"You won't tell!"
"Not a word," promised Miss MacVane.
Ellen went home and sat by her window. It was late, but she was wide awake. A gentle breeze fanned her cheek; trains rolled far away to distant cities and mountains; a thousand lights gleamed and happy voices rose from the park. She saw almost within her grasp that for which she sighed. She was intensely happy with almost her last unclouded happiness. One could mould one's life if one had only determination enough, if one would only sacrifice that which was not essential for that which was. She thought with affectionate pity of Grandfather, of Matthew, of Amos, even of Millie to whom she owed gratitude because Millie had driven her away. She pitied every one who was not Ellen Levis.
The next afternoon she took her books into the office, where Miss MacVane sat with her back to the light and with a dark shade over her eyes.
"Ellen, I have to have drops in my eyes, and I told Miss Knowlton that I believed you'd put them in after her hours so that she won't have to stay. You will, won't you?"
"Of course."
Miss Knowlton brought a bottle of eye-wash.
"It always stands right there in the corner and it's marked 'MacVane.' You can't miss it. The other bottle in the stand is distilled water."
Ellen watched the operation attentively. Miss MacVane's blinking eyes were red-rimmed and her face was pale. When Miss Knowlton had closed the door she burst out: