Amabel was not a favorite outside of her own family.  People used to stare aghast at her unexpected questions and demands delivered in a shrill clarion as from some summit of childish wisdom, and they said she was a queer child.  She yielded always to command from utter helplessness, but the why of obedience was strongly alert within her.  The child might have been in some subtle and uncanny fashion the offspring of her age and generation instead of her natural parents, she was so unlike either of them, and so much a product of the times, with her meekness and slavishness of weakness and futility, and her unquenchable and unconquerable vitality of dissent.

Ellen adored the little Amabel.  Presently, when she returned from her errand down-town, she cried out with delight when she saw her; and the child ran to meet her, and clung to her, with her flaxen head snuggled close to her cheek.  Ellen caught the child up, seated herself, and sat cuddling her as she used to cuddle her doll.

“You dear little thing!” she murmured, “you dear little thing!  You did come to see Ellen, didn’t you?” And the child gazed up in the young girl’s face with a rapt expression.  Nothing can express the admiration, which is almost as unquestionable as worship, of a very little girl for a big one.  Amabel loved her mother with a rather unusual intensity for a child, but Ellen was what she herself would be when she was grown up.  Through Ellen her love of self and her ambition budded into blossom.  Ellen could do nothing wrong because she did what she herself would do when she was grown.  She never questioned Ellen for her reasons.

Mrs. Zelotes kept looking at the two, with pride in Ellen and disapproval of her caresses of the child.  “Seems to me you might speak to your own folks as well as to have no eyes for anybody but that child,” she said, finally.

“Why, grandma, I spoke to you just a little while ago,” returned Ellen.  “You know I saw you just a few minutes before I went down-town.”  Ellen straightened the child on her knees, and began to try to twist her soft, straight flaxen locks into curls.  Andrew lounged in from the kitchen and sat down and regarded Ellen fondly.  The girl’s cheeks were a splendid color from her walk in the cold wind, her hair around her temples caught the light from the window, and seemed to wreathe her head with a yellow flame.  She tossed the child about with lithe young arms, whose every motion suggested reserves of tender strength.  Ellen was more beautiful than she had ever been before, and yet something was gone from her face, though only temporarily, since the lines for the vanished meaning was still there.  All the introspection and dreaminess and poetry of her face were gone, for the girl was, for the time, overbalanced on the physical side of her life.  The joy of existence for itself alone was intoxicating her.  The innocent frivolities of her sex had seized her too, and the instincts which had not yet reached