“It’s beautiful,” said Maria—­“perfectly beautiful.  I had a Sunday-school book this week which I know wasn’t half as good.”

Ellen looked at Abby, who was silent.  The three girls were up in Ellen’s room.  It was midwinter, some months after she had gone to work in the shop, and she had a fire in her little, air-tight stove.

“Well, what do you think of it, Abby?” asked Ellen.  Ellen’s cheeks were flushed as if with fever.  She looked eagerly at the other girl.

“Do you want me to tell you the truth?” asked Abby, bluntly.

“Yes, of course I do.”

“Well, then, I don’t know a thing about books, and I’d knock anybody else down that said it, but it seems to me it’s trash.”

“Oh, Abby,” murmured Maria.

“Never mind,” said Ellen, though she quivered a little, “I want to know just how it looks to her.”

“It looks to me just like that,” said Abby—­“like trash.  It sounds as if, when you began to write it, you had mounted upon stilts, and didn’t see things and people the way they really were.  It ain’t natural.”

“Do you think I had better give it up, then?” asked Ellen.

“No, I don’t, on account of your father.”

“I believe it would about break father’s heart,” said Ellen.

“I don’t know but it’s worth as much to write a book for your father, to please him, and keep his spirits up, as it is to write one for the whole world,” said Abby.

“Only, of course, she can’t get any money for it,” said Maria.  “But I don’t believe Abby is right, and don’t you get discouraged, Ellen.  It sounds beautiful to me.”

“Well, I suppose it is worth keeping on with for father’s sake,” said Ellen; but she had a discouraged air.  She never again wrote with any hope or heart; she had faith in Abby’s opinion, for she knew that she was always predisposed to admiration in her case.

Ellen at that time was earning more, for she had advanced, and had long ago left her station beside Mamie Brady; and now in a month or two she would have a machine.  The girls, many of them, said openly that her rapid promotion was due to favoritism, and that Ed Flynn wouldn’t do as much for anybody but Ellen Brewster.  Flynn hung about her in the shop a good deal, but he had made no efforts to pay her decided attention.  His religion was the prime factor for his hesitation.  He could not see his way clear towards open addresses with a view to marriage.  Still, he had a sharp eye for other admirers, and Ellen had not been in the factory two months before Granville Joy was sent into another room.  Robert Lloyd, to whom the foreman appealed for confirmation of the plan, coincided with readiness.

“That fellow ain’t strong enough to run that machine he’s doing now,” said Flynn.

“Then put him on another,” Robert said, coloring.  It was not quite like setting his rival in the front of the battle; still, he felt ashamed of himself.  Quicker than lightning it had flashed through his mind that young Joy could thus be sent into a separate room from Ellen Brewster.