and so were they all, except Ellen--that
that was the reason, because he had to go, that he had not asked
Ellen for the last dance.

As for Ellen, she sat looking at her gold watch and chain, which she
had taken out of the case. Her face grew intensely sober, and she
did not notice when young Lloyd left. All at once she had reflected
how her father had never owned a watch in his whole life, though he
was a man, but he had given one to her. She reflected how he had so
little work, how shabby his clothes were, how he must have gone
without himself to buy this for her, and the girl had such a heart
of gold that it rose triumphantly loyal to its first loves and
tendernesses, and her father's old, worn face came between her and
that of the young man who might become her lover.

Chapter XIX

The day after Ellen's graduation there might have been seen a
touching little spectacle passing along the main street of Rowe
about ten o'clock in the fore-noon. It was touching because it gave
evidence of that human vanity common to all, which strives to
perpetuate the few small, good things that come into the hard lives
of poor souls, and strives with such utter futility. Ellen held up
her fluffy skirts daintily, the wind caught her white ribbons and
the loose locks of her yellow hair under her white hat. She carried
Cynthia Lennox's basket of roses on her arm, and each of the others
was laden with bouquets. Little Amabel clasped both slender arms
around a great sheaf of roses; the thorns pricked through her thin
sleeves, but she did not mind that, so upborne with the elation of
the occasion was she. Her small, pale face gazed over the mass of
bloom with challenging of admiration from every one whom she met.
She was jealous lest any one should not look with full appreciation
of Ellen.

Ellen was the one in the little procession who had not unmixed
delight in it. She had a certain shamefacedness about going through
the streets in such a fashion. She avoided looking at the people
whom she met, and kept her head slightly bent and averted, instead
of carrying it with the proud directness which was her habit. She
felt vaguely that this was the element of purely personal vanity
which degrades a triumph, and the weakness of delight and gloating
in the faces of her relatives irritated her. It was a sort of
unveiling of love, and the girl was sensitive enough to understand
it. "Oh, mother, I don't want to have us all go through the