“You talk about a lower and a higher life,” said she.  “Is it true?  Is Vassar College any higher than a shoe-factory?  Is any labor which is honest, and done with the best strength of man, for the best motives, to support the lives of those he loves, or to supply the needs of his race, any higher than another?  Where would even books be without this very labor which you despise—­the books which I should have learned at college?  Instead of being benefited by the results of labor, I have become part of labor.  Why is that lower?”

Robert stared at her.

“I have come to feel all this since I went to work,” said Ellen, speaking in a high, rapid voice.  “When I went to work, it was, as you thought, for my folks, to help them, for my father was out of work, and there was no other way.  But since I have been at work I have realized what work really is.  There is a glory over it, as there is over anything which is done faithfully on this earth for good motives, and I have seen the glory, and I am not ashamed of it; and while it was a sacrifice at first, now, while I should like the other better, I do not think it is.  I am proud of my work.”

The girl spoke with a sort of rapt enthusiasm.  The young man stared, bewildered.

Robert caught Ellen’s little hands, which hung, tightly clinched, in the folds of her dress, and drew her down to his side again.  “See here, dear,” he said, “maybe you are right.  I never looked at it in this way before, but you do not understand.  I love you; I want to marry you.  I want to make you my wife, and lift you out of this forever.”

Then again Ellen freed herself, and straightened her head and faced him.  “There is nothing for me to be lifted out of,” said she.  “You speak as if I were in a pit.  I am on a height.”

“My God! child, how many others feel as you, do you think, out of the whole lot?” cried Robert.

“I don’t know,” replied Ellen, “but it is true.  What I feel is true.”

Robert caught up her little hand and kissed it.  Then he looked at its delicate outlines.  “Well, it may be true,” he said, “but look at yourself.  Can’t you see that you are not fashioned for manual labor?  Look at this little hand.”

“That little hand can do the work,” Ellen replied, proudly.

“But, dear,” said Robert, “admitting all this, admitting that you are not in a position to be lifted—­admitting everything—­let us come back to our original starting-point.  Dear, I love you, and I want you for my wife.  Will you marry me?”

“No, I never can,” replied Ellen, with a long, sobbing breath of renunciation.

“Why not?  Don’t you love me?”

“Yes.  I think it must be true that I do.  I said I wouldn’t; I have tried not to, but I think it must be true that I do.”

“Then why not marry me?”

“Because it will be impossible for my father and mother to get along and support Amabel and Aunt Eva without my help,” said Ellen, directly.