“I shall never forget my old friends, whatever happens,” she said, in a trembling voice, and it might have all been different had they not then arrived at Cynthia Lennox’s.

“Shall I wait and go home with you, Ellen?” Granville asked, timidly.

“No, thank you.  I don’t know how long I shall stay,” Ellen replied.  “You are real kind, but I am not a bit afraid.”

“It is sort of lonesome going past the shops.”

“I can take a car,” Ellen said.  She extended her hand to Granville, and he grasped it firmly.

“Good-night, Ellen; I am always glad of any good fortune that may come to you,” he said.

But Granville Joy, going alone down the brilliant street, past the blaze of the shop-windows and the knots of loungers on the corners, reflected that he had seen the fiery tip of a cigar on the Lennox veranda, that it might be possible that young Lloyd was there, since Miss Lennox was his aunt, and that possibly the aunt’s sending Ellen to Vassar might bring about something in that quarter which would not otherwise have happened, and he writhed at the fancy of that sort of good fortune for Ellen, but held his mind to it resolutely as to some terrible but necessary grindstone for the refinement of spirit.  “It would be a heap better for her,” he said to himself, quite loud, and two men whom he was passing looked at him curiously.  “Drunk,” said one to the other.

When he was on his homeward way he overtook a slender girl struggling along with a kerosene-can in one hand and a package of sugar in the other, and, seeing that it was Abby Atkins, he possessed himself of both.  She only laughed and did not start.  Abby Atkins was not of the jumping or screaming kind, her nerves were so finely balanced that they recovered their equilibrium, after surprises, before she had time for manifestations.  There was a curious healthfulness about the slender, wiry little creature who was overworked and under-fed, a healthfulness which seemed to result from the action of the mind upon a meagre body.

“Hullo, Granville Joy!” she said, in her good-comrade fashion, and the two went on together.  Presently Abby looked up in his face.

“Know about Ellen?” said she.  Granville nodded.

“Well, I’m glad of it, aren’t you?” Abby said, in a challenging tone.

“Yes, I am,” replied Granville, meeting her look firmly.

Suddenly he felt Abby’s little, meagre, bony hand close over the back of his, holding the kerosene-can.  “You’re a good fellow, Granville Joy,” said she.

Granville marched on and made no response.  He felt his throat fill with sobs, and swallowed convulsively.  Along with this womanly compassion came a compassion for himself, so hurt on his little field of battle.  He saw his own wounds as one might see a stranger’s.

“Think of Ellen dogging around to a shoe-shop like me and the other girls,” said Abby, “and think of her draggin’ around with half a dozen children and no money.  Thank the Lord she’s lifted out of it.  It ain’t you nor me that ought to grudge her fortune to her, nor wish her where she might have been otherwise.”