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<h3 align="center">Chapter XXVI</h3> Robert Lloyd accompanied Ellen home, though she had said timidly that she was not in the least afraid, that she would not trouble any one, that she could take a car. Cynthia herself had insisted that Robert should escort her. “It's too late for you to be out alone,” she said, and the girl seemed to perceive dimly a hedge of conventionality which she had not hitherto known. She had often taken a car when she was alone of an evening, without a thought of anything questionable. Some of the conductors lived near Ellen, and she felt as if she were under personal friendly escort. “I know the conductor on that car, and it would take me right home, and I am not in the least afraid,” she said to Robert, as the car came rocking down the street when they emerged from Cynthia's grounds. “It's a lovely night,” Robert said, speaking quickly as they paused on the sidewalk. “I am not going to let you go alone, anyway. We will take the car if you say so, but what do you say to walking? It's a lovely night.” It actually flashed through Ellen's mind—to such small issues of finance had she been accustomed—that the young man might insist upon paying her car-fare if he went with her on the car. “I would like to walk, but I am sorry to put you to so much trouble,” she said, a little awkwardly. “Oh, I like to walk,” returned Robert. “I don't walk half enough,” and they went together down the lighted street. Suddenly to Ellen there came a vivid remembrance, so vivid that it seemed almost like actual repetition of the time when she, a little child, maddened by the sudden awakening of the depths of her nature, had come down this same street. She saw that same brilliant market-window where she had stopped and stared, to the momentary forgetfulness of her troubles in the spectacular display of that which was entirely outside them. Curiously enough, Robert drew her to a full stop that night before the same window. It was one of those strange cases of apparent telepathy which one sometimes notices. When Ellen looked at the market-window, with a flash of reminiscence, Robert immediately drew her to a stop before it. “That is quite a study in color,” he said. “I fancy there are a good many unrecognized artists among market-men.” “Yes, it is really beautiful,” agreed Ellen, looking at it with eyes which had changed very little from their childish outlook. Again she saw more than she saw. The window differed materially from that before which she had stood fascinated so many years ago, for that was in a different season. Instead of frozen game and winter vegetables, were the products of summer gardens, and fruits, and berries. The color scheme was dazzling with great heaps of tomatoes, and long, emerald ears of corn, and baskets of apples, and gold crooks of summer squashes, and speckled pods of beans. “Suppose,” said Robert, as they walked on, “that all the market-men who had artistic tastes had art educations and set up studios and painted pictures, who would keep the markets?” He spoke gayly. His manner that night was younger and merrier than Ellen had ever seen it. She was naturally rather grave herself. What she had seen of life had rather disposed her to a hush of respect than to hilarity, but somehow his mood began to infect her. “I don't know,” she answered, laughing, “I suppose somebody would keep the markets.” “Yes, but they would not be as good markets. That is, they would not do as artistic markets, and they would not serve the higher purpose of catering to the artistic taste of man, as well as to his bodily needs.” “Perhaps a picture like that is just as well and better than it would be painted and hung on a wall,” Ellen admitted, reflectively. “Just so—why is it not?” Robert said, in a pleased voice. “Yes, I think it is,” said Ellen. “I do think it is better, because everybody can see it there. Ever so many people will see it there who would not go to picture-galleries to see it, and then—” “And then it may go far to dignify their daily needs,” said Robert. “For instance, a poor man about to buy his to-morrow's dinner may feel his soul take a little fly above the prices of turnips and cabbages.” “Maybe,” said Ellen, but doubtfully. “Don't you think so?” “The prices of turnips and cabbages may crowd other things out,” Ellen replied, and her tone was sad, almost tragic. “You see I am right in it, Mr. Lloyd,” she said, earnestly. “You mean right in the midst of the kind of people whom necessity forces to neglect the æsthetic for the purely useful?” “Yes,” said Ellen. Then she added, in an indescribably pathetic voice, “People have to live first before they can see, and they can't think until they are fed, and one needs always to have had enough turnips and cabbages to eat without troubling about the getting them, in order to see in them anything except food.” Lloyd looked at her curiously. “Decidedly this child can think,” he reflected. He shrugged his arm, on which Ellen's hand lay, a little closer to his side. Just then they were passing the great factories—Lloyd's, and Briggs's, and Maguire's. Many of the windows in Briggs's and Maguire's reflected light from the moon and the electric-lamps on the street. Lloyd's was all dark except for one brilliant spark of light, which seemed to be threading the building like a will-o'-the-wisp. “That is the night-watchman,” said Robert. “He must have a dull time of it.” “I should think he might be afraid,” said Ellen. “Afraid of what?” “Of ghosts.” “Ghosts in a shoe-shop?” asked Robert, laughing. “I don't believe there has been another building in the whole city which has held so many heart-aches, and I always wondered if they didn't make ghosts instead of dead people,” Ellen said. “Do you think they have such a hard