her in her whole life, for shehad been in her humble place a petted darling. She had plenty ofcourage to bear the hard words now, but they cut deeply into herunseasoned heart. 

Ellen went on past the factories to the main street of Rowe. She hadno idea of giving up her efforts to obtain employment. She said toherself that she must have work. She thought of the stores, thatpossibly she might obtain a chance to serve as a sales-girl in oneof them. She actually began at the end of the long street, andworked her way through it, with her useless inquiries, facingproprietors and superintendents, but with no success. There was nota vacancy in more than one or two, and there they wished onlyexperienced hands. She found out that her factory record toldagainst her. The moment she admitted that she had worked in afactory the cold shoulder was turned. The position of a shop-girlwas so far below that of a sales-lady that the effect upon thesuperintendent was almost as if he had met an unworthy aspirant to athrone. He would smile insultingly and incredulously, even as heregarded her. 

"You would find that our goods are too fine to handle after leather. Have you tried all the shops?"

At last Ellen gave that up, and started homeward. She paused once asshe came opposite an intelligence office. There was one course yetopen to her, but from that she shrank, not on her own account, butshe dared not--knowing what would be the sufferings of her relativesshould she do so--apply for a position as a servant. 

As for herself, strained as she was to her height of youthfulenthusiasm for a great cause, as she judged it to be, clamping herfeet to the topmost round of her ladder of difficulty, she wouldhave essayed any honest labor with no hesitation whatever. But shethought of her father and mother and grandmother, and went on pastthe intelligence office. 

When she came to her old school-teacher's--Miss Mitchell's--house, she paused and hesitated a moment, then she went up the little pathbetween the snow-banks to the front door, and rang the bell. Thedoor was opened before the echoes had died away. Miss Mitchell hadseen her coming, and hastened to open it. Miss Mitchell had not beenteaching school for some years, having retired on a small competencyof her savings. Her mortgage was paid, and there was enough forherself and her mother to live upon, with infinite care as todetails of expenditure. Every postage-stamp and car-fare had itsimportant part in the school-teacher's system of economy; but shewas quite happy, and her large face wore an expression of perfectpeace and placidity. 

She was a woman who was not tortured by any strong, ungratifieddesires. Her allotment of the gifts of the gods quite satisfied her. 

When Ellen entered the rather stuffy sitting-room--for Miss Mitchelland her mother were jealous of any breath of cold air after thescanty fire was kindled--it was like entering into a stratum ofpeace. It seemed quite removed from the turmoil of her own life. Theschool-teacher's old mother sat in her rocker close to the stove, stouter than ever, filling up her chair with those wandering curvesand vague outlines which only the over-fleshy human form can assume. She looked as indefinite as a quivering jelly until one reached herface. That wore a fixedness of amiability which accentuated thewhole like a high light. She had not seen Ellen for a long time, andshe greeted her with delight. 

"Bless your heart!" said she, in her sweet, throaty, husky voice. "Go and get her some of them cookies, Fanny, do. " The old woman'sfaculties were not in the least impaired, although she was very old, neither had her hands lost their cunning, for she still retained herskill in cookery, and prepared the simple meals for herself anddaughter, seated in a high chair at the kitchen table to roll outpastry or the famous little cookies which Ellen remembered alongwith her childhood. 

There was something about these cookies which Miss Mitchellpresently brought to her in a pretty china plate, with a little, fine-fringed napkin, which was like a morsel of solace to the girl. With the first sweet crumble of the cake on her plate, she wished tocry. Sometimes the rush of old, kindly, tender associations willovercome one who is quite equal to the strain of present emergency. But she did not cry; she ate her cookies, and confided to MissMitchell and her mother her desire to obtain a position elsewhere, since her factory-work had failed her. It had occurred to her thatpossibly Miss Mitchell, who was on the school-board, might know of avacancy in a primary school for the coming spring term, and that shemight obtain it. 

"I think I know enough to teach a primary school, " Ellen said. 

"Of course you do, bless your heart, " said old Mrs. Mitchell. "Sheknows enough to teach any kind of a school, don't she, Fanny? Youget her a school, dear, right away. "

But Miss Mitchell knew of no probable vacancy, since one young womanwho had expected to be married had postponed her marriage on accountof the strike in Lloyd's, and the consequent throwing out ofemployment of her sweetheart. Then, also, Miss Mitchell owned withhesitation, in response to Ellen's insistent question, that shesupposed that the fact that she had worked in a shop might in anycase interfere with her obtaining a position in a school. 

"There is no sense in it, dear child, I know, " she said, "but itmight be so. "

"Yes, I supposed so, " replied Ellen, bitterly. "They would all saythat a shop-girl had no right to try to teach school. Well, I'm muchobliged to you, Miss Mitchell. "

"What are you going to do?" Miss Mitchell asked, anxiously, following her to the door. 

"I'm going to Mrs. Doty, to get some of the wrappers that motherworks on, until something else turns up, " replied Ellen. 

"It seems a pity. "

Ellen smiled bravely. "Beggars mustn't be choosers, " she said. "Ifwe can only keep along, somehow, I don't care. "

There came a vehement pound of a stick on the floor, for that wasthe way the old woman in the sitting-room commanded attention. MissMitchell opened the door on a crack, that she might not let in thecold air. 

"What is it, mother?" she said. 

"You get Ellen a school right away, Fanny. "

"All right, mother; I'll do my best. "

"Get her the grammar-school you used to have. "

"All right, mother. "

There was something about the imperative solicitude of the old womanwhich comforted Ellen in spite of its futility as she went on herway. The good-will of another human soul, even when it cannot beresolved into active benefits, has undoubtedly a mighty force of itsown. Ellen, with the sweet of the cookies still lingering on hertongue, and the sweet of the old woman's kindness in her soul, feltrefreshed as if by some subtle spiritual cake and wine. She evenwent to the door of Mrs. Doty's house. Mrs. Doty was the woman wholet out wrappers to her impecunious neighbors with an undauntedheart. She had no difficulty there. The demand for cheap wrapperswas not on the wane, even in the hard times. When Ellen reached hergrandmother's house, with a great parcel under her arm, Mrs. Zelotesopened her side door. 

"What have you got there, Ellen Brewster?" she called out sharply. 

"Some wrappers, " replied Ellen, cheerfully. 

"Are you going to work on wrappers?"

"Yes, grandma. "

The door was shut with a loud report. 

When Ellen entered the house and the sitting-room, her mother lookedup from a pink wrapper which she was finishing. 

"What have you got there?" she demanded. 

"Some wrappers. "

"Why, I haven't finished the last lot. "

"These are for me to make, mother. "

Andrew got up and went out of the room. Fanny shut her mouth hard, and drew her thread through with a jerk. 

"Well, " she said, in a second, "take off your things, and let meshow you how to start on them. There's a little knack about it. "

Chapter LVI

That was a hard winter for Rowe. Aside from the financial stress, the elements seemed to conspire against the people who were soill-prepared to meet their fury. It was the coldest winter which hadbeen known for years; coal was higher, and the poor people had lesscoal to burn. Storm succeeded storm; then, when there came a warmspell, there was an epidemic of the grippe, and doctors' bills topay and quinine to buy--and quinine was very dear. 

The Brewsters managed to keep up the interest on the house mortgage, but their living expenses were reduced to the smallest possibleamount. In those days there was no wood laid ready for kindling inthe parlor stove, since there was neither any wood to spare norexpectation of Robert's calling. Ellen and her mother sat in thedining-room, for even the sitting-room fire had been abolished, andthey heated the dining-room whenever the weather admitted it fromthe kitchen stove, and worked on the wrappers for their miserablepittance. 

The repeated storms were in a way a boon to Andrew, since he gotmany jobs clearing paths, and thus secured a trifle towards thedaily expenses. 

In those days Mrs. Zelotes watched the butcher-cart anxiously whenit stopped before her son's house, and she knew just what a tiny bitof meat was purchased, and how seldom. On the days when the cartmoved on without any consultation at the tail thereof, the old womanwould buy an extra portion, cook it, and carry some over to herson's. 

Times grew harder and harder. Few of the operatives who had struckin Lloyd's succeeded in obtaining employment elsewhere, and most ofthem joined the union to enable them to do so. There was actualprivation. One evening, when the strike was some six weeks old, AbbyAtkins came over in a pouring rain to see Ellen. There were a numberof men in the dining-room that night. Amos Lee and Frank Dixon wereamong them. It was a singular thing that Andrew, taking, as he haddone, no active part in any rebellion against authority, should havecome to see his house the headquarters for the rallies ofdissension. Men seemed to come to Andrew Brewster's for the sake ofbolstering themselves up in their hard position of defiance againsttremendous odds, though he sat by and seldom said a word. As forEllen, she and her mother on these occasions sat out in the kitchen, sewing on the endless seams of the endless wrappers. Sometimes itseemed to the girl as if wrappers enough were being made to clothenot only the present, but future generations of poor women. Sheseemed to see whole armies of hopeless, overburdened women, allarrayed in these slouching garments, crowding the foreground of theworld. 

That evening little Amabel, who had developed a painful desire tomake herself useful, having divined the altered state of the familyfinances, was pulling out basting-threads, with a puckered littleface bent over her work. She was a very thin child, but there was anincisive vitality in her, and somehow Fanny and Ellen contrived tokeep her prettily and comfortably clothed. 

"I've got to do my duty by poor Eva's child, if I starve, " Fannyoften said. 

When the side door opened, Ellen and her mother thought it wasanother man come to swell the company in the dining-room. 

"It beats all how men like to come and sit round and talk overmatters; for my part, I 'ain't got any time to talk; I've got towork, " remarked Fanny. 

"That's so, " rejoined Ellen. She looked curiously like her motherthat night, and spoke like her. In her heart she echoed the sarcasmto the full. She despised those men for sitting hour after hour in astore, or in the house of some congenial spirit, or standing on astreet corner, and talking--talking, she was sure, to no purpose. Asfor herself, she had done what she thought right; she had, as itwere, cut short the thread of her happiness of life for the sake ofsomething undefined and rather vague, and yet as mighty in itsdemands for her allegiance as God. And it was done, and there was nouse in talking about it. She had her wrappers to make. However, shetold herself, extenuatingly, "Men can't sew, so they can't workevenings. They are better off talking here than they would be in thebilliard-saloon. " Ellen, at that time of her life, had a slight, unacknowledged feeling of superiority over men of her own class. Sheregarded them very much as she regarded children, with a sort oftolerant good-will and contempt. Now, suddenly, she raised her headand listened. "That isn't another man, it's a woman--it's Abby, " shesaid to her mother. 

