“No,” said Ellen, “but he is out of work, and he can’t get a job at Lloyd’s, and he took all that money out of the savings-bank a long time ago, and put it into that gold-mine that Uncle Jim lost in.”

Fanny clutched the girl’s arm in a grasp so hard that it left a blue mark on the tender flesh.  She looked at her, but did not speak one word.

“Now, mother,” said Ellen, “you must not say one word to father to scold him.  He’s got enough to bear as it is.”

Fanny pushed her away with sudden fierceness.  “I guess I don’t need to have my own daughter teach me my duty to my husband,” said she.  “Where is he?”

“Down in the orchard.”

“Well, ring the bell for dinner loud, so he can hear it.”

When Andrew came shuffling wearily up from the orchard, Fanny met him at the corner of the house, out of sight from the windows.  She was flushed and perspiring, clad in a coarse cotton wrapper, revealing all her unkempt curves.  She went close to him, and thrust one large arm through his.  “Look here, Andrew,” said she, in the tenderest voice he had ever heard from her, a voice so tender that it was furious, “you needn’t say one word.  What’s done’s done.  We shall get along somehow.  I ain’t afraid.  Come in and eat your dinner!”

The dressmaking work went on as usual after dinner.  Andrew had disappeared, going down the road towards the shop.  He tried for a job at Briggs’s, with no success, then drifted to the corner grocery.

Ellen sat until nearly three o’clock sewing.  Then she went up-stairs and got her hat, and went secretly out of the back door, through the west yard, that her mother should not see her.  However, her grandmother called after her, and wanted to know where she was going.

“Down street, on an errand,” answered Ellen.

“Well, keep on the shady side,” called her grandmother, thinking the girl was bound to the stores for some dressmaking supplies.

That night Miss Higgins did not ask for her pay; she had made up her mind to wait until her week was finished.  She went away after supper, and Ellen followed her to the door.  “We won’t want you to-morrow, Miss Higgins,” said she, “and here is your pay.”  With that she handed a roll of bills to the woman, who stared at her in amazement and growing resentment.

“If my work ain’t satisfactory,” said she—­

“Your work is satisfactory,” said Ellen, “but I don’t want any more work done.  I am not going to college.”

There was something conclusive and intimidating about Ellen’s look and tone.  The dressmaker, who had been accustomed to regard her as a child, stared at her with awe, as before a sudden revelation of force.  Then she took her money, and went down the walk.

When Ellen re-entered the sitting-room her father and mother, who had overheard every word, confronted her.

“Ellen Brewster, what does this mean?”

Andrew looked as if he would presently fall to the floor.