Ellen held out her hand, and Willy Jones grasped it, then let it drop and muttered something.  He looked with helpless adoration at Abby, who put her hand through his arm reassuringly.

“Let’s go and see the animals,” said she; “I haven’t seen the animals.”

“I guess I’ll go and see if I can find my father and mother,” returned Ellen.  “I want to see my mother about something.”

“Oh, come with us.”  Abby grasped Ellen firmly around the waist and kissed her.  “I don’t love him a mite better than I do you,” she whispered; “so there!  You needn’t think you’re left out, Ellen Brewster.”

“I don’t,” replied Ellen.  She tried to laugh, but she felt her lips stiff.  And unconquerable feeling of desolation was coming over her, and in spite of herself her tone was somewhat like that of a child who sees another with all the cake.

“I suppose you know Floretta got married last night,” said Abby, moving off with Willy Jones.  John Sargent and Maria had long since disappeared from under the oak.

Ellen, left alone, looked for a minute after Abby and Willy, and noted the tender lean of the girl’s head towards the young man’s shoulder; then she started off to find her father and mother.  She could not rid herself of the sense of desolation.  She felt blindly that if she could not get under the shelter of her own loves of life she could not bear it any longer.  She had borne up bravely under Robert’s neglect, but now all at once, with the sight of the happiness of these others before her eyes, it seemed to crush her.  All the spirit in her seemed to flag and faint.  She was only a young girl, who would fall to the ground and be slain by the awful law of gravitation of the spirit without love.  “Anyway, I’ve got father and mother,” she said to herself.

She rushed on alone through the merry crowd.  The orchestra was playing a medley.  The violins seemed to fairly pierce thought.  A Roman-candle burst forth on the right with a great spluttering, and the people, shrieking with delight, rushed in that direction.  Then a rocket shot high in the air with a splendid curve, and there was a sea of faces watching with speechless admiration the dropping stars of violet and gold and rose.

Ellen kept on, moving as nearly as she could in the direction in which her party had gone.  Then suddenly she came face to face with Robert Lloyd.

She would have passed him without a word, but he stood before her.

“Won’t you speak to me?” he asked.

“Good-evening, Mr. Lloyd,” returned Ellen.

Then she tried to move on again, but Robert still stood before her.

“I want to say something to you,” he said, in a low voice.  “I was coming to your house to-night, but I saw you on the car.  Please come to that seat over there.  There is nobody in that direction.  They will all go towards the fireworks now.”

Ellen looked at him hesitatingly.  At that moment she seemed to throw out protecting antennae of maidenliness; and, besides, there was always the memory of the cut in wages, for which she still judged him; and then there was the long neglect.