Amy stopped short on the path from the mill to the ladder upon the bluff. Suddenly she reflected how her mother would have regarded her present mood. "He that ruleth his own spirit."
The words seemed whispered in her ear. A moment later she turned and spoke again, but her voice was now gentle and appealing.
"Yes, he is better, though I'm not. He is better because he is just what he seems. There is no pretence about him. He doesn't think that plastering his hair with stuff, and wearing ugly, showy clothes, and a hat on the back of his head, or swaggering, or smoking nasty cigarettes, or being insolent to women, are marks of a gentleman. He's the real thing. That's what Hal is, and that's why I'm so proud of him, so—so touchy about him."
"Amy, what does make a gentleman, anyway, if it isn't dressing in style and knowing things?"
"It's the simplest thing in the world; it's just being kind out of one's heart instead of one's head. It's being just as pure-minded and honest as one can be, and—believing that everybody else is as good or a little better than one's self. So it seems to me."
"We are different, then. I never should know how to say such things. I don't know how to think them. It isn't any use. You are you, and I am me, and that ends it."
Amy did not even smile at the crooked grammar. This was the old cry of Mary, too, and it hurt her.
"Oh, Gwen, I am so sorry. It is of use. There isn't any difference, really. We are both girls who have to earn our living. Our training has been different, that is all. I want to know all you know; I want you to know all I do. I want to be friends; oh, I want to be friends with every girl in the world!"
"Pshaw! do you? Well, I don't. I don't want but a few, and I want them to be stylish and nice. You'd have a lot of style if you could dress different."
Poor Amy. This was like a dash of cold water over her enthusiasm. Just when she fancied that Gwendolyn was aspiring to all that was noble and uplifting, down she had dropped again into that idea of "style" and fashion and good times. But she remembered Mary. In the soul of that afflicted little mill girl was, indeed, a true ambition, and she felt glad again, from thoughts of her.