out in the room like a lamp with a pale luminosity of its own.
The three women, the mother, and aunt, and the visiting neighbor, all looked at her, and Ellen smiled up at them as innocently sweet as a flower. There was that in Ellen's smile and regard at that time which no woman could resist. Suddenly the visiting neighbor laid a finger softly under her chin and tilted up her little face towards the light. Then she said with that unconscious poetry of bereavement which sees a likeness in all fair things of earth to the face of the lost treasure, “I do believe she looks like my first little girl that died.”
After the visiting woman had gone, Fanny and Eva calling after her to come again, they looked at each other, then at Ellen. “That little girl that died favored the Stebbinses, and was dark as an Injun,” said Fanny, “no more like Ellen—”
“That's so,” acquiesced Eva; “I remember that young one. Lookin' like Ellen—I'd like to see the child that did look like her; there ain't none round these parts. I wish you could have seen folks stare at her when I took her down street yesterday. One woman said, ‘Ain't she pretty as a picture,’ so loud I heard it, but Ellen didn't seem to.”
“Sometimes I wonder if we'll make her proud,” Fanny said, in a hushed voice, with a look of admiration that savored of worship at Ellen.
“She don't ever seem to notice,” said Eva, with a hushed response. Indeed, Ellen had seemed to pay no attention whatever to their remarks, whether from an innate humility and lack of self-consciousness, or because she was so accustomed to adulation that it had become as the breath of her nostrils, to be taken no more account of. She had seated herself in her favorite place in a rocking-chair at a west window, with her chin resting on the sill, and her eyes staring into the great out-of-doors, full of winds and skies and trees and her own imaginings.
She would sit so, motionless, for hours at a time, and sometimes her mother would rouse her almost roughly. “What be you thinkin' about, settin' there so still?” she would ask, with eyes of vague anxiety fixed upon her, but Ellen could never answer.
Though it was getting late, it did not seem dark as early as usual, since there was a full moon and there was snow on the ground which gave forth a pale light in a wide surface of reflection. However, the moon was behind clouds, for it was beginning to snow again quite heavily, and the white flakes drove in whirlwinds past the street-lamp on the corner of the street. Now and then a tramping and muffled figure came into the radius of light, then passed into the white gloom beyond.
Fanny was preparing supper, and the light from the dining-room shone in where Ellen sat, but the sitting-room was not lighted. Ellen began to smell the fragrance of tea and toast, and there was a reflection of the dining-room table and lamp outside pictured vividly against the white sheet of storm.
Ellen knew better, but it amused her to think that her home was out-of-doors as well as under her father's and mother's roof. Eva passed her with her hands full of kindlings. She was going to make a fire in the parlor-stove, for Jim Tenny was coming that evening. She laid a tender hand on Ellen's head as she passed, and smoothed her hair. Ellen had a sort of acquiescent wonder over her aunt Eva in those days. She heard people say Eva was getting ready to be married, and speculated. “What is getting ready to be married?” she asked Eva.
“Why, getting your clothes made, you little ninny,” Eva answered.
The next day Ellen had watched her mother at work upon a new little frock for herself for some time before she spoke.
“Mother,” she said.
“Yes, child.”
“Mother, you are making that new dress for me, ain't you?”
“Of course I am; why?”
“And you made me a new coat last week?”
“Why, you know I did, Ellen; what do you mean?”
“And you are going to make me a petticoat and put that pretty lace on it?”
“You know I am, Ellen Brewster, what be you drivin' at?”
“Be I a-gettin' ready to be married, mother?” asked Ellen, with the strangest look of wonder and awe and anticipation.
Fanny had told this saying of the child's to everybody, and that evening when Jim Tenny came he caught up Ellen and gave her a toss to the ceiling, a trick of his which filled Ellen with a sort of fearful delight, the delight of helplessness in the hands of strength, and the titillation of evanescent risk.
“So you are gettin' ready to be married, are you?” Jim Tenny said, with a great laugh, looking at her soberly, with big black eyes. Jim Tenny was a handsome fellow, and much larger and stronger than her father. Ellen liked him; he often brought candies in his pocket for her, and they were great friends, but she could never understand why he stayed in the parlor all alone with her aunt Eva, instead of in the sitting-room with the others.
Ellen had looked back at him as soberly. “Mother says I 'ain't,” she replied, “but—”
“But what?”
“I am getting most as many new clothes as Aunt Eva, and she is.”
“And you think maybe you are gettin' ready to be married, after all, hey?”
“I think maybe mother wants to surprise me,” Ellen said.
Jim Tenny had all of a sudden shaken convulsively as if with mirth, but his face remained perfectly sober.
That evening after the parlor door was closed upon Jim and Eva, Ellen wondered what they were laughing at.
To-night when she saw Eva enter the room, a lighted lamp illuminating her face fairly reckless with happiness, to light the fire in the courting-stove as her sister facetiously called it, she thought to herself that Jim Tenny was coming, that they would be shut up in there all alone as usual, and then she looked out at the storm and the night again, and the little home picture thrown against it. Then she saw her father coming into the yard with his arms full of parcels, and she was out of her chair and at the kitchen door to meet him.
Andrew had brought as usual some dainties for his darling. He watched Ellen unwrap the various parcels, not smiling as usual, but with a curious knitting of his forehead and pitiful compression of mouth. When she had finished and ran into the other room to show a great orange to her aunt, he drew a heavy sigh that was almost a groan. His wife coming in from the kitchen with a dish heard him, and looked at him with quick anxiety, though she spoke in a merry, rallying way.
“For the land sake, Andrew Brewster, what be you groanin' that way for?” she cried out.
Andrew's tense face did not relax; he strove to push past her without a word, but Fanny stood before him. “Now, look at here, Andrew,” said she, “you 'ain't goin' to walk off with a face like that, unless I know what the matter is. Are you sick?”
“No, I ain't sick, Fanny,” Andrew said; then in a low voice, “Let me go, I will tell you by-and-by.”
“No, Andrew, you have got to tell me now. I'm goin' to know whatever has happened.”
“Wait till after supper, Fanny.”
“No, I can't wait. Look here, Andrew, you are my husband, and there ain't no trouble
