bitter emphasis. Suddenly his
gentleness seemed changed to gall. It was the terrible protest of
one of the herd who goes along with the rest, yet realizes it, and
looks ever out from his common mass with fierce eyes of individual
dissent at the immutable conditions of things. Immediately, when
Granville saw the other young man, this gentleman in his light
summer clothes, who bore about him no stain nor odor of toil, he
felt that here was Ellen's mate; that he was left behind. He looked
at him, not missing a detail of his superiority, and he saw himself
young and not ill-looking, but hopelessly common, clad in awkward
clothes; he smelled the smell of leather that steamed up in his face
from his raiment and his body; and he looked at Ellen, fair and
white in her dainty muslin, and saw himself thrust aside, as it
were, by his own judgment as to the fitness of things, but with no
less bitterness. When he said "there are so many of us," he felt the
impulse of revolution in his heart; that he would have liked to lead
the "many of us" against this young aristocrat. But Robert smiled,
though somewhat stiffly, and bowed. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Joy," he
said; "I do remember, but for a minute I did not."

"I don't wonder," said Granville, and again he repeated, "There are
so 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 a
good many of you, as you say, but that would not prevent my
remembering a man to whom I was speaking only a few hours ago. It
was 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 a
painful impulse of loyalty. The moment she saw her old school-boy
lover intimidated, and manifestly at a disadvantage before this
elegant young gentleman, she felt a fierce instinct of partisanship.
She stood a little nearer to him. Granville's face lightened, he
looked at her gratefully, and Robert stared from one to the other
doubtfully. 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 ask
Ellen 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 see
me?" she asked, abruptly.