to me, and now if you--" Ellen's voice
broke.

Abby caught her arm in a hard grip.

"I ain't," said she; "you can depend on me. You know you can, in
spite of everything. You know why I talk so. If you've set your
heart on doing it, I won't say another word. I'll do all I can to
help you, and I'd like to hear anybody say a word against you for
going to work in the shop, that's all."

Ellen and Abby almost never kissed each other; Abby was not given to
endearments of that kind. Maria was more profuse with her caresses.
That night when they reached the corner of the cross street where
the Atkinses lived, Maria went close to Ellen and put up her face.

"Good-night," said she. Then she withdrew her lips suddenly, before
Ellen could touch them.

"I forgot," said she. "You mustn't kiss me. I forgot my cough. They
say 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 sweet
as a bird's.

When Ellen came in sight of her grandmother's house, she saw a
window-shade go down with a jerk, and knew that Mrs. Zelotes had
been watching for her, and was determined not to let her know it.
Mrs. Pointdexter came out of her grand house as Ellen passed, and
took up her station on the corner to wait for a car. She bowed to
Ellen with an evasive, little, sidewise bow. Her natural amiability
prompted her to shake hands with her, call her "my dear," and
inquire how she had got on during her first day in the factory, but
she was afraid of her friend, whose eye she felt upon her around the
edge of the drawn curtain.

It was unusually dark that night for early fall, and the rain came
down in a steady drizzle, as it had come all day, and the wind blew
from the ocean on the east. The lamp was lighted in the kitchen when
Ellen turned into her own door-yard, and home had never looked so
pleasant and desirable to her. For the first time in her life she
knew what it was to come home for rest and shelter after a day of
toil, and she seemed to sense the full meaning of home as a refuge
for weary labor.

When she opened the door, she smelled at once a particular kind of
stew of which she was very fond, and knew that her mother had been
making it for her supper. There was a rush of warm air from the
kitchen which felt grateful after the damp chill outside.

Ellen went into the kitchen, and