"She wouldn't come out in all this rain, " replied Fanny. As shespoke, a great, wind-driven wash of it came over the windows. 

"Yes, it is, " said Ellen, and she jumped up and opened thedining-room door. 

Abby had entered, as was her custom, without knocking. She had lefther dripping umbrella in the entry, and her old hat was flattened onto her head with wet, and several damp locks of her hair straggledfrom under it and clung to her thin cheeks. She still held up herwet skirts around her, as she had held them out-of-doors, but shewas gesticulating violently with her other hand. She was repeatingwhat she had said before. Ellen had heard her indistinctly throughthe door. 

"Yes, I mean just what I say, " she cried. "Get up and go to work, ifyou are men! Stop hanging around stores and corners, and talkingabout the tyranny of the rich, and go to work, and make them pay yousomething for it, anyhow. This has been kept up long enough. Get upand go to work, if you don't want those belonging to you to starve. "

Abby caught sight of Ellen, pale and breathless, in the door, withher mother looking over her shoulder, and she addressed her withrenewed violence. "Come here, Ellen, " she said, "and put yourself onmy side. We've got to give in. "

"You go away, " cried little Amabel, in a shrill voice, lookingaround Ellen's arm; but nobody paid any attention to her. 

"I never will, " returned Ellen, with a great flash, but her voicetrembled. 

"You've got to, " said Abby. "I tell you there's no other way. "

"I'll die before I give up, " cried Lee, in a loud, threateningvoice. 

"I'm with ye, " said Tom Peel. 

Dixon and the young laster who sat beside him looked at each other, but said nothing. Dixon wrinkled his forehead over his pipe. 

"Then you'd better go to work quick, before some that I know of, whoare enough sight better worth saving than you are, starve, " repliedAbby, unshrinkingly. "If I could I would go to Lloyd's and open iton my own account to-morrow. I believe in bravery, but nothingexcept fools and swine jump over precipices. "

Abby passed through the room, sprinkling rain-drops from herdrenched skirts, and went into the kitchen with Ellen. Fanny cast anangry glance at her, then a solicitous one at her dripping garments. 

"Abby Atkins, you haven't got any rubbers on, " said she. 

"Rubbers!" repeated Abby. 

"You just slip off those wet skirts, and Amabel will fetch you downEllen's old black petticoat and brown dress. Amabel--"

But Abby seated herself peremptorily before the kitchen stove andextended one soaked little foot in its shabby boot. "I'm pastthinking or caring about wet skirts, " said she. "Good Lord, what dowet skirts matter? We can't make wrappers any longer. We had to sellthe sewing-machine yesterday to pay the rent or be turned out, andwe haven't got a thing to eat in the house except potatoes and alittle flour. We haven't had any meat for a week. Nice fare for aman like poor father and a girl like Maria! We have come down to thekitchen fire like you, but we can't keep it burning as late as this. The rest went to bed an hour ago to keep warm. Maria has got morecold. She did seem better one spell, but now she's worse again. Ourchamber is freezing cold, and we haven't had a fire in it since thestrike. John Sargent has ransacked every town within twenty milesfor work, but he can't get any, and his sick sister keeps sending tohim for money. He looks as if he was just about done, too. He wentoff somewhere after supper. A great supper! He don't smoke a pipenowadays. Father don't get the medicine he ought to have, and thatcold spell he just about perished for a little whiskey. The bedroomwas like ice with no fire in the sitting-room, and he didn't sleepwarm. It's one awful thing after another happening. Did you knowMamie Brady took laudanum last night?"

"Good land!" said Fanny. 

"Yes, she did. Ed Flynn has been playing fast and loose with her fora long time, and she's none too well balanced, and when it came toher not having enough to eat, and to keep her warm, and her mothernagging at her all the time--you know what an awful hard woman hermother is--she got desperate. She gulped it down when the last carwent past and Ed Flynn hadn't come; she had been watchin' out forhim; then she told her mother, and her mother shook her, then runfor Dr. Fox, and he called in Dr. Lord, and they worked with astomach-pump till morning, and she isn't out of danger yet. Thenthat isn't all. Willy Jones's mother is failing. He was over to ourhouse last evening, telling us about it, and he fairly cried, poorboy. He said he actually could not get her what she needed to makeher comfortable this awful winter. It was all he could do with oddjobs to keep the roof over their heads, that she hadn't actuallyenough to eat and keep her warm. It seemed as if he would die whenhe told about it. And that isn't all. Those little Blake childrennext door are fairly starving. They are going around to theneighbors' swill-buckets--it's a fact--just like little hungry dogs, and it's precious little they find in them. Mrs. Wetherhed has lether sewing-machine go, and Edward Morse is going to be sold out fortaxes. And that isn't all. " Abby lowered her voice a little. Shecast an apprehensive glance at the door of the other room, and atAmabel. "Mamie Bemis has gone to the bad. I had it straight. She'sin Boston. She didn't have enough to pay for her board, and gotdesperate. I know her sister did wrong, but that was no reason whyshe should have, and I don't believe she would if it hadn't been forthe strike. It's all on account of the strike. There's no usetalking: before the sparrow flies in the eyes of the tiger, he'dbetter count the cost. "

Fanny, quite white, stood staring from Abby to Ellen, and backagain. 

Amabel was holding fast to a fold of Ellen's skirt. Ellen lookedrigid. 

"I knew it all before, " she said, in a low voice. 

Suddenly Abby jumped up and caught the other girl in a fierceembrace. "Ellen, " she sobbed--"Ellen, isn't there any way out of it?I can't see--"

Ellen freed herself from Abby with a curious imperative yet gentlemotion, then she opened the door into the other room again. The loudclash of voices hushed, and every man faced towards her standing onthe threshold, with her mother and Abby and little Amabel in thebackground. "I want to say to you all, " said Ellen, in a clearvoice, "that I think I did wrong. I have been wondering if I had notfor some time, and growing more and more certain. I did not countthe cost. All I thought of was the principle, but the cost is a partof the principle in this world, and it has to be counted in with it. I see now. I don't think the strike ought ever to have been. It hasbrought about too much suffering upon those who were not responsiblefor it, who did not choose it of their own free will. There arechildren starving, and people dying and breaking their hearts. Wehave brought too much upon ourselves and others. I am sorry I saidwhat I did in the shop that day, if I influenced any one. Now I amnot going to strike any longer. Let us all accept Mr. Lloyd's terms, and go back to work. "

But Ellen's voice was drowned out in a great shout of wrath anddissent from Lee. He directly leaped to the conclusion that the girltook this attitude on account of Lloyd, and his jealousy, which wasalways smouldering, flamed. 

"Well, I guess not!" he shouted. "I rather guess not! I've struck, and I'm going to stay struck! I ain't goin' to back out because agirl likes the boss, damn him!"

Andrew and the young laster rose and moved quietly before Ellen. TomPeel said nothing, but he grinned imperturbably. 

"I 'ain't had a bit of tobacco, and the less said about what I'vehad to eat the better, " Lee went on, in a loud, threatening voice, "but I ain't going to give up. No, miss; you've het up the fightin'blood in me, and it ain't so easy coolin' of it down. "

The door opened, and Granville Joy entered. He had knocked severaltimes, but nobody had heard him. He looked inquiringly from one toanother, then moved beside Andrew and the laster. 

Dixon got up. "It looks to me as if it was too soon to be giving upnow, " he said. 

"It's easy for a man who's got nobody dependent upon him to talk, "cried Abby. 

"I won't give up!" cried Dixon, looking straight at Ellen, andignoring Abby. 

"That's so, " said Lee. "We don't give up our rights for bosses, orbosses' misses. "

As he said that there was a concerted movement of Andrew, thelaster, and Granville. Granville was much slighter than Lee, butsuddenly his right arm shot out, and the other man went down like alog. Andrew followed him up with a kick. 

"Get out of my house, " he shouted, "and never set foot in it again!Out with ye!"

Lee was easily cowed. He did not attempt to make any resistance, butgathered himself up, muttering, and moved before the three into theentry, where he had left his coat and hat. Dixon and Peel followedhim. When the door was shut, Ellen turned to the others, with aquieting hand on Amabel's head, who was clinging to her, trembling. 

"I think it will be best to talk to John Sargent, " said she. "Ithink a committee had better be appointed to wait upon Mr. Lloydagain, and ask him to open the factory. I'm not going to strike anylonger. "

"I'm sure I'm not, " said Abby. 

"Abby and I are not going to strike any longer, " said Ellen, in anindescribably childlike way, which yet carried enormous weight withit. 

Chapter LVII

Ellen had not arrived at her decision with regard to the strike assuddenly as it may have seemed. All winter, ever since the strike, Ellen had been wondering, not whether the principle of the matterwas correct or not, that she never doubted; she never swerved in herbelief concerning the cruel tyranny of the rich and the helplesssuffering of the poor, and their good reason for making a stand, butshe doubted more and more the wisdom of it. She used to sit forhours up in her chamber after her father and mother had gone to bed, wrapped up in an old shawl against the cold, resting her elbows onthe window-sill and her chin on her two hands, staring out into thenight, and reflecting. Her youthful enthusiasm carried her like aleaping-pole to conclusions beyond her years. "I wonder, " she saidto herself, "if, after all, this inequality of possessions is not apart of the system of creation, if the righting of them is notbeyond the flaming sword of the Garden of Eden? I wonder if the onewho tries to right them forcibly is not meddling, and usurping thepart of the Creator, and bringing down wrath and confusion not onlyupon his own head, but upon the heads of others? I wonder if it iswise, in order to establish a principle, to make those who have novoice in the matter suffer for it--the helpless women and children?" She even thought with a sort of scornful sympathy of Sadie Peel, who could not have her nearseal cape, and had not wished to strike. She reflected, as she had done so many times before, that the worldwas very old--thousands of years old--and inequality was as old asthe world. Might it not even be a condition of its existence, theshifting of weights which kept it to its path in the scheme of theuniverse? And yet always she went back to her firm belief that thestrikers were right, and always, although she loved Robert Lloyd, she denounced him. Even when it came to her abandoning her positionwith regard to the strike, she had not the slightest thought ofeffecting thereby a reconciliation with Robert. 

