“I wish Robert Lloyd had to get up at six o'clock and trudge a mile in this snow to his work,” said Abby, with sudden viciousness. “He'll be driven down in his Russian sleigh by a man looking like a drum-major, and cut our poor little wages, and that's all he cares. Who's earning the money, he or us, I'd like to know? I hate the rich!”
“If it's true, what you say,” said Maria, “it seems to me it's like hating those you have given things to, and that's worse than hating your enemies.”
“Don't say given, say been forced to hand over,” retorted Abby, fiercely; “and don't preach, Maria Atkins, I hate preaching; and do have sense enough not to talk when you are out in this awful storm. You can keep your mouth shut, if you can't do anything else!”
Ellen had turned quite white at Abby's words.
“You don't think that he means to cut the wages?” she said, eagerly.
“I know he does. I had it straight. Wait till you get to the shop.”
“I don't believe it.”
“You wait. Norman Lloyd was as hard as nails, and the young one is just like him.” Abby looked relentlessly at Ellen.
“Maybe it isn't so,” whispered Maria to Ellen.
“I don't believe it is,” responded Ellen, but Abby heard them, and turned with a vicious jerk.