“It seems to me that the problems of life, like those in the algebra we studied at school, are for everybody who can read them, whether men or women,” said she, but her voice was unsteady.

“Some of them are for men to read and struggle with for the sake of the women,” said Robert.  His voice had a tender inflection.  They were passing a garden full of old-fashioned flowers, bordered with box.  The scent of the box seemed fairly to clamor over the garden fence, drowning out the smaller fragrances of the flowers, like the clamor of a mob.  Even the sweetness of the mignonette was faintly perceived.

“How strong the box is,” said Ellen, imperceptibly shrinking a little from Robert.

When they reached the Brewster house Robert said, as kindly as Granville Joy might have done, “Cannot we get better acquainted, Miss Brewster?  May I call upon you sometimes?”

“I shall be happy to see you,” Ellen said, repeating the formula of welcome like a child, but she knew when she repeated it that it was very true.  After she had parted from young Lloyd, she went into the sitting-room where were her mother and father, her mother sewing on a wrapper, her father reading the paper.  Both of them looked up as the girl entered, and both stared at her in a bewildered way without rightly knowing why.  Ellen’s cheeks were a wonderful color, her eyes fairly blazed with blue light, her mouth was smiling in that ineffable smile of a simple overflow of happiness.

“Did you ride home on the car?” asked Fanny.  “I didn’t hear it stop.”

“No, mother.”

“Did you come home alone?” asked Andrew, abruptly.

“No,” said Ellen, blinking before the glare of the lamp.  Fanny looked at Andrew.  “Who did come home with you?” she asked, in a foolish, fond voice.

“Mr. Robert Lloyd.  He was sitting on the piazza when I got there.  I told Miss Lennox I had just as soon come on the cars alone, but she wouldn’t let me, and then he said it would be pleasant to walk, and—­”

“Oh, you needn’t make so many excuses,” said Fanny, laughing.

Ellen colored until her face was a blaze of roses, she blinked harder, and turned her head away impatiently.

“I am not making excuses,” said she, as if her modesty were offended.  “I wish you wouldn’t talk so, mother.  I couldn’t help it.”

“Of course you couldn’t,” her mother called out jocularly, as Ellen went into the other room to get her lamp to go to bed.

Fanny was radiant with delight.  After Ellen had gone up-stairs, she kept looking at Andrew, and longing to confide in him her anticipation with regard to Ellen and young Lloyd, but she refrained, being doubtful as to how he would take it.  Andrew looked very sober.  The girl’s beautiful, metamorphosed face was ever before his eyes, and it was with him as if he were looking after the flight of a beloved bird into a farther blue which was sacred, even from the following of his love.