For the first time, that night when she had gone to bed, afterannouncing her determination to go back to work, she questioned heraffection for Robert. Before she had always admitted it to herselfwith a sort of shamed and angry dignity. "Other women feel so aboutmen, and why should I not?" she had said; "and I shall never fail tokeep the feeling behind more important things. " She had acceptedthe fact of it with childlike straightforwardness as she acceptedall other facts of life, and now she wondered if she really did carefor him so much. She thought over and over everything Abby had said, and saw plainly before her mental vision those poor women partingwith their cherished possessions, the little starving childrensnatching at the refuse-buckets at the neighbors' back doors. Shesaw with incredulous shame, and something between pity and scorn, Mamie Bemis, who had gone wrong, and Mamie Brady, who had taken herfoolish, ill-balanced life in her own hands. She remembered everyword which she had said to the men on the morning of the strike, andhow they had started up and left their machines. "I did it all, " shetold herself. "I am responsible for it all--all this suffering, forthose hungry little children, for that possible death, for the ruinof another girl. " Then she told herself, with a stern sense ofjustice, that back of her responsibility came Robert Lloyd's. If hehad not cut the wages it would never have been. It seemed to herthat she almost hated him, and that she could not wait to strive toundo the harm which she had done. She could not wait for morning tocome. 

She lay awake all night in a fever of impatience. When she wentdown-stairs her eyes were brilliant, there were red spots on hercheeks, her lips were tense, her whole face looked as if she werestrained for some leap of action. She took hold of everything shetouched with a hard grip. Her father and mother kept watching heranxiously. Directly after breakfast Ellen put on her hat and coat. 

"What are you going to do?" asked Fanny. 

"I am going over to see John Sargent, and ask him to get some othermen and go to see Mr. Lloyd, and tell him we are willing to go towork again, " replied Ellen. 

Ellen discovered, when she reached the Atkins house, that JohnSargent had already resolved upon his course of action. 

"The first thing he said when he came in last night was that hecouldn't stand it any longer, and he was going to see the others, and go to Lloyd, and ask him to open the shop on his own terms, "said Abby. "I told him how we felt about it. "

"Yes, I am ready to go back whenever the factory is opened, " saidEllen. "I am glad he has gone. "

Ellen did not remain long. She was anxious to return and finish somewrappers she had on hand. Abby promised to go over and let her knowthe result of the interview with Lloyd. 

It was not until evening that Abby came over, and John Sargent withher. Lloyd had not been at home in the morning, and they had beenforced to wait until late afternoon. The two entered thedining-room, where Ellen and her mother sat at work. 

Abby spoke at once, and to the point. "Well, " said she, "the shop'sgoing to be opened to-morrow. "

"On what terms?" asked Ellen. 

"On the boss's, of course, " replied Abby, in a hard voice. 

"It's the only thing to do, " said Sargent, with a sort of stolidassertion. "If we are willing to be crushed under the Juggernaut ofprinciple, we haven't any right to force others under, and that'swhat we are doing. "

"Bread without butter is better than no bread at all, " said Abby. "We've got to live in the sphere in which Providence has placed us. " The girl said "Providence" with a sarcastic emphasis. 

Andrew was looking at Sargent. "Do you think there will be anytrouble?" he asked. 

Sargent hesitated, with a glance at Fanny. "I don't know; I hopenot, " said he. "Lee and Dixon are opposed to giving in, and they aretalking hard to-night in the store. Then some of the men have joinedthe union since the strike, and of course they swear by it, becauseit has been helping them, and they won't approve of giving up. But Idoubt if there will be much trouble. I guess the majority want to goto work, even the union men. The amount of it is, it has been such atough winter it has taken the spirit out of the poor souls. "Sargent, evidently, in yielding was resisting himself. 

"You don't think there will be any danger?" Fanny said, anxiously, looking at Ellen. 

"Oh no, there's no danger for the girls, anyhow. I guess there'senough men to look out for them. There's no need for you to worry, Mrs. Brewster. "

"Mr. Lloyd did not offer to do anything better about the wages?"asked Ellen. 

Sargent shook his head. 

"Catch him!" said Abby, bitterly. 

Ellen had a feeling as if she were smiting in the face that image ofRobert which always dwelt in her heart. 

"Well, " said Abby, with a mirthless laugh, "there's one thing:according to the Scriptures, it is as hard for the rich man to getinto heaven as it is for the poor men to get into their factories. "

"You don't suppose there will be any danger?" Fanny said again, anxiously. 

"Danger--no; who's afraid of Amos Lee and a few like him?" criedAbby, contemptuously; "and Nahum Beals is safe. He's going to betried next month, they say, but they'll make it imprisonment forlife, because they think he wasn't in his right mind. If he was herewe might be afraid, but there's nobody now that will do anything buttalk. I ain't afraid. I'm going to march up to the shop to-morrowmorning and go to work, and I'd like to see anybody stop me. "

However, before they left, John Sargent spoke aside with Andrew, andtold him of a plan for the returning workmen to meet at the cornerof a certain street, and go in a body to the factory, and suggestedthat there might be pickets posted by the union men, and Andrewresolved to go with Ellen. 

The next morning the rain had quite ceased, and there was a faintsomething, rather a reminiscence than a suggestion, of early springin the air. People caught themselves looking hard at the elmbranches to see if they were acquiring the virile fringe of springor if their eyes deceived them, and wondered, with respect to thetips of maple and horse-chestnut branches, whether or not they wereswollen red and glossy. Sometimes they sniffed incredulously when asoft gust of south wind seemed laden with fresh blossom fragrance. 

"I declare, if I didn't know better, I should think I smelled appleblossoms, " said Maria. 

"Stuff!" returned Abby. She was marching along with an alert, springy motion of her lean little body. She was keenly alive to thesituation, and scented something besides apple blossoms. She hadtried to induce Maria to remain at home. "I don't know but there'llbe trouble, and if there is, you'll be just in the way, " she toldher before they left the house, but not in their parents' hearing. 

"Oh, I don't believe there'll be any. Folks will be too glad to getback to work, " replied Maria. She had a vein of obstinacy, gentle asshe was; then, too, she had a reason which no one suspected forwishing to be present. She would not yield when John Sargent beggedher privately not to go. It was just because she was afraid theremight be trouble, and he was going to be in it, that she could notbear to stay at home herself. 

Andrew had insisted upon accompanying Ellen in spite of herremonstrances. "I've got an errand down to the store, " he said, evasively; but Ellen understood. 

"I don't think there is any danger, and there wouldn't be any dangerfor me--not for the girls, sure, " she said; but he persisted. 

"Don't you say a word to your mother to scare her, " he whispered. But they had not been gone long before Fanny followed them, Mrs. Zelotes watching her furtively from a window as she went by. 

All the returning employés met, as agreed upon, at the corner of acertain street, and marched in a solid body towards Lloyd's. The meninsisted upon placing the girls in the centre of this body, althoughsome of them rebelled, notably Sadie Peel. She was on hand, laughingand defiant. 

"I guess I ain't afraid, " she proclaimed. "Father's keepin' onstrikin', but I guess he won't see his own daughter hurt; and nowI'm goin' to have my nearseal cape, if it is late in the season. They're cheaper now, that's one good thing. On some accounts thestrike has been a lucky thing for me. " She marched along, swingingher arms jauntily. Ellen and Maria and Abby were close together. Andrew was on the right of Ellen, Granville Joy behind; the younglaster, who had called so frequently evenings, was with him. JohnSargent and Willy Jones were on the left. They all walked in themiddle of the street like an army. It was covertly understood thatthere might be trouble. Some of the younger men from time to timeput hands on their pockets, and a number carried stout sticks. 

The first intimation of disturbance came when they met anelectric-car, and all moved to one side to let it pass. The car wasquite full of people going to another town, some thirty milesdistant, to work in a large factory there. Nearly every man andwoman on the car belonged to the union. 

As this car slid past a great yell went up from the occupants; menon the platforms swung their arms in execration and derision. "Sc-ab, sc-ab!" they called. A young fellow leaped from the rearplatform, caught up a stone and flung it at the returning Lloyd men, but it went wide of its mark. Then he was back on the platform witha running jump, and one of the Lloyd men threw a stone, which missedhim. The yell of "Scab, scab!" went up with renewed vigor, until itdied out of hearing along with the rumble of the car. 

"Sometimes I wish I had joined the union and stuck it out, " said oneof the Lloyd men, gloomily. 

"For the Lord's sake, don't show the white feather now!" cried ayoung fellow beside him, who was striding on with an eager, evenjoyous outlook. He had fighting blood, and it was up, and he took akeen delight in the situation. 

"It's easy to talk, " grumbled the other man. "I don't know but allour help lies in the union, and we've been a pack of fools not to goin with them, because we hoped Lloyd would weaken and take us back. He hasn't weakened; we've had to. Good God, them that's rich have ittheir own way!"

"I'd have joined the union in a minute, and got a job, and got mynearseal cape, if it hadn't been for father, " said Sadie Peel, witha loud laugh. "But, my land! if father'd caught me joinin' the unionI dun'no' as there would have been anything left of me to wear thecape. "

They all marched along with no disturbance until they reached thecorner of the street into which they had to turn in order toapproach Lloyd's. There they were confronted by a line of pickets, stationed there by the union, and the real trouble began. Yells of"Scab, scab!" filled the air. 

"Good land, I ain't no more of a scab than you be!" shrieked SadiePeel, in a loud, angry voice. "Scab yourself! Touch me if youdasse!"

Many young men among the returning force had stout sticks in theirhands. Granville Joy was one of them. Andrew, who was quite unarmed, pressed in before Ellen. Granville caught him by the arm and triedto draw him back. 

"Look here, Mr. Brewster, " he said, "you keep in the background alittle. I am young and strong, and here are Sargent and Mendon. You'd better keep back. "

But Ellen, with a spring which was effectual because so utterlyuncalculated, was before Granville and her father, and them all. Shereasoned it out in a second that she was responsible for the strike, and that she would be in the front of whatever danger there was inconsequence. Her slight little figure passed them all before theyknew what she was doing. She was in the very front of the littlereturning army. She saw the threatening faces of the pickets; shehalf turned, and waved an arm of encouragement, like a general in abattle. "Strike if you want to, " she cried out, in her sweet youngvoice. "If you want to kill a girl for going back to work to saveherself and her friends from starvation, do it. I am not afraid! Butkill me, if you must kill anybody, because I am the one that startedthe strike. Strike if you want to. "

[Illustration: If you want to kill a girl for going back to work to saveherself from starvation, do it!]

