“Grandma, if you say another word about it, I will never speak to Robert Lloyd again as long as I live,” declared Ellen.

“Never mind, child,” whispered Andrew.

“I do mind, and I mean what I say,” Ellen cried.  “I won’t have it.  Robert Lloyd is nothing to me, and I am nothing to him.  He is no better than Granville Joy.  There is nothing between us, and you make me too ashamed to think of him.”

Then the old woman cried out, in a tone of triumph, “Well, there he is, turnin’ in at your gate now.”

Chapter XXIX

Ellen rose without a word, and fled out of the room and out of the house.  It seemed to her, after what had happened, after what her mother and grandmother had said and insinuated, after what she herself had thought and felt, that she must.  She longed to see Robert Lloyd, to hear him speak, as she had never longed for anything in the world, and yet she ran away as if she were driven to obey some law which was coeval with the first woman and beyond all volition of her individual self.

When she reached the head of the little cross street on which the Atkinses lived, she turned into it with relief.  The Atkins house was a tiny cottage, with a little kitchen ell, and a sagging piazza across the front.  On this piazza were shadowy figures, and the dull, red gleam of pipes, and one fiery tip of a cigar.  Joe Atkins, and Sargent, and two other men were sitting out there in the cool of the evening.  Ellen hurried around the curve of the foot-path to the kitchen door.  Abby was in there, working with the swift precision of a machine.  She washed and wiped dishes as if in a sort of fury, her thin elbows jerking, her mouth compressed.

When Ellen entered, Abby stared, then her whole face lighted up, as if from some internal lamp.  “Why, Ellen, is that you?” she said, in a surprisingly sweet voice.  Sometimes Abby’s sharp American voice rang with the sweetness of a soft bell.

“I thought I’d run over a minute,” said Ellen.

The other girl looked sharply at her.  “Why, what’s the matter?” she said.

“Nothing is the matter.  Why?”

“Why, I thought you looked sort of queer.  Maybe it’s the light.  Sit down; I’ll have the dishes done in a minute, then we’ll go into the sitting-room.”

“I’d rather stay out here with you,” said Ellen.

Abby looked at her again.  “There is something the matter, Ellen Brewster,” said she; “you can’t cheat me.  You would never have run over here this way in the world.  What has happened?”

“Let’s go up to your room after the dishes are done, and then I’ll tell you,” whispered Ellen.  The men’s voices on the piazza could be heard quite distinctly, and it seemed possible that their own conversation might be overheard in return.

“All right,” said Abby.  “Of course I have heard about your aunt,” she added, in a low voice.