“I declare you make me mad,” said Abby, but she looked at her adoringly.  “Here’s Ed Flynn,” she added.  “He’ll look out for you.  Good-bye, I’ll see you at noon.”  Abby went away to her machine.  She was stitching vamps by the piece, and earning a considerable amount.  The Atkinses were not so distressed as they had been, and Abby was paying off a mortgage.

When the foreman came towards Ellen she experienced a shock.  His gay, admiring eyes on her face seemed to dispel all her exaltation.  She felt as if her feet touched earth, and yet the young man was entirely respectful, and even thoughtful.  He bade her “Good-morning,” and conducted her to the scene of her labor.  One other girl was already there at work.  She gave a sidewise glance at Ellen, and went on, making her fingers fly.  Mr. Flynn showed Ellen what to do.  She had to tie the shoes together with bits of twine, laced through eyelet holes.  Ellen took a piece of twine and tied it in as Flynn watched her.  He laughed pleasantly.

“You’ll do,” he said, approvingly.  “I’ve been in here five years, and you are the first girl I ever saw who tied a square knot at the first trial.  Here’s Mamie Brady here, she worked a solid month before she got the hang of the square knot.”

“You go along,” admonished the girl spoken of as “Mamie Brady.”  Her words were flippant, even impudent, but her tone was both dejected and childish.  She continued to work without a glance at either of them.  Her fingers flew, tying the knots with swift jerks.

“Well, you help Miss Brewster, if she needs any help,” said Flynn, as he went away.

“We don’t have any misses in this shop,” said the girl to Ellen, with sarcastic emphasis.

“I don’t care anything about being called miss,” replied Ellen, picking up another piece of string.

“What’s your first name?”

“Ellen.”

“Oh, land!  I know who you be.  You read that essay at the high-school graduation.  I was there.  Well, I shouldn’t think you would want to be called miss if you feel the way you said you did in that.”

“I don’t want to,” said Ellen.

The girl gave a swift, comprehensive glance at her as her fingers manipulated the knots.

“You won’t earn twenty cents a week at the rate you’re workin’,” she said; “look at me.”

“I don’t believe you worked any faster than I do when you hadn’t been here any longer,” retorted Ellen.

“I did, too; you can’t depend on a thing Ed Flynn says.  You’re awful slow.  He praises you because you are good-lookin’.”

Ellen turned and faced her.  “Look here,” said she.

The other girl looked at her with unspeakable impudence, and yet under it was that shadow of dejection and that irresponsible childishness.

“Well, I am lookin’,” said she, “what is it?”

“You need not speak to me again in that way,” said Ellen, “and I want you to understand it.  I will not have it.”