The opposing force moved aside with an almost imperceptible motion. Ellen looked like a beautiful child, her light hair tossed aroundher rosy face, her eyes full of the daring of perfect confidence. She in reality did not feel one throb of fear. She passed thepicket-line, and turned instinctively and marched backward with herblue eyes upon them all. Abby Atkins sprang forward to Ellen's side, with Sargent and Joy and Willy Jones and Andrew. Andrew kept callingto Ellen to come back, but she did not heed him. 

The little army was several rods from the pickets before a shot rangout, but that was fired into the air. However, it was followed by afierce clamor of "Scab" and a shower of stones, which did littleharm. The Lloyds marched on without a word, except from Sadie Peel. She turned round with a derisive shout. 

"Scab yourselves!" she shrieked. "You dassen't fire at me. You'rescabs yourselves, you be!"

"Scabs, scabs!" shouted the men, moving forward. 

"Scab yourself!" shouted Sadie Peel. 

Abby Atkins caught hold of her arm and shook her violently. "Shutup, can't you, Sadie Peel, " she said. 

"I'll shut up when I get ready, Abby Atkins! I ain't afraid of themif you be. They dassen't hit me. Scab, scab!" the girl yelled back, with a hysteric laugh. 

"Don't that girl know anything?" growled a man behind her. 

"Shut up, Sadie Peel, " said Abby Atkins. 

"I ain't afraid if you be, and I won't shut up till I get ready, foryou or anybody else. I'm goin' to have my nearseal cape! Hi!"

"I ain't afraid, " said Abby, contemptuously, "but I've got sense. "

Maria pressed close to Sadie Peel. "Please do keep still, Sadie, "she pleaded. "Let us get into the factory as quietly as we can. Think, if anybody was hurt. "

"I ain't afraid, " shrieked the girl, with a toss of her red fringe, and she laughed like a parrot. Abby Atkins gripped her arm sofiercely that she made her cry out with pain. "If you don't keepstill!" she said, threateningly. 

Willy Jones was walking as near as he could, and he carried hisright arm half extended, as if to guard her. Now and then Abbyturned and gave him a push backward. 

"They won't trouble us girls, and you might as well let us and themen that have sticks go first, " she said in a whisper. 

"If you think--" began the young fellow, coloring. 

"Oh, I know you ain't afraid, " said Abby, "but you've got yourmother to think of, and there's no use in running into danger. "

The pickets were gradually left behind; they were, in truth, half-hearted. Many of them had worked in Lloyd's, and had small mindto injure their old comrades. They were not averse to a great showof indignation and bluster, but when it came to more they hesitated. 

Presently the company came into the open space before Lloyd's. Robert and Lyman Risley and several foremen were standing at thefoot of the stairs. The windows of the factory were filled withfaces, and derisive cries came from them. Lloyd's tall shaft ofchimney was plumed with smoke. The employés advanced towards thestairs, when suddenly Amos Lee, Dixon, and a dozen others appeared, coming with a rush from around a corner of the building, and againthe air was filled with the cry of "Scab!" Ellen and Abby linkedarms and sprang forward before the men with an impetuous rush, withJoy and Willy Jones and Andrew following. Ellen, as she rushed ontowards the factory stairs, was conscious of no fear at all, butrather of a sort of exaltation of courage. It did not really occurto her that she could be hurt, that it could be in the heart of Leeor Dixon, or any of them, actually to harm her. She was throbbingand intense with indignation and resolution. Into that factory toher work she was bound to go. All that intimidated her in the leastwas the fear for her father. She rushed as fast as she could thather father might not get before her and be hurt in some way. 

"Scab! scab!" shouted Lee and the others. 

"Scab yourself!" shrieked Sadie Peel. Her father was one of theopposing party, and that gave her perfect audacity. "Look out youdon't hit me, dad, " she cried to him. "I'm goin' to get my nearsealcape. Don't you hit your daughter, Tom Peel!" She raced on with asort of hoppity-skip. She caught a young man near her by the arm andforced him into the same dancing motion. 

They were at the foot of the stairs, when Robert, watching, saw Leewith a pistol in his hand aim straight at Ellen. He sprang beforeher, but Risley was nearer, and the shot struck him. When Risleyfell, a great cry, it would have been difficult to tell whether oftriumph or horror, went up from the open windows of the otherfactories, and men came swarming out. Lee and his companionsvanished. 

A great crowd gathered around Risley until the doctors came andordered them away, and carried him in the ambulance to the hospital. He was not dead, but evidently very seriously injured. 

When the ambulance had rolled out of sight, the Lloyd employésentered the factory, and the hum of machinery began. 

Fanny and Andrew stood together before the factory after Ellen hadentered. Andrew had started when he had seen his wife. 

"You here?" he said. 

"I rather guess I'm here, " returned Fanny. "Do you s'pose I wasgoin' to stay at home, and not know whether you and her were shotdead or not?"

"I guess it's all safe now, " said Andrew. He was very pale. Helooked at the blood-stained place where Lyman Risley had lain. "It'sawful work, " he said. 

"Who did it?" asked Fanny, sharply. "I heard the shot just before Igot here. "

"I don't know for sure, and guess it's better I don't, " repliedAndrew, sternly. 

Then all at once as they stood there a woman came up with a swift, gliding motion and a long trail of black skirts straight to Fanny, who was the only woman there. There were still a great many men andboys standing about. The woman, Cynthia Lennox, caught Fanny's armwith a nervous grip. Her finely cut face was very white under thenodding plumes of her black bonnet. 

"Is he in there?" she asked, in a strained voice, pointing to theshop. 

Fanny stared at her. She was half dazed. She did not know whethershe was referring to the wounded man or Robert. 

Andrew was quicker in his perceptions. 

"They carried him off to the hospital in the ambulance, " he toldher. Then he added, as gently as if he had been addressing Ellen: "Iguess he wasn't hurt so very bad. He came to before they took himaway. "

"You don't know anything about it, " Fanny said, sharply. "I heardthem say something about his eyes. "

"His eyes!" gasped Cynthia. She held tightly to Fanny, who looked ather with a sudden passion of sympathy breaking through hercuriosity. 

"Oh, I guess he wasn't hurt so very bad; he _did_ come to. I heardhim speak, " she said, soothingly. She laid her hard hand overCynthia's slim one. 

"They took him to the hospital?"

"Yes, in the ambulance. "

"Is--my nephew in there?"

"No; he went with him. "

Cynthia looked at the other woman with an expression of utteranguish and pleading. 

"Look here, " said Fanny; "the hospital ain't very far from here. Suppose we go up there and ask how he is? We could call out yournephew. "

"Will you go with me?" asked Cynthia, with a heart-breaking gasp. 

If Ellen could have seen her at that moment, she would haverecognized her as the woman whom she had known in her childhood. Shewas an utter surprise to Fanny, but her sympathy leaped to meet herneed like the steel to the magnet. 

"Of course I will, " she said, heartily. 

"I would, " said Andrew--"I would go with her, Fanny. "

"Of course I will, " said Fanny; "and you had better go home, Iguess, Andrew, and see how I left the kitchen fire. I don't know butthe dampers are all wide open. "

Fanny and Cynthia hastened in one direction towards the hospital, and Andrew towards home; but he paused for a minute, and lookedthoughtfully up at the humming pile of Lloyd's. The battle was overand the strike was ended. He drew a great sigh, and went home to seeto the kitchen fire. 

Chapter LVIII

Lyman Risley was very seriously injured. There was, as the men hadreported, danger for his eyes. When Robert was called into thereception-room of the hospital to see his aunt, he scarcelyrecognized her. Her soft, white hair was tossed about her temples, her cheeks were burning. She ran up to him like an eager child andclutched his arm. 

"How is he?" she demanded. "Tell me quick!"

"They are doing everything they can for him. Why, don't, poor AuntCynthia!"

"His eyes, they said--"

"I hope he will come out all right. Don't, dear Aunt Cynthia. " Theyoung man put his arm around his aunt and spoke soothingly, blushinglike a girl before this sudden revelation of an under-stratum ofdelicacy in a woman's heart. 

Cynthia lost control of herself completely; or, rather, the trueself of her rose uppermost, shattering the surface ice of herreserve. "Oh, " she said--"oh, if he--if he is--blind, if heis--I--I--will lead him everywhere all the rest of his life; I will, Robert. "

"Of course you will, dear Aunt Cynthia, " replied Robert, soothingly. 

Suddenly Cynthia's face took on a new expression. She looked atRobert, deadly pale, and her jaw dropped. "He will not--die, " shesaid, with stiff lips. "It is not as bad as that?"

"Oh no, no; I am sure he will not, " Robert cried, wonderingly andpityingly. "Don't, Aunt Cynthia. "

"If he dies, " she said--"if he dies--and he has loved me all thistime, and I have never done anything for him--I cannot bear it; Iwill not bear it; I will not, Robert!"

"Oh, he isn't going to die, Aunt Cynthia. "

"I want to go to him, " she said. "I _will_ go to him. "

Robert looked helplessly from her to Fanny. "I am afraid you can'tjust now, Aunt Cynthia, " he replied. 

Fanny came resolutely to his assistance. "Of course you can't, MissLennox, " she said. "The doctors won't let you see him now. You woulddo him more harm than good. You don't want to do him harm!"

"No, I don't want to do him harm, " returned Cynthia, in a wailing, hysterical voice. She threw herself down upon a sofa and begansobbing like a child, with her face hidden. 

A young doctor entered and stood looking at her. 

Robert turned to him. "It is my aunt, and she is agitated over Mr. Risley's accident, " he said, coloring a little. 

Instantly the young physician's face lost its expression ofastonishment and assumed the soothing gloss of his profession. "Oh, my dear Miss Lennox, " he said, "there is no cause for agitation, Iassure you. Everything is being done for Mr. Risley. "

"Will he be blind?" gasped Cynthia, with a great vehemence of woe, which seemed to gainsay the fact of her years. It seemed as if suchan outburst of emotion could come only from a child all unacquaintedwith grief and unable to control it. 

The young doctor laughed blandly. "Blind? No, indeed, " he replied. "He might have been blind had this happened twenty-five years ago, but with the resources of the present day it is a different matter. Pray don't alarm yourself, dear Miss Lennox. "

"Can you call a carriage for my aunt?" asked Robert. He went closeto Cynthia and laid a hand on her slender shoulder. "I am going tohave a carriage come for you, and perhaps Mrs. Brewster will bewilling to go home with you in it. "

"Of course I will, " replied Fanny. 

