“She is an interesting child,” said Robert, who felt, like most people, the delicate flattery of a child’s unsolicited caresses.

“I am very fond of her,” replied Ellen.

Then the two were silent.  Robert suddenly realized that there was little to say unless he ventured on debatable ground.  It would be too absurd of him to commence making love at once, and as for asking Ellen about her work, that seemed a subject better let alone.

Ellen herself opened the conversation by inquiring for his aunt.

“Aunt Cynthia is very well,” replied Robert.  “I was in there last evening.  You have not been to see her lately, Miss Brewster.”

Robert realized as soon as he had said that that he had made a mistake.

“No,” replied Ellen.  She obviously paled a little, and looked at him wistfully.  The young man could not stand it any longer, so straight into the heart of the matter he lunged.

“Look here, Miss Brewster,” he said, “why on earth didn’t you tell Aunt Cynthia?”

“Tell her?” repeated Ellen, vaguely.

“Yes; make a clean breast of it to her.  Tell her just why you went to work, and gave up college?”

Ellen colored, and looked at him half defiantly, half piteously.  “I told her all I ought to,” she said.

“But you did not; pardon me,” said Robert, “you did not tell her half enough.  You let her think that you actually of your own free choice went to work in the factory rather than go to college.”

“So I did,” replied Ellen, looking at him proudly.

“Of course you did, in one sense, but in another you did not.  You deliberately chose to make a sacrifice; but it was a sacrifice.  You cannot deny that it was a sacrifice.”

Ellen was silent.

“But you gave Aunt Cynthia the impression that it was not a sacrifice,” said Robert, almost severely.

Ellen’s face quivered a little.  “I saw no other way to do,” she said, faintly.  The authoritative tone which this young man was taking with her stirred her as nothing had ever stirred her in her life before.  She felt like a child before him.

“You have no right to give such a false impression of your own character,” said Robert.

“It was either that or a false impression of another,” returned Ellen, tremulously.

“You mean that she might have blamed your parents, and thought that they were forcing you into this?”

Ellen nodded.

“And I suppose you thought, too, that maybe Aunt Cynthia would suspect, if you told her all the difficulties, that you were hinting for more assistance.”

Ellen nodded, and her lip was quivering.  Suddenly all her force of character seemed to have deserted her, and she looked more like a child than Amabel.  She actually put both her little fists to her eyes.  After all, the girl was very young, a child forced by the stress of circumstances to premature development, but she could relapse before the insistence of another nature.