.
Ellen never entered nor left the factory that he did not know it.
Without actually seeing her, he was conscious of her presence
always. He acknowledged to himself that there was no one like her
for him, and never would be. He tried to interest himself in other
young women, but always there was Ellen, like the constant refrain
of a song. All other women meant to him not themselves, but Ellen.
Womanhood itself was Ellen for his manhood. He knew it, and yet that
strain of utterly impassionate judgment and worldly wisdom which was
born in him kept him from making any advances to her. Now, however,
the radicalism of Risley had acted like a spur to his own
inclination. His judgment was in abeyance. He said to himself that
he would give it up; he would go to see the girl--that he would win
her if he could. He said to himself that she had been wronged, that
Risley was right about her, that she was good and noble.

As the car drew near the Brewsters, his tenderness seemed to
outspeed the electricity. The girl's fair face was plain before his
eyes, as if she were actually there, and it was idealized and haloed
as with the light of gold and precious stones. All at once, since he
had given himself loose rein, he overtook, as it were, the true
meaning of her. "The dear child," he thought, with a rush of
tenderness like pain--"the dear child. There she gave up everything
and went to work, and let us blame her, rather than have her father
blamed. The dear, proud child. She did that rather than seem to beg
for more help."

When Robert got off the car he was ready to fall at her feet, to
push between her and the roughness of life, between her and the
whole 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. Presently
he heard footsteps, and saw a glimmer of light advancing towards him
through the length of the hall. There were muslin-curtained
side-lights to the door. Then the door opened, and little Amabel
Tenny stood there holding a small kerosene lamp carefully in both
hands. She held it in such a manner that the light streamed up in
Robert's face and nearly blinded him. He was dimly conscious of a
little face full of a certain chary innocence and pathos regarding
him.

"Is Miss Ellen Brewster at home?" asked Robert, smiling down at the
little thing.

"Yes, sir," replied Amabel.

Then she remained perfectly still, holding the lamp, as if she