"You hear what Dr. Payson says, that there is nothing to be alarmedabout, " Robert said, in a low voice, with his lips close to hisaunt's ear. 

Cynthia made no resistance, but when the carriage arrived, and shewas being driven off, with Fanny by her side, she called out of thewindow with a fierce shamelessness of anxiety, "Robert, you mustcome and tell me how he is this afternoon, or I shall come back hereand see him myself. "

"Yes, I will, Aunt Cynthia, " he replied, soothingly. He met thedoctor's curious eyes when he turned. The young man had a gossipingmind, but he forbore to say what he thought, which was to the effectthat--why under the heavens, if that woman cared as much as that forthat man, she had not married him, instead of letting him dangleafter her so many years? But he merely said:

"There is no use in saying anything to excite a woman furtherwhen she is in such a state of mind, but--" Then he pausedsignificantly. 

"You think the chances of his keeping his eyesight are poor?" saidRobert. 

"Mighty poor, " replied the doctor. 

Robert stood still, with his pale, shocked face bent upon thecarpet. He could not seem to comprehend at once the enormity of itall; his mind was grasping at and trying to assimilate the horriblefact with an infinite pain. 

"Have they got the man that did it?" asked the doctor. 

"I don't know. I had to see to poor Risley, " replied Robert. "I hopeto God they have. " Then all at once he thought, with keen anxiety, of Ellen. Who knew what new tragedy had happened? "I must go back tothe factory, " he said, hurriedly. "I will be back here in an hour orso, and see how he is getting on. For Heaven's sake, do all youcan!"

Robert was desperately impatient to be back at the factory. He wasfull of vague anxiety about Ellen. He could not forget that the shotwhich had hit poor Risley had been meant for her, and he rememberedthe look on the man's face as he aimed. He found a carriage at thestreet corner, and jumped in, and bade the man drive fast. 

When Robert entered the great building, and felt the old vibrationof machinery, he had a curious sensation, one which he had neverbefore had and which he had not expected. For the first time in hislife he knew what it was to have a complete triumph of his own willover his fellow-men. He had gotten his own way. All this army ofworkmen, all this machinery of labor, was set in motion at hisdesire, in opposition to their own. He realized himself a leader anda conqueror. He went into the office, and Flynn and Dennison cameforward, smiling, to greet him. 

"Well, " said Dennison, "we're off again. " He spoke as if thefactory were a ship which had been launched from a shoal. 

"Yes, " replied Robert, gravely. 

Nellie Stone, at the desk, was glancing around, with a half-shy, half-coquettish look. 

"How is Mr. Risley?" asked Flynn. 

"He is badly hurt, " replied Robert. "Have they found the man? Do youknow what has been done about it?"

"They've got all the police force of the city out, " replied Flynn, "but it's no use. They'll never catch Amos Lee. His mother was agypsy, I've always heard. He knows about a thousand ways out oftraps, and there's plenty to help him. They've got Dixon underarrest, and Tom Peel; but they didn't have any fire-arms on 'em, andthey can't prove anything. Peel says he's ready to go back to work. " Flynn had a somewhat seedy and downcast appearance, although hefought hard for his old jaunty manner. His impulsive good-nature hadgotten the better of his judgment and his own wishes, and he hadgone to Mamie Brady and offered to marry her out of hand if sherecovered from her attempted suicide. The night before he hadwatched, turn and turn about, with her mother. He gave a curiouseffect of shamefaced and melancholy virtue. He followed Robert toone side when he was hanging up his hat and coat. "I'm going to tellyou, Mr. Lloyd, " he said, rather awkwardly; "maybe you won't beinterested in the midst of all this, but it all came from thestrike. She's better this morning, and I'm going to marry her, poorgirl. "

Robert looked at him in a dazed fashion. For a moment he had not theslightest idea what he was talking about. 

"I'm going to marry Mamie Brady, " explained Flynn. "She tooklaudanum. It all happened on account of the strike. I'll own I'dbeen flirting some with her, but she'd never done it if she hadn'tbeen out of work, too. She said so. Her mother made her life a hell. I'm going to marry her, and take her out of it. "

"It's mighty good of you, " Robert said, rather stupidly. 

"There ain't no other way for me to do, " replied Flynn. "She thinksthe world of me, and I suppose I'm to blame. "

"I hope she'll make you a good wife and you'll be happy, " saidRobert. 

"She thinks all creation of me, " replied Flynn, with the simplestvanity and acquiescence in the responsibility laid upon him in theworld. "That shot wasn't meant for Mr. Risley, " said Flynn, asRobert approached the office door. His eyes flashed. He himselfwould gladly have been shot for the sake of Ellen Brewster. He wasgoing to marry, and try to fulfill his simple code of honor, but allhis life he would be married to one woman, with another ideal in hisheart; that was inevitable. 

"I know it wasn't, " Robert replied, grimly. 

"Everything is quiet now, " said Dennison, with his smooth smile. Robert made no reply, but entered the great work-room. "He's mightystand-offish, now he's got his own way, " Dennison remarked in awhisper to Nellie Stone. He leaned closely over her. Flynn hadfollowed Robert. The girl glanced up at the foreman, who wasunmarried, although years older than she, and her face quivered alittle, but it seemed due to a surface sensitiveness. 

"I want to know if you've heard that Ed is going to marry MamieBrady, after all, " she whispered. 

Dennison nodded. 

She knitted her forehead over a column of figures. Dennison leanedhis face so close that his blond-bearded cheek touched hers. Shemade a little impatient motion. 

"Oh, go long, Jim Dennison, " she said, but her tone washalf-hearted. 

Dennison persisted, bending her head gently backward until he kissedher. She pushed him away, but she smiled weakly. 

"You didn't want Ed Flynn. Why, he's a Roman Catholic, and you'reBaptist, Nell, " he said. 

"Who said I did?" she retorted, angrily. "Why, I wouldn't marry EdFlynn if he was the last man in the world. "

"You'd 'nough sight better marry me, " said Dennison. 

"Go along; you're fooling. "

"No, I ain't. I mean it, honest. "

"I don't want to marry anybody yet awhile, " said Nellie Stone; butwhen Dennison kissed her again she did not repulse him, and evennestled her head with a little caressing motion into the hollow ofhis shoulder. 

Then they both started violently apart as Flynn entered. 

"Say!" he proclaimed, "what do you think? The boss has just told thehands that he'll split the difference and reduce the wages fiveinstead of ten per cent. "

Chapter LIX

When Robert Lloyd entered the factory that morning he experiencedone of those revulsions which come to man in common with allcreation. As the wind can swerve from south to east, and itsswerving be a part of the universal scheme of things, so theinconsistency of a human soul can be an integral part of itsconsistency. Robert, entering Lloyd's, flushed with triumph over hisworkmen, filled also with rage whenever he thought of poor Risley, became suddenly, to all appearances, another man. However, he wasthe same man, only he had come under some hidden law of growth. Allat once, as he stood there amidst those whirring and clampingmachines, and surveyed those bowed and patient backs and swayingarms of labor, standing aside to allow a man bending before a heavyrack of boots to push it to another department, he realized that histriumph was gone. 

Not a man or woman in the factory looked at him. All continuedworking with a sort of patient fierceness, as if storming acitadel--as, indeed, they were in one sense--and waging incessantand in the end hopeless warfare against the destructive forces oflife. Robert stood in the midst of them, these fellow-beings who hadbowed to his will, and saw, as if by some divine revelation, in hisfoes his brothers and sisters. He saw Ellen's fair head before hermachine, and she seemed the key-note of a heart-breaking yetineffable harmony of creation which he heard for the first time. Hewas a man whom triumph did not exalt as much as it humiliated. Whowas he to make these men and women do his bidding? They were workingas hard as they had worked for full pay. Without doubt he would notgain as much comparatively, but he was going to lose nothingactually, and he would not work as these men worked. He saw himselfas he never could have seen himself had the strike continued; andyet, after all, he was not a woman, to be carried away by a suddenwave of generous sentiment and enthusiasm, for his businessinstincts were too strong, inherited and developed by the force ofexample. He could not forget that this had been his uncle's factory. 

He shut his mouth hard, and stood looking at the scene of toil, thenhe resolved what to do. 

He spoke to Flynn, who could not believe his ears, and asked himover. 

"I beg your pardon, sir, " he said. 

"Go and speak to the engineer, and tell him to shut down, " saidRobert. 

"You ain't going to turn them out, after all?" gasped Flynn. He wasdeadly white. 

"No, I am not. I only want to speak to them, " replied Robert, shortly. 

When the roar of machinery had ceased, Robert stood before theemployés, whose faces had taken on an expression of murder andmenace. They anticipated the worst by this order. 

"I want to say to you all, " said Robert, in a loud, clear voice, "that I realize it will be hard for you to make both ends meet withthe cut of ten per cent. I will make it five instead of ten percent. , although I shall actually lose by so doing unless businessimproves. I will, however, try it as long as possible. If the hardtimes continue, and it becomes a sheer impossibility for me toemploy you on these terms without abandoning the plant altogether, Iwill approach you again, and trust that you will support me in anymeasures I am forced to take. And, on the contrary, should businessimprove, I promise that your wages shall be raise to the formerstandard at once. "

The speech was so straightforward that it sounded almost boyish. Robert, indeed, looked very young as he stood there, for a generousand pitying impulse does tend to make a child of a man. The workmenstared at him a minute, then there was a queer little broken chorusof "Thank ye's, " with two or three shrill crows of cheers. 

Robert went from room to room, repeating his short speech, then workrecommenced. 

"He's the right sort, after all, " said Granville Joy to JohnSargent, and his tone had a quality of heroism in it. He was verythin and pale. He had suffered privations, and now came additionalworry of mind. He could not help thinking that this might bringabout an understanding between Robert and Ellen, and yet he paid hisspiritual dues at any cost. 

"It's no more than he ought to do, " growled a man at Granville'sright. "S'pose he does lose a little money?"

