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 street with all these flowers, and me in my white dress,” she had said.  She had looked at her mother with a shrinking in her eyes which was incomprehensible to the other coarser-natured woman.

“Nonsense,” she had said.  “Sometimes you have real silly notions, Ellen.”  Fanny said it adoringly, for even silliness in this girl was in a way worshipful to her.  Ellen, with her heart still softened almost to grief by the love shown her on the day before, had yielded, but she was glad when they arrived at the photograph studio.  She had particularly dreaded passing Lloyd’s, for the thought came to her that possibly young Mr. Lloyd might see her.  She supposed that he was likely to be in the office.  When they passed the office-windows she looked the other way, but before she was well past, her aunt Eva hit her violently and laughed loudly.  Ellen shrank, coloring a deep crimson.  Then her mother also laughed, and even Amabel, shrilly, with precocious recognition of the situation.  Only Mrs. Zelotes stalked along in silent dignity.

“Don’t laugh so loud, he’ll hear you,” said she, severely.

“It was that young man who was at the hall last night, and he was looking at you awful sharp,” said little Amabel to Ellen, squeezing her warm arm, and sending out that shrill peal of laughter again.