“Well, I hope not,” said Abby.  “You can’t tell.  Some chimneys always have the wind whistling in them, and I suppose it’s about so with a boot and shoe shop.  It don’t follow that there’s going to be a hurricane.”

They had come to the entrance of the street where the Atkins sisters lived, and Ellen parted from them.

She kept on her way quite alone.  They had walked slowly, and the other operatives had either boarded cars or had gone out of sight.

Ellen, when she turned, faced the northwest, out of which a stiff wind was blowing.  She thrust a hand up each jacket-sleeve, folding her arms, but she let the fierce wind smite her full in the face without blenching.  She had a sort of delight in facing a wind like that, and her quick young blood kept her from being chilled.  The sidewalk was frozen.  There was no snow, and the day before there had been a thaw.  One could see on this walk, hardened into temporary stability, the footprints of hundreds of the sons and daughters of labor.  Read rightly, that sidewalk in the little manufacturing city was a hieroglyphic of toil, and perhaps of toil as tending to the advance of the whole world.  Ellen did not think of that, for she was occupied with more personal considerations, thinking of the dead woman in the great Lloyd house.  She pictured her lying dead on that same bed whereon she had seen her husband lie dead.  All the ghastly concomitants of death came to her mind.  “They will turn off all that summer heat, and leave her alone in this freezing cold,” she thought.  She remembered the sound of that other woman’s kind voice in her ears, and she saw her face when she told her the dreadful news of her husband’s death.  She felt a sob rising in her throat, but forced it back.  What Abby had told concerning Mrs. Lloyd’s happiness in the face of death seemed to her heart-breaking, though she knew not why.  That enormous, almost transcendent trust in that which was absolutely unknown seemed to engulf her.

When she reached home, her mother looked at her in astonishment.  She was sewing on the interminable wrappers.  Andrew was paring apples for pies.  “What be you home for—­be you sick?” asked Fanny.  Andrew gazed at her in alarm.

“No, I am not sick,” replied Ellen, shortly.  “Mrs. Lloyd is dead, and the factory’s closed.”

“I heard she was very low—­Mrs. Jones told me so yesterday,” said Fanny, in a hushed voice.  Andrew began paring another apple.  He was quite pale.

“When is the funeral to be, did you hear?” asked Fanny.  Ellen was hanging up her hat and coat in the entry.

“Day after to-morrow.”

“Have you heard anything about the hands sending flowers?”

“No.”

“I suppose they will,” said Fanny, “as long as they sent one to him.  Well, she was a good woman, and it’s a mark of respect, and I ’ain’t anything to say against it, but I can’t help feeling as if it was a tax.”