"It ain't many out of the New Testament that are going to lose alittle for the sake of their fellow-men, I can tell you that, " saidJohn Sargent. He was cutting away deftly and swiftly, and thinkingwith satisfaction of the money which he would be able to send hissister, and also how the Atkins family would be no longer sopinched. He was a man who would never come under the grindstone ofthe pessimism of life for his own necessities, but lately thenecessities of others had almost forced him there. Now and then heglanced across the room at Maria, whose narrow shoulders he couldsee bent painfully over her work. He was in love with Maria, but noone suspected it, least of all Maria herself. 

"Lord! don't talk about the New Testament. Them days is past, "growled the man on the other side of Joy. 

"They ain't past for me, " said John Sargent, stoutly. A dark flushrose to his cheek as if he were making a confession of love. 

"Lord! don't preach, " said the other man, with a sneer. 

Ellen had stopped work with the rest when Robert addressed them. Then she recommenced her stitching without a word. Her thoughts werein confusion. She had so long held one attitude towards him that shecould not readily adjust herself to another. She was cramped withthe extreme narrowness of the enthusiasm of youth. At noontime sheheard all the talk which went on about him. She heard some praisehim, and some speak of him as simply doing his manifest duty, andsome say openly that he should have put the wages back upon theformer footing, and she did not know which was right. He did notcome near her, and she was very glad of that. She felt that shecould not bear it to have him speak to her before them all. 

When she went home at night the news had preceded her. Fanny andAndrew looked up eagerly when she entered. "I hear he hascompromised, " said Andrew, with doubtful eyes on the girl's face. 

"Yes; he has cut the wages five instead of ten per cent. , " repliedEllen, and it was impossible to judge of her feelings by her voice. She took off her hat and smoothed her hair. 

"Well, I am glad he has done that much, " said Fanny, "but I won'tsay a word as long as you ain't hurt. "

With that she went into the kitchen, and Ellen and Andrew heard thedishes rattle. "Your mother's been dreadful nervous, " whisperedAndrew. He looked at Ellen meaningly. Both of them thought of poorEva Tenny. Lately the reports with regard to her had been moreencouraging, but she was still in the asylum. 

Suddenly, as they stood there, a swift shadow passed the window, andthey heard a shrill scream from up-stairs. It sounded like "Mamma, mamma!" "It's Amabel!" cried Ellen. She clutched her father by thearm. "Oh, what is it--who is it?" she whispered, fearfully. 

Andrew was suddenly white and horror-stricken. He took hold ofEllen, and pushed her forcibly before him into the parlor. "You stayin there till I call you, " he said, in a commanding voice, the likeof which the girl had never heard from him before; then he shut thedoor, and she heard the key turn in the lock. 

"Father, I can't stay in here, " cried Ellen. She ran towards theother door into the front hall, but before she could reach it sheheard the key turn in that also. Andrew was convinced that Eva hadescaped from the asylum, and thus made sure of Ellen's safety incase she was violent. Then he rushed out into the kitchen, and therewas Amabel clinging to her mother like a little wild thing, andFanny weeping aloud. 

When Andrew entered Fanny flew to him. "O Andrew--O Andrew!" shecried. "Eva's come out! She's well! she's cured! She's as well asanybody! She is! She says so, and I know she is! Only look at her!"

"Mamma, mamma!" gasped Amabel, in a strange, little, pent voice, which did not sound like a child's. There was something fairlyinhuman about it. "Mamma, " as she said it, did not sound like a wordin any known language. It was like a cry of universal childhood forits parent. Amabel clung to her mother, not only with her slenderlittle arms, but with her legs and breast and neck; all her slimbody became as a vine with tendrils of love and growth around hermother. 

As for Eva, she could not have enough of her. She was intoxicatedwith the possession of this little creature of her own flesh andblood. 

"She's grown; she's grown so tall, " she said, in a high, pantingvoice. It was all she could seem to realize--the fact that the childhad grown so tall--and it filled her at once with ineffable pain anddelight. She held the little thing so close to her that the twoseemed fairly one. "Mamma, mamma!" said Amabel again. 

"She has--grown so tall, " panted Eva. 

Fanny went up to her and tried gently to loosen her grasp of thelittle girl. In her heart she was not yet quite sure of her. Thisfierceness of delight began to alarm her. "Of course she has growntall, Eva Tenny, " she said. "It's quite a while since youwere--taken sick. "

"I ain't sick now, " said Eva, in a steady voice. "I'm cured now. Thedoctors say so. You needn't be afraid, Fanny Brewster. "

"Mamma, mamma!" said Amabel. Eva bent down and kissed the little, delicate face; then she looked at her sister and at Andrew, and herown countenance seemed fairly illuminated. "I 'ain't _told_ youall, " said she. Then she stopped and hesitated. 

"What is it, Eva?" asked Fanny, looking at her with increasingcourage. The tears were streaming openly down her cheeks. "Oh, youpoor girl, what have you been through?" she said. "What is it?"

"I 'ain't got to go through anything more, " said Eva, still withthat rapt look over Amabel's little, fair head. "He's--come back. "

"Eva Tenny!"

"Yes, he has, " Eva went on, with such an air of inexpressibletriumph that it had almost a religious quality in it. "He has. Heleft her a long time ago. He--he wanted to come back to me andAmabel, but he was ashamed, but finally he came to the asylum, andthen it all rolled off, all the trouble. The doctors said I had beengetting better, but they didn't know. It was--Jim's comin' back. He's took me home, and I've come for Amabel, and--he's got a job inLloyd's, and he's bought me this new hat and cape. " Eva flirted herfree arm, and a sweep of jetted silk gleamed, then she tossed herhead consciously to display a hat with a knot of pink roses. Thenshe kissed Amabel again. "Mamma's come back, " she whispered. 

"Mamma, mamma!" cried Amabel. 

Andrew and Fanny looked at each other. 

"Where is he?" asked Andrew, in a slow, halting voice. 

Eva glanced from one to the other defiantly. "He's outside, waitin'in the road, " said she; "but he ain't comin' in unless you treat himjust the same as ever. I've set my veto on that. " Eva's voice andmanner as she said that were so unmistakably her own that allFanny's doubt of her sanity vanished. She sobbed aloud. 

"O God, I'm so thankful! She's come home, and she's all right! OGod, I'm so thankful!"

"What about Jim?" asked Eva, with her old, proud, defiant look. 

"Of course he's comin' in, " sobbed Fanny. "Andrew, you go--"

But Andrew had already gone, unlocking the parlor door on his way. "It's your aunt Eva, Ellen, " he said as he passed. "She's come homecured, and your uncle Jim is out in the yard, and I'm goin' to callhim in. I guess you'd better go out and see her. "

Chapter LX

Lloyd's had been running for two months, and spring had fairlybegun. It was a very forward season. The elms were leafed out, thecherry and peach blossoms had fallen, and the apple-trees were infull flower. There were many orchards around Rowe. The little citywas surrounded with bowing garlands of tenderest white and rose, thewell-kept lawns in the city limits were like velvet, andgolden-spiked bushes and pink trails of flowering almond were besidethe gates. Lilacs also, flushed with rose, purpled the walls of oldhouses. One morning Ellen, on her way to the factory, had for thefirst time that year a realization of the full presence of thespring. All at once she knew the goddess to be there in her wholeglory. 

"Spring has really come, " she said to Abby. As she spoke she jostleda great bush of white flowers, growing in a yard close to thesidewalk, and an overpowering fragrance, like a very retaliation ofsweetness, came in her face. 

"Yes, " said Abby; "it seems more like spring than it did last night, somehow!" Abby had gained flesh, and there was a soft color on hercheeks, so that she was almost pretty, as she glanced abroad with asort of bright gladness and a face ready with smiles. Maria alsolooked in better health than she had done in the winter. She walkedwith her arm through Ellen's. 

Suddenly a carriage, driven rapidly, passed them, and CynthiaLennox's graceful profile showed like a drooping white flower in awindow. 

Sadie Peel came up to them with a swift run. "Say!" she said, "knowwho that was?"

"We've got eyes, " replied Abby Atkins, shortly. 

"Who said you hadn't? You needn't be so up an' comin', Abby Atkins;I didn't know as you knew they were married, that's all. I justheard it from Lottie Snell, whose sister works at the dressmaker'sthat made the wedding fix. Weddin' fix! My land! Think of a weddin'without a white dress and a veil! All she had was a gray silk and ablack velvet, and a black lace, and a travellin'-dress!"

Abby Atkins eyed the other girl sharply, her curiosity getting thebetter of her dislike. "Who did she marry?" said she, shortly. "Isuppose she didn't marry the black velvet, or the lace, or thetravelling-dress. That's all you seem to think about. "

"I _thought_ you didn't know, " replied Sadie Peel, in a tone oftriumph. "They've kept it mighty still, and he's been goin' there solong, ever since anybody can remember, that they didn't think it wasanything more now than it had been right along. Lyman Risley andCynthia Lennox have just got married, and they've gone down to OldPoint Comfort. My land, it's nice to have money, if you be halfblind!"

Ellen looked after the retreating carriage, and made no comment. 

She was pale and thin, and moved with a certain languor, althoughshe held up her head proudly, and when people asked if she were notwell, answered quickly that she had never been better. Robert hadnot been to see her yet. She had furtively watched for him a longtime, then she had given it up. She would not acknowledge to herselfor any one else that she was not well or was troubled in spirit. Hercourage was quite equal to the demand upon it, yet always she wasaware of a peculiar sensitiveness to all happenings, whetherdirectly concerned with herself or not, which made life an agony toher, and she knew that her physical strength was not what it hadbeen. Only that morning she had looked at her face in the glass, andhad seen how it was altered. The lovely color was gone from hercheeks, there were little, faint, downward lines about her mouth, and, more than that, out of her blue eyes looked the eternal, unanswerable question of humanity, "Where is my happiness?"

It seemed to her when she first set out that she could not walk tothe factory. That sense of the full presence of the spring seemed tooverpower her. All the revelation of beauty and sweetness seemed arefinement of torture worse to bear than the sight of death andmisery would have been. Every blooming apple-bough seemed to strikeher full on the heart. 

"Only look at that bush of red flowers in that yard, " Maria saidonce, and Ellen looked and was stung by the sight as by the contactof a red flaming torch of spring. "What ails you, dear; don't youlike those flowers?" Maria said, anxiously. 

"Yes, of course I do; I think they are lovely, " replied Ellen, looking. 

