“Miss Brewster!” he called.
Mamie Brady, following close behind, gave Ellen an admonishing nudge. “Boss wants to see you,” she whispered, loudly. Ellen stopped, and Robert came up.
“Please step in here a moment, Miss Brewster,” he said, and colored a little.
Granville Joy, who was following Ellen, looked keenly at him, some one sniggered aloud, and a girl said quite audibly, “My land!”
Ellen followed Robert into the office, and he bent over her, speaking rapidly, in a low voice.
“You must not walk home in this snow,” he said, “and the cars are not running. You must let me take you. My sleigh is at the door.”
Ellen turned white. Somehow this protecting care for herself, in the face of all which she had been considering that day, gave her a tremendous shock. She felt at once touched and more indignant than she had ever been in her whole life. She had been half believing that Robert was neglecting her, that he had forgotten her; all day she had been judging his action of cutting the wages of the workmen from her unswerving, childlike, unshadowed point of view, and now this little evidence of humanity towards her, in the face of what she considered wholesale inhumanity towards others, made her at once severe to him and to herself, and she forced back sternly the leap of pleasure and happiness which this thought of her awakened. “No, thank you,” she said, shortly; “I am much obliged, but I would rather walk.”
“But you cannot, in this storm,” pleaded Robert, in a low voice.
“Yes, I can; it is no worse for me than for others. There is Maria Atkins, she has been coughing all day.”
“I will take her too. Ellen, you cannot walk. You must let me take you.”