When Ellen started for the factory the next morning the storm had not ceased; the roads were very heavy, although the snow-plough had been out at intervals all night, and there was a struggling line of shovelling men along the car-track, but the cars were still unable to penetrate the drifts.  When Ellen passed her grandmother’s house the old woman tapped sharply on the window and motioned her back frantically with one bony hand.  The window was frozen to the sill with the snow, and she could not raise it.  Ellen shook her head, smiling.  Her grandmother continued to wave her back, the lines of forbidding anxiety in her old face as strongly marked as an etching in the window frame.  This love, which had at once coerced and fondled the girl since her birth, was very precious to her.  This protection, which she was forced to repel, smote her like a pain.

“Poor old grandmother!” she thought; “there she will worry about me all day because I have gone out in the storm.”  She turned back and waved her hand and nodded laughingly; but the old woman continued that anxiously imperative backward motion until Ellen was out of sight.

Ellen walked in the car-track, as did everybody else, that being better cleared than the rest of the road.  She was astonished that she heard nothing of the cut in wages from the men.  There seemed to be no excitement at all.  They merely trudged heavily along, their whitening bodies bent before the storm.  There was an unusual doggedness about this march to the factory this morning, but that was all.  Ellen returned the muttered greeting of several, and walked along in silence with the rest.  Even when Abby Atkins joined her there was little said.  Ellen asked for Maria, and Abby replied that she had taken more cold yesterday, and could not speak aloud; then relapsed into silence, making her way through the snow with a sort of taciturn endurance.  Ellen looked at the struggling procession of which she was a part, all slanting with the slant of the storm, and a fancy seized her that rebellion and resistance were hopeless, that those parallel lines of yielding to the onslaughts of fate were as inevitable as life itself, one of its conditions.  Men could not help walking that way when the bitter storm-wind was blowing; they could not help living that way when fate was in array against their progress.  Then, thinking so, a mightier spirit of revolt than she had ever known awoke within her.  She, as she walked, straightened herself.  She leaned not one whit before the drive of the storm.  She advanced with no yielding in her, her brave face looking ahead through the white blur of snow with a confidence which was almost exultation.

“What do you think the men will do?” she said to Abby when they came in sight of Lloyd’s, shaggy with fringes and wreaths and overhanging shelvings of snow, roaring with machinery, with the steady stream of labor pouring in the door.

“Do?” repeated Abby, almost listlessly.  “Do about what?”