She looked after the carriage which contained the bridal party; shethought how the bridegroom had almost lost his eyesight to save her, and her old adoration of Cynthia seemed to rise to a flood-tide. Then came the thought of Robert, how he must have ceased to loveher--how some day he would be starting off on a bridal trip of hisown. Maud Hemingway, with whom she had often coupled him in herthoughts, seemed to start up before her, all dressed in bridalwhite. It seemed to her that she could not bear it all. Shecontinued walking, but she did not feel the ground beneath her feet, nor even Maria's little, clinging fingers of tenderness on her arm. She became to her own understanding like an instrument which isplayed upon with such results of harmonies and discords that allsense of the mechanism is lost. 

"Well, Ellen Brewster, " said Sadie Peel, in her loud, stridentvoice, "I guess you wouldn't have been walkin' along here quite sofine this mornin' if it hadn't been for Mr. Risley. You'd ought tosend him a weddin'-present--a spoon, or something. "

"Shut up, " said Abby Atkins; "Ellen has worried herself sick overhim as it is. " She eyed Ellen anxiously as she spoke. Maria clungmore closely to her. 

"Shut up yourself, Abby Atkins, " returned Sadie Peel. "He's got awife to lead him around, and I don't see much to worry about. Agreat weddin'! My goodness, if I don't get married when I'm youngenough to wear a white dress and veil, catch me gettin' married atall!"

Sadie Peel sped on with her news to a group of girls ahead, and thewheels of the carriage flashed out of sight in the spring sunlight. It was quite true that Risley and Cynthia had been married thatmorning. He had not entirely lost his vision, although it wouldalways be poor, and he would live happily, although in a measuredisappointedly, feeling that his partial helplessness was his chiefclaim upon his wife's affection. He had gotten what he had longedfor for so many years, but by means which tended to his humiliationinstead of his pride. But Cynthia was radiant. In caring for herhalf-blind husband she attained the spiritual mountain height of herlife. She possessed love in the one guise in which he appealed toher, and she held him fast to the illumination of her very soul. 

After the carriage had passed out of sight Abby came close on theother side of Ellen and slid her arm through hers. "Say!" she began. 

"What is it?" asked Ellen. 

Abby blushed. "Oh, nothing much, " she replied, in a tone unusual forher. She took her arm away from Ellen's, and laughed a littlefoolishly. 

Ellen stared at her with grave wonder. She had not the least ideawhat she meant. 

Abby changed the subject. "Going to the park opening to-night, Ellen?" she asked. 

"No, I guess not. "

"You'd better. Do go, Ellen. "

"Yes, do go, Ellen; it will do you good, " said Maria. She lookedinto Ellen's face with the inexpressibly pure love of one innocentgirl for another. 

The park was a large grove of oaks and birch-trees which hadrecently been purchased by the street railway company of Rowe, andit was to be used for the free entertainment of the people, with anundercurrent of consideration for the financial profit of thecompany. 

"I'm afraid I can't go, " said Ellen. 

"Yes, you can; it will do you good; you look like a ghost thismorning, " said Abby. 

"Do go, Ellen, " pleaded Maria. 

However, Ellen would not have gone had it not been for a whisper ofAbby's as they came out of the factory that night. 

"Look here, Ellen, you'd better go, " said she, "just to show folks. That Sadie Peel asked me this noon if it was true that you hadsomething on your mind, and was worrying about--well, you knowwhat--that made you look so. "

Ellen flushed an angry red. "I'll stop for you and Maria to-night, "she answered, quickly. 

"All right, " Abby replied, heartily; "we'll go on the eight-o'clockcar. "

Ellen hurried home, and changed her dress after supper, putting onher new green silk waist and her spring hat, which was trimmed withroses. When she went down-stairs, and told her mother where she wasgoing, she started up. 

"I declare, I'd go too if your father had come home, " she said. "Idon't know when I've been anywhere; and Eva was in this afternoonand said that she and Jim were going. "

"I wonder where father is?" said Ellen, uneasily. "I don't know as Iought to go till he comes home. "

"Oh, stuff!" replied Fanny. "He's stopped to talk at the store. Oh, here he is now. Andrew Brewster, where in the world have you been?"she began as he entered; but his mother was following him, andsomething in their faces stopped her. Fanny Brewster had lived foryears with this man, but never before had she seen his face withjust that expression of utter, unreserved joy; although joy wasscarcely the word for it, for it was more than that. It was the lookof a man who has advanced to his true measure of growth, andregained self-respect which he had lost. All the abject bend of hisaging back, all the apologetic patience of his outlook, was gone. She stared at him, hardly believing her eyes. She was as frightenedas if he had looked despairing instead of joyful. "Andrew Brewster, what is it?" she asked. She tried to smile, to echo the foolishwidth of grimace on his face, but her lips were too stiff. 

Ellen looked at him, trembling, and very white under her knot ofroses. Andrew held out a paper and tried to speak, but he could not. 

"For God's sake, what is it?" gasped Fanny. 

Then Mrs. Zelotes spoke. "That old mining-stock has come up, " saidshe, in a harsh voice. "He'd never ought to have bought it. I shouldhave told him better if he had asked me, but it's come up, and it'sworth considerable more than he paid for it. I've just been down toMrs. Pointdexter's, and Lawyer Samson was in there seeing her abouta bond she's got that's run out, and he says the mine's going to paydividends, and for Andrew to hold on to part of it, anyhow. I boughtthis paper, and it's in it. He never ought to have bought it, butit's come up. I hope it will learn him a lesson. He's had enoughtrouble over it. "

Nothing could exceed the mixture of recrimination and exultationwith which the old woman spoke. She eyed Fanny accusingly; shelooked at Andrew with grudging triumph. "Lawyer Samson says it willmake him rich, he guesses; at any rate, he'll come out whole, " saidshe. "I hope it will learn you a lesson. "

Andrew dropped into a chair. His face was distended with a foolishsmile like a baby's. He seemed to smile at all creation. He lookedat his wife and Ellen; then his face again took on its expression ofjoyful vacuity. 

Fanny went close to him and laid a firm hand on his shoulder. "You'ain't had a mite of supper, Andrew Brewster, " said she; "come rightout and have something to eat. "

Andrew shook his head, still smiling. His wife and daughter lookedat him alarmedly, then at each other. Then his mother went behindhim, laid a hard, old hand on each shoulder, and shook him. 

"If you _have_ got a streak of luck, there's no need of your actin'like a fool about it, Andrew Brewster, " said she. "Go out and eatyour supper, and behave yourself, and let it be a lesson to you. There you had worked and saved that little money you had in thebank, and you bought an old mine with it, and it might have turnedout there wasn't a thing in it, no mine at all, and there was. Justlet it be a lesson to you, that's all; and go out and eat yoursupper, and don't be too set up over it. "

Andrew looked at his wife and mother and daughter, still with thatexpression of joy, so unreserved that it was almost idiotic. Theyhad all stood by him loyally; he had their fullest sympathy; but hadone of them fully understood? Not one of them could certainlyunderstand what was then passing in his mind, which had beenstraitened by grief and self-reproach, and was now expanding to holdits full measure of joy. That poor little sum in the bank, thataccumulation of his hard earnings, which he had lost through his ownbad judgment, had meant much more than itself to him, both in itsloss and its recovery. It was more than money; it was the value ofmoney in the current coin of his own self-respect. 

His mother shook him again, but rather gently. "Get up this minute, and go out and eat your supper, " said she; "and then I don't see whyyou can't go with Fanny and me to the park opening. They say lots offolks are goin', and there's goin' to be fireworks. It'll distractyour mind. It ain't safe for anybody to dwell too much on good luckany more than on misfortune. Go right out and eat your supper; it'smost time for the car. "

Andrew obeyed. 

Chapter LXI

The new park, which had been named, in honor of the president of thestreet railway company, Clemens Park, was composed of a light growthof oak and birch trees. With the light of the full moon, like abroadside of silvery arrows, and the frequent electric-lightsfiltering through the young, delicate foliage, it was much moreeffective than a grove of pine or hemlock would have been. 

When the people streamed into it from the crowded electric-cars, there were exclamations of rapture. Women and girls fairly shriekedwith delight. The ground, which had been entirely cleared ofundergrowth, was like an etching in clearest black and white, of thetender dancing foliage of the oaks and birches. The birches stoodtogether in leaning, white-limbed groups like maidens, and therustling spread of the oaks shed broad flashes of silver from themoon. In the midst of the grove the Hungarian orchestra played in apavilion, and dancing was going on there. Many of the people outsidemoved with dancing steps. Children in swings flew through the airswith squeals of delight. There was a stand for the sale of ice-creamand soda, and pretty girls blossomed like flowers behind thecounters. There were various rustic adornments, such as seats andgrottos, and at one end of the grove was a small collection of wildanimals in cages, and a little artificial pond with swans. Now andthen, above the chatter of the people and the music of theorchestra, sounded the growl of a bear or the shrill screech of aparoquet, and the people all stopped and listened and laughed. Thislittle titillation of the unusual in the midst of their sober walkof life affected them like champagne. Most of them were of thepoorer and middle classes, the employés of the factories of Rowe. They moved back and forth with dancing steps of exultation. 

"My, ain't it beautiful!" Fanny said, squeezing Andrew's arm. He hadhis wife on one arm, his mother on the other. For him the wholescene appeared more than it really was, since it reflected the joyof his own soul. There was for him a light greater than that of themoon or electricity upon it--that extreme light of the world--thehappiness of a human being who blesses in a moment of prosperity thehour he was born. He knew for the first time in his life thathappiness is as true as misery, and no mere creation of a fairytale. No trees of the Garden of Eden could have outshone for himthose oaks and birches. No gold or precious stones of any mines onearth can equal the light of the little star of happiness in onehuman soul. 

Fanny, as they walked along, kept looking at her husband, and herown face was transfigured. Mrs. Zelotes, also, seemed to radiatewith a sort of harsh and prickly delight. She descanted upon thehard-earned savings which Andrew had risked, but she held her oldhead very high with reluctant joy, and her bonnet had a rakish cant. 

Ellen, with Abby and Maria, walked behind them. 

Presently Andrew met another man who had also purchased stock in themine, and stopped to exchange congratulations. The man's face wasflushed, as if he had been drinking, but he had not. On his arm hunghis wife, a young woman with a showy red waist and some pink ribbonbows on her hat. She was teetering a little in time to the music, while a little girl clung to her skirts and teetered also. 

"Well, old man, " said the new-comer, with a hoarse sound in histhroat, "they needn't talk to us any more, need they?"

