Then Ellen shrank, and bristled with defiance at the same time, for she had the spirit of both the Brewsters and the Louds in her, in spite of her delicacy of organization.  She was a fine instrument, capable of chords of tragedy as well as angelic strains.  She saw that the little girl who was treating her so was dressed very poorly, that her dress was not only shabby, but actually dirty; that she, as well as the other girl whom she noticed, had her braid tied with an old shoe-string, and that a curious smell of leather pervaded her.  Ellen continued to regard the little girl, then suddenly she felt a hand on her shoulder, and the teacher, Miss Rebecca Mitchell, was looking down at her.  “What is the trouble?” asked Miss Mitchell.  That look of half-wondering admiration to which Ellen was accustomed was in the teacher’s eyes, and Ellen again thought her beautiful.

One of the first, though a scarcely acknowledged principle of beauty, is that of reflection of the fairness of the observer.  Ellen being as innocently self-seeking for love and admiration as any young thing for its natural sustenance, was quick to recognize it, though she did not understand that what she saw was herself in the teacher’s eyes, and not the teacher.  She gazed up in that roseate face with the wide mouth set in an inverted bow of smile, curtained, as it were, with smoothly crinkled auburn hair clearly outlined against the cheeks, at the palpitating curve of shiny black-silk bosom, adorned with a festoon of heavy gold watch-chain, and thought that here was love, and beauty, and richness, and elegance, and great wisdom, calling for reverence but no fear.  She answered not one word to the teacher’s question, but continued to gaze at her with that look of wide-eyed and contemplative regard.

“What is the trouble, Ellen?” repeated Miss Mitchell.  “Why were you looking around so?” Ellen said nothing.  The little girl behind had her head bent over her book so low that the sulky curves of her mouth did not show.  The teacher turned to her—­“Abby Atkins,” said she, “what were you doing?”

Abby Atkins did not raise her studious head.  She did not seem to hear.

“Abby Atkins,” said the teacher, sharply, “answer me.  What were you doing?” Then the little girl answered, with a sulky note, half growl, half whimper, like some helpless but indomitable little trapped animal, “Nothin’.”

“Ellen,” said the teacher, and her voice changed indescribably.  “What was she doing?” Ellen did not answer.  She looked up in the teacher’s face, then cast down her eyes and sat there, her little hands folded in tightly clinched fists in her lap, her mouth a pink line of resistance.  “Ellen,” repeated the teacher, and she tried to make her voice sharp, but in spite of herself it was caressing.  Her heart had gone out to the child the moment she had seen her enter the school-room.  She was as helpless before her as before a lover.  She was wild to catch her up and caress her instead of pestering her with questions.  “Ellen, you must answer me,” she said, but Ellen sat still.