“I'm going to Mrs. Doty, to get some of the wrappers that mother works on, until something else turns up,” replied Ellen.
“It seems a pity.”
Ellen smiled bravely. “Beggars mustn't be choosers,” she said. “If we can only keep along, somehow, I don't care.”
There came a vehement pound of a stick on the floor, for that was the way the old woman in the sitting-room commanded attention. Miss Mitchell opened the door on a crack, that she might not let in the cold air.
“What is it, mother?” she said.
“You get Ellen a school right away, Fanny.”
“All right, mother; I'll do my best.”
“Get her the grammar-school you used to have.”
“All right, mother.”
There was something about the imperative solicitude of the old woman which comforted Ellen in spite of its futility as she went on her way. The good-will of another human soul, even when it cannot be resolved into active benefits, has undoubtedly a mighty force of its own. Ellen, with the sweet of the cookies still lingering on her tongue, and the sweet of the old woman's kindness in her soul, felt refreshed as if by some subtle spiritual cake and wine. She even went to the door of Mrs. Doty's house. Mrs. Doty was the woman who let out wrappers to her impecunious neighbors with an undaunted heart. She had no difficulty there. The demand for cheap wrappers was not on the wane, even in the hard times. When Ellen reached her grandmother's house, with a great parcel under her arm, Mrs. Zelotes opened her side door.