"That's so, " replied Andrew, but his joy in prosperity was not likethe other man's. It placed him heights above him, although from thesame cause. Prosperity means one thing to one man, and another tohis brother. 

Presently they met Jim Tenny and Eva and Amabel. They were walkingthree abreast, Amabel in the middle. Jim Tenny looked hesitatinglyat them, although his face was widened with irrepressible smiles. Eva gazed at them with defiant radiance. "Well, " said she, "so luckhas turned?"

Amabel laughed out, and her laugh trilled high with a note ofsilver, above the chatter of the crowd and the blare and rhythmictrill of the orchestra. "I've had an ice-cream, and I'm going tohave a new doll and a doll-carriage, " said she. "Oh, Ellen!" Sheleft her father and mother for a second and clung to Ellen, kissingher; then she was back. 

"Well, Andrew?" said Jim. He had a shamed face, yet there wassomething brave in it struggling for expression. 

"Well, Jim?" said Andrew. 

The two shook hands solemnly. Then they walked on together, and thesisters behind, with Amabel clinging to her mother's hand. "Jim'sgoin' to work if he _has_ had a little windfall, " said Eva, proudly. "Oh, Fanny, only think what it means!"

"I hope it will be a lesson to both of them, " said Mrs. Zelotes, stalking along after, but she smiled harshly. 

"Oh, land, don't croak, if you've got a chance to laugh! There's fewenough chances in this world, " cried Eva, with boisterous goodhumor. "As for me, I've come out of deep waters, and I'm goin' totake what comfort I can in the feel of the solid ground under myfeet. " She began to force Amabel into a dance in time with themusic, and the child shrieked with laughter. 

"S'pose she's all right?" whispered Mrs. Zelotes to Fanny. 

"Land, yes, " replied Fanny; "it's just like her, just the way sheused to do. It makes me surer than anything else that she's cured. "

The girls behind were loitering. Abby turned to Ellen and pointed toa rustic seat under a clump of birches. 

"Let's sit down there a minute, Ellen, " said she. 

"All right, " replied Ellen. When she and Abby seated themselves, Maria withdrew, standing aloof under an oak, looking up at theillumined spread of branches with the rapt, innocent expression of asaint. 

"Why don't you come and sit down with us, Maria?" Ellen called. 

"In a minute, " replied Maria, in her weak, sweet voice. Then JohnSargent came up and joined her. 

"She'll come in a minute, " Abby said to Ellen. "She--she--knows Iwant to tell you something. "

Abby hesitated. Ellen regarded her with wonder. 

"Look here, Ellen, " said Abby; "I don't know what you're going tothink of me after all I've said, but--I'm going to get married toWilly Jones. His mother has had a little money left her, and sheowns the house clear now, and I'm going to keep right on working;and--I never thought I would, Ellen, you know; but I've come tothink lately that all you can get out of labor in this world is thehappiness it brings you, and--the love. That's more than the money, and--he wants me pretty bad. I suppose you think I'm awful, EllenBrewster. " Abby spoke with triumph, yet with shame. She dug herlittle toe into the shadow-mottled ground. 

"Oh, Abby, I hope you'll be real happy, " said Ellen. Then she chokeda little. 

"I've made up my mind not to work for nothing, " said Abby; "I'vemade up my mind to get whatever work is worth in this world if Ican, and--to get it for him too. "

"I hope you will be very happy, " said Ellen again. 

"There he is now, " whispered Abby. She rose as Willy Jonesapproached, laughing confusedly. "I've been telling Ellen Brewster, "said Abby, with her perfunctory air. 

Ellen held out her hand, and Willy Jones grasped it, then let itdrop and muttered something. He looked with helpless adoration atAbby, who put her hand through his arm reassuringly. 

"Let's go and see the animals, " said she; "I haven't seen theanimals. "

"I guess I'll go and see if I can find my father and mother, "returned Ellen. "I want to see my mother about something. "

"Oh, come with us. " Abby grasped Ellen firmly around the waist andkissed her. "I don't love him a mite better than I do you, " shewhispered; "so there! You needn't think you're left out, EllenBrewster. "

"I don't, " replied Ellen. She tried to laugh, but she felt her lipsstiff. And unconquerable feeling of desolation was coming over her, and in spite of herself her tone was somewhat like that of a childwho sees another with all the cake. 

"I suppose you know Floretta got married last night, " said Abby, moving off with Willy Jones. John Sargent and Maria had long sincedisappeared from under the oak. 

Ellen, left alone, looked for a minute after Abby and Willy, andnoted the tender lean of the girl's head towards the young man'sshoulder; then she started off to find her father and mother. Shecould not rid herself of the sense of desolation. She felt blindlythat if she could not get under the shelter of her own loves of lifeshe could not bear it any longer. She had borne up bravely underRobert's neglect, but now all at once, with the sight of thehappiness of these others before her eyes, it seemed to crush her. All the spirit in her seemed to flag and faint. She was only a younggirl, who would fall to the ground and be slain by the awful law ofgravitation of the spirit without love. "Anyway, I've got father andmother, " she said to herself. 

She rushed on alone through the merry crowd. The orchestra wasplaying a medley. The violins seemed to fairly pierce thought. ARoman-candle burst forth on the right with a great spluttering, andthe people, shrieking with delight, rushed in that direction. Then arocket shot high in the air with a splendid curve, and there was asea of faces watching with speechless admiration the dropping starsof violet and gold and rose. 

Ellen kept on, moving as nearly as she could in the direction inwhich her party had gone. Then suddenly she came face to face withRobert Lloyd. 

She would have passed him without a word, but he stood before her. 

"Won't you speak to me?" he asked. 

"Good-evening, Mr. Lloyd, " returned Ellen. 

Then she tried to move on again, but Robert still stood before her. 

"I want to say something to you, " he said, in a low voice. "I wascoming to your house to-night, but I saw you on the car. Please cometo that seat over there. There is nobody in that direction. Theywill all go towards the fireworks now. "

Ellen looked at him hesitatingly. At that moment she seemed to throwout protecting antennæ of maidenliness; and, besides, there wasalways the memory of the cut in wages, for which she still judgedhim; and then there was the long neglect. 

"Please come, " said Robert. He looked at her at once like aconqueror and a pleading child. Ellen placed her hand on his arm, and they went to the seat under the clump of birches. They werequite alone, for the whole great company was streaming towards thefireworks. A fiery wheel was revolving in the distance, and rocketsshot up, dropping showers of stars. Ellen gazed at them withoutseeing them at all. 

Robert, seated beside her, looked at her earnestly. "I am going toput back the wages on the old basis to-morrow, " he said. 

Ellen made no reply. 

"Business has so improved that I feel justified in doing so, " saidRobert. His tone was almost apologetic. Never as long as he livedwould he be able to look at such matters from quite the samestandpoint as that of the girl beside him. She knew that, and yetshe loved him. She never would get his point of view, and yet heloved her. "I have waited until I was able to do that beforespeaking to you again, " said Robert. "I knew how you felt about thewage-cutting. I thought when matters were back on the old basis thatyou might feel differently towards me. God knows I have been sorryenough for it all, and I am glad enough to be able to pay them fullwages again. And now, dear?"

"It has been a long time, " said Ellen, looking at her little hands, clasped in her lap. 

"I have loved you all the time, and I have only waited for that, "said Robert. 

Later on Robert and Ellen joined Fanny and the others. It wasscarcely the place to make an announcement. After a few words ofgreeting the young couple walked off together, and left theBrewsters and Tennys and Mrs. Zelotes standing on the outskirts ofthe crowd watching the fireworks. Granville Joy stood near them. Hehad looked at Robert and Ellen with a white face, then he turnedagain towards the fireworks with a gentle, heroic expression. Hecaught up Amabel that she might see the set piece which was justbeing put up. "Now you can see, Sissy, " he said. 

Eva looked away from the fireworks after the retreating pair, thenmeaningly at Fanny and Andrew. "That's settled, " said she. 

Andrew's face quivered a little, and took on something of the samelook which Granville Joy's wore. All love is at the expense of love, and calls for heroes. 

"It'll be a great thing for her, " said Fanny, in his ear; "it'll bea splendid thing for her, you know that, Andrew. "

Andrew gazed after the nodding roses on Ellen's hat vanishingtowards the right. Another rocket shot up, and the people cried out, and watched the shower of stars with breathless enjoyment. Andrewsaw their upturned faces, in which for the while toil and trial wereblotted out by that delight in beauty and innocent pleasure of thepassing moment which is, for human souls, akin to the refreshingshowers for flowers of spring; and to him, since his own vision wasmade clear by his happiness, came a mighty realization of it all, which was beyond it all. Another rocket described a wonderful goldencurve of grace, then a red light lit all the watching people. Andrewlooked for Ellen and Robert, and saw the girl's beautiful faceturning backward over her lover's shoulder. All his life Andrew hadbeen a reader of the Bible, as had his father and mother before him. To-day, ever since he had heard of his good fortune, his mind haddwelt upon certain verses of Ecclesiastes. Now he quoted from them. "Live joyfully with the wife whom thou lovest all the days of thelife of thy vanity, which He hath given thee under the sun, all thedays of thy vanity, for that is thy portion in this life and in thylabor which thou takest under the sun. "

Ellen saw her father, and smiled and nodded, then she and her loverpassed out of sight. Another rocket trailed its golden parabolaalong the sky, and dropped with stars; there was an ineffably sweetstrain from the orchestra; the illuminated oaks tossed silver andgolden boughs in a gust of fragrant wind. Andrew quoted again fromthe old King of Wisdom--"I withheld not my heart from any joy, formy heart rejoiced in all my labor, and that was my portion oflabor. " Then Andrew thought of the hard winter which had passed, asall hard things must pass, of the toilsome lives of those besidehim, of all the work which they had done with their poor, knottedhands, of the tracks which they had worn on the earth towards theirgraves, with their weary feet, and suddenly he seemed to grasp a newand further meaning for that verse of Ecclesiastes. 

He seemed to see that labor is not alone for itself, not for what itaccomplishes of the tasks of the world, not for its equivalent insilver and gold, not even for the end of human happiness and love, but for the growth in character of the laborer. 

"That is the portion of labor, " he said. He spoke in a strained, solemn voice, as he had done before. Nobody heard him except hiswife and mother. His mother gave a sidewise glance at him, then shefolded her cape tightly around her and stared at the fireworks, butFanny put her hand through his arm and leaned her cheek against hisshoulder. 

THE END