“No, we won't,” replied Fanny. “I'll go out washing first.”
“She hasn't said anything?”
“No.”
As time went on Ellen still said nothing. She had made a curious compact for a young girl with her lover. She had stipulated that no engagement was to exist, that she should be perfectly free—when she said that she thought of Maud Hemingway, but she said it without a tremor—and if years hence both were free and of the same mind they might talk of it again.
Robert had rebelled strenuously. “You know this will shut me off from seeing much of you,” he said. “You know I told you how it will be about my even talking much to you in the factory.”
“Yes, I understand that now,” replied Ellen, blushing; “and I understand, too, that you cannot come to see me very often under such circumstances without making talk.”
“How often?” Robert asked, impetuously.
Ellen hesitated, her lip quivered a little, but her voice was firm. “Not oftener than two or three times a year, I am afraid,” said she.
“Great Scott!” cried Robert. Then he caught her in his arms again. “Do you suppose I can stand that?” he whispered. “Ellen, I cannot consent to this!”
“It is the only way,” said she. She freed herself from him enough to look into his eyes with a brave, fearless gaze of comradeship, which somehow seemed to make her dearer than anything else.