Ellen did not speak, but there was the swift flicker of a thought over her face which told her name as plainly as language if the woman had possessed the skill to interpret it.
"Ellen Brewster--Ellen Brewster is my name," Ellen said to herself very hard, and that was how she endured the reproach of her own silence.
The woman looked at her with surprise and admiration that were fairly passionate.

Ellen was a beautiful child, with a face like a white flower.

People had always turned to look after her, she was so charming, and had caused her mothers heart to swell with pride.

"The way everybody we met has stared after that child to-day!" she would whisper her husband when she brought Ellen home from some little expedition; then the two would look at the little one's face with the one holy vanity of the world.

Ellen wore to-night the little white shawl which her father had caught up when he carried her over to her grandmother's.