“Land, no; she ain’t that kind.  She’s too much like her grandmother, but there ’ain’t been a night lately that she ’ain’t done her hair over when she got home from the shop and changed her dress.”

“She always changes her dress, don’t she?” said Andrew.

“Oh yes, she always has done that.  I guess she likes to get rid of the leather smell for a while; but she has put on that pretty, new, red silk waist, and I’ve seen her watchin’, though she’s never said anything.”

“You don’t suppose she—­” began Andrew, in a voice of intensest anxiety and indignant tenderness.

“Land, no; Ellen Brewster ain’t a girl to fret herself much over any man unless she’s sure he wants her; trust her.  Don’t you worry about that.  All I mean is, I know she’s had a kind of an idea that he might come.”

Ellen, up-stairs, lay listening against her will, and felt herself burning with mortified pride and shame.  She said to herself that she would never put on that red silk waist again of an evening; she would not even do her hair over.  It was quite true that she had thought that Robert might come, that he might renew his offer, now that he was so differently situated, and the obstacles, on his side, at least, removed.  She told herself all the time that the obstacles on her own were still far from removed.  She asked herself how could she, even if this man loved her and wished to marry her, allow him to support all her family, although he might be able to do so.  She often told herself that she ought perhaps to have pride enough to refuse, and yet she watched for him to come.  She had reflected at first that it was, of course, impossible for him to seem to take advantage of the deaths which had left him with this independence, that he must stay away for a while from motives of delicacy; but now the months were going, and she began to wonder if he never would come.  Every night, when she took off the pretty, red silk waist, donned in vain, and let down her fair lengths of hair, it was with a sinking of her heart, and a sense of incredulous unhappiness.  Ellen had always had a sort of sanguinity of happiness and of the petting of Providence as well as of her friends.  However, the girl had, in spite of her childlike trust in the beauty of her life, plenty of strength to meet its refutal, and a pride equal to her grandmother’s.  In case Robert Lloyd should never approach her again, she would try to keep one face of her soul always veiled to her inmost consciousness.

The next evening she was careful not to put on her red silk waist, but changed her shop dress for her old blue woollen, and only smoothed her hair.  She even went to bed early in order to prove to her mother that she expected nobody.

“You ain’t goin’ to bed as early as this, Ellen?” her mother said, as she lighted her lamp.

“Yes, I’m going to bed and read.”

“Seems as if somebody might be in,” said Fanny, awkwardly.