She would sit so, motionless, for hours at a time, and sometimes her mother would rouse her almost roughly.  “What be you thinkin’ about, settin’ there so still?” she would ask, with eyes of vague anxiety fixed upon her, but Ellen could never answer.

Though it was getting late, it did not seem dark as early as usual, since there was a full moon and there was snow on the ground which gave forth a pale light in a wide surface of reflection.  However, the moon was behind clouds, for it was beginning to snow again quite heavily, and the white flakes drove in whirlwinds past the street-lamp on the corner of the street.  Now and then a tramping and muffled figure came into the radius of light, then passed into the white gloom beyond.

Fanny was preparing supper, and the light from the dining-room shone in where Ellen sat, but the sitting-room was not lighted.  Ellen began to smell the fragrance of tea and toast, and there was a reflection of the dining-room table and lamp outside pictured vividly against the white sheet of storm.

Ellen knew better, but it amused her to think that her home was out-of-doors as well as under her father’s and mother’s roof.  Eva passed her with her hands full of kindlings.  She was going to make a fire in the parlor-stove, for Jim Tenny was coming that evening.  She laid a tender hand on Ellen’s head as she passed, and smoothed her hair.  Ellen had a sort of acquiescent wonder over her aunt Eva in those days.  She heard people say Eva was getting ready to be married, and speculated.  “What is getting ready to be married?” she asked Eva.

“Why, getting your clothes made, you little ninny,” Eva answered.

The next day Ellen had watched her mother at work upon a new little frock for herself for some time before she spoke.

“Mother,” she said.

“Yes, child.”

“Mother, you are making that new dress for me, ain’t you?”

“Of course I am; why?”

“And you made me a new coat last week?”

“Why, you know I did, Ellen; what do you mean?”

“And you are going to make me a petticoat and put that pretty lace on it?”

“You know I am, Ellen Brewster, what be you drivin’ at?”

“Be I a-gettin’ ready to be married, mother?” asked Ellen, with the strangest look of wonder and awe and anticipation.

Fanny had told this saying of the child’s to everybody, and that evening when Jim Tenny came he caught up Ellen and gave her a toss to the ceiling, a trick of his which filled Ellen with a sort of fearful delight, the delight of helplessness in the hands of strength, and the titillation of evanescent risk.

“So you are gettin’ ready to be married, are you?” Jim Tenny said, with a great laugh, looking at her soberly, with big black eyes.  Jim Tenny was a handsome fellow, and much larger and stronger than her father.  Ellen liked him; he often brought candies in his pocket for her, and they were great friends, but she could never understand why he stayed in the parlor all alone with her aunt Eva, instead of in the sitting-room with the others.