“What she is writing is beautiful,” said Andrew, fervently. He was quite sure in his own mind that such a book had never been written, and his pride in his decorations was a minor one.
Ellen, although she was not versed in the ways of books, yet had enough of a sense of the fitness of things, and of the ridiculous, to know that the manuscript, with its impossible pen-and-ink birds and flowers heading and finishing every chapter, was grotesque in the extreme. She felt divided between a desire to laugh and a desire to cry whenever she looked at it. About her own work she felt more than doubtful; still, she was somewhat hopeful, since her taste and judgment, as well as her style, were alike crude. She told Abby and Maria what she was doing, under promise of strict secrecy, and after a while read them a few chapters.
“It's beautiful,” said Maria—“perfectly beautiful. I had a Sunday-school book this week which I know wasn't half as good.”
Ellen looked at Abby, who was silent. The three girls were up in Ellen's room. It was midwinter, some months after she had gone to work in the shop, and she had a fire in her little, air-tight stove.
“Well, what do you think of it, Abby?” asked Ellen. Ellen's cheeks were flushed as if with fever. She looked eagerly at the other girl.
“Do you want me to tell you the truth?” asked Abby, bluntly.
“Yes, of course I do.”
“Well, then, I don't know a thing about books, and I'd knock anybody else down that said it, but it seems to me it's trash.”
“Oh, Abby,” murmured Maria.
“Never mind,” said Ellen, though she quivered a little, “I want to know just how it looks to her.”