time?” “I know they do,” said Ellen. “I think I ate the knowledge along with my first daily bread.” Robert Lloyd looked down at the light, girlish figure on his arm, and again the resolution that he would not talk on such topics with a young girl like this came over him. He felt a reluctance to do so which was quite apart from his masculine scorn of a girl's opinion on such matters. Somehow he did not wish to place Ellen Brewster on the same level of argument on which another man might have stood. He felt a jealousy of doing so. She seemed more within his reach, and infinitely more for his pleasure, where she was. He looked admiringly down at her fair face fixed on his with a serious, intent expression. He was quite ready to admit that he might fall in love with her. He was quite ready to ask now why he should not. She was a beautiful girl, an uncommon girl. She was going to be thoroughly educated. It would probably be quite possible to divorce her entirely from her surroundings. He shuddered when he thought of her mother and aunt, but, after all, a man, if he were firm, need not marry the mother or aunt. And all this was in spite of a resolution which he had formed on due consideration after his last call upon Ellen. He had said to himself that it would not in any case be wise, that he had better not see more of her than he could help. Instead of going to see her, he had gone riding with Maud Hemingway, who lived near his uncle's, in an old Colonial house which had belonged to her great-grandfather. The girl was a good comrade, so good a comrade that she shunted, as it were, love with flings of ready speech and friendly greeting, and tennis-rackets and riding-whips and foils. Robert had been teaching Maud to fence, and she had fenced too well. Still, Robert had said to himself that he might some day fall in love with her and marry her. He charged his memory with the fact that this was a much more rational course than visiting a girl like Ellen Brewster, so he stayed away in spite of involuntary turnings of his thoughts in that direction. However, now when the opportunity had seemed to be fairly forced upon him, what was he to do? He felt that he was stirred as he had never been before. The girl's very soul seemed to meet his when she looked up at him with those serious blue eyes of hers. He knew that there had never been any like her for him, but he felt as if in another minute, if they did not drop topics which he might as well have discussed with another man, this butterfly of femininity which so delighted him would be beyond his hand. He wanted to keep her to her rose. “But the knowledge must not imbitter your life,” he said. “It is not for a little, delicate girl to worry herself over the problems which are too much for men.” In spite of himself a tenderness had come into his voice. Ellen looked down and away from him. She trembled. “It seems to me that the problems of life, like those in the algebra we studied at school, are for everybody who can read them, whether men or women,” said she, but her voice was unsteady. “Some of them are for men to read and struggle with for the sake of the women,” said Robert. His voice had a tender inflection. They were passing a garden full of old-fashioned flowers, bordered with box. The scent of the box seemed fairly to clamor over the garden fence, drowning out the smaller fragrances of the flowers, like the clamor of a mob. Even the sweetness of the mignonette was faintly perceived. “How strong the box is,” said Ellen, imperceptibly shrinking a little from Robert. When they reached the Brewster house Robert said, as kindly as Granville Joy might have done, “Cannot we get better acquainted, Miss Brewster? May I call upon you sometimes?” “I shall be happy to see you,” Ellen said, repeating the formula of welcome like a child, but she knew when she repeated it that it was very true. After she had parted from young Lloyd, she went into the sitting-room where were her mother and father, her mother sewing on a wrapper, her father reading the paper. Both of them looked up as the girl entered, and both stared at her in a bewildered way without rightly knowing why. Ellen's cheeks were a wonderful color, her eyes fairly blazed with blue light, her mouth was smiling in that ineffable smile of a simple overflow of happiness. “Did you ride home on the car?” asked Fanny. “I didn't hear it stop.” “No, mother.” “Did you come home alone?” asked Andrew, abruptly. “No,” said Ellen, blinking before the glare of the lamp. Fanny looked at Andrew. “Who did come home with you?” she asked, in a foolish, fond voice. “Mr. Robert Lloyd. He was sitting on the piazza when I got there. I told Miss Lennox I had just as soon come on the cars alone, but she wouldn't let me, and then he said it would be pleasant to walk, and—” “Oh, you needn't make so many excuses,” said Fanny, laughing. Ellen colored until her face was a blaze of roses, she blinked harder, and turned her head away impatiently. “I am not making excuses,” said she, as if her modesty were offended. “I wish you wouldn't talk so, mother. I couldn't help it.” “Of course you couldn't,” her mother called out jocularly, as Ellen went into the other room to get her lamp to go to bed. Fanny was radiant with delight. After Ellen had gone up-stairs, she kept looking at Andrew, and longing to confide in him her anticipation with regard to Ellen and young Lloyd, but she refrained, being doubtful as to how he would take it. Andrew looked very sober. The girl's beautiful, metamorphosed face was ever before his eyes, and it was with him as if he were looking after the flight of a beloved bird into a farther blue which was sacred, even from the following of his love. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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