. He shrugged his arm, on which Ellen's hand lay, a little
closer to his side.

Just then they were passing the great factories--Lloyd's, and
Briggs's, and Maguire's. Many of the windows in Briggs's and
Maguire's reflected light from the moon and the electric-lamps on
the street. Lloyd's was all dark except for one brilliant spark of
light, which seemed to be threading the building like a
will-o'-the-wisp. "That is the night-watchman," said Robert. "He
must 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 city
which has held so many heart-aches, and I always wondered if they
didn'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 along
with 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 with
a young girl like this came over him. He felt a reluctance to do so
which was quite apart from his masculine scorn of a girl's opinion
on such matters. Somehow he did not wish to place Ellen Brewster on
the same level of argument on which another man might have stood. He
felt a jealousy of doing so. She seemed more within his reach, and
infinitely more for his pleasure, where she was. He looked
admiringly down at her fair face fixed on his with a serious, intent
expression. He was quite ready to admit that he might fall in love
with her. He was quite ready to ask now why he should not. She was a
beautiful girl, an uncommon girl. She was going to be thoroughly
educated. It would probably be quite possible to divorce her
entirely from her surroundings. He shuddered when he thought of her
mother and aunt, but, after all, a man, if he were firm, need not
marry the mother or aunt. And all this was in spite of a resolution
which he had formed on due consideration after his last call upon
Ellen. 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. Instead
of going to see her, he had gone riding with Maud Hemingway, who
lived near his uncle's, in an old Colonial house which had belonged
to her great-grandfather. The girl was a good comrade, so good a
comrade that she shunted, as it were