“Good Lord, Ellen Brewster, you ain’t going to work in a shoe-shop?” she said.

“I don’t see why not as well as you,” returned Ellen.

“Why not?” repeated the other girl.  “Look at yourself, and look at us!”

As she spoke, Ellen saw projected upon her mental vision herself passing down the street with the throng of factory operatives which her bodily eyes actually witnessed.  She had come opposite Lloyd’s as the six o’clock whistle was blowing.  She saw herself in her clean, light summer frock, slight and dainty, with little hands like white flowers in the blue folds of her skirt, with her fine, sensitive outlook of fair face, and her dainty carriage; and she saw others—­those girls and women in dingy skirts and bagging blouses, with coarse hair strained into hard knots of exigency from patient, or sullen faces, according to their methods of bearing their lots; all of them rank with the smell of leather, their coarse hands stained with it, swinging their poor little worn bags which had held their dinners.  There were not many foreigners among them, except the Irish, most of whom had been born in this country, and a sprinkling of fair-haired, ruddy Swedes and keen Polanders, who bore themselves better than the Americans, being not so apparently at odds with the situation.

The factory employes in Rowe were a superior lot, men and women.  Many of the men had put on their worn coats when they emerged from the factory, and their little bags were supposed to disguise the fact of their being dinner satchels.  And yet there was a difference between Ellen Brewster and the people among whom she walked, and she felt it with a sort of pride and indignation with herself that it was so.

“I don’t see why I should be any better than the rest,” said she, defiantly, to Abby Atkins.  “My father works in a shop, and you are my best friend, and you do.  Why shouldn’t I work in a shop?”

“Look at yourself,” repeated the other girl, mercilessly.  “You are different.  You ain’t to blame for it any more than a flower is to blame for being a rose and not a common burdock.  If you’ve got to do anything, you had better teach school.”

“I would rather teach school,” said Ellen, “but I couldn’t earn so much unless I got more education and got a higher position than a district school, and that is out of the question.”

“I thought maybe your grandmother could send you,” said Abby.

“Oh no, grandma can’t afford to.  Sometimes I think I could work my own way through college, if it wasn’t for being a burden in the mean time, but I don’t know.”

Suddenly Abby Atkins planted herself on the sidewalk in front of Ellen, and looked at her sharply, while an angry flush overspread her face.

“I want to know one thing,” said she.

“What?”

“It ain’t true what I heard the other day, is it?”

“I don’t know what you heard.”

“Well, I heard you were going to be married.”