It had been a particularly delightful day with the Hilcrest house-party. They had gone early in the morning to Silver Lake for a picnic. A sail on the lake, a delicious luncheon, and a climb up “Hilltop” had filled every hour with enjoyment until five o’clock when they had started for home.
Two of the guests had brought their own motor-cars to Hilcrest, and it was in one of these that Miss Kendall was making the homeward trip.
“And you call this a ‘runabout,’ Mr. Brandon?” she laughed gaily, as the huge car darted forward. “I should as soon think of having an elephant for an errand boy.”
Brandon laughed.
“But just wait until you see the elephant get over the ground,” he retorted. “And, after all, the car isn’t so big when you compare it with Harlow’s or Frank’s. It only seats two, youknow, but its engine is quite as powerful as either of theirs. I want you to see what it can do,” he finished, as he began gradually to increase their speed.
For some time neither spoke. The road ran straight ahead in a narrowing band of white that lost itself in a thicket of green far in the distance. Yet almost immediately—it seemed to Margaret—the green was at their right and their left, and the road had unwound another white length of ribbon that flung itself across the valley and up the opposite hill to the sky-line.
Houses, trees, barns, and bushes rushed by like specters, and the soft August air swept by her cheeks like a November gale. Not until the opposite hill was reached, however, did Brandon slacken speed.
“You see,” he exulted, “we can just annihilate space with this!”
“You certainly can,” laughed Margaret, a little hysterically. “And you may count yourself lucky if you don’t annihilate anything else.”
Brandon brought the car almost to a stop.
“I was a brute. I frightened you,” he cried with quick contrition.
The girl shook her head. A strange light came to her eyes.
“No; I liked it,” she answered. “I liked it—too well. Do you know? I never dare to run a car by myself—very much. I learned how, and had a little runabout of my own at college, and I run one now sometimes. But it came over me one day—the power there was under my fingers. Almost involuntarily I began to let it out. I went faster and faster—and yet I did not go half fast enough. Something seemed to be pushing me on, urging me to even greater and greater speed. I wanted to get away, away——! Then I came to myself. I was miles from where I should have been, and in a locality I knew nothing about. I had no little difficulty in getting back to where I belonged, besides having a fine or two to pay, I believe. I was frightened and ashamed, for everywhere I heard of stories of terrified men, women, children, and animals, and of how I had narrowly escaped having death itself to answer for as a result of my mad race through the country. And yet—even now—to-day, I felt that wild exhilaration of motion. I did not want to stop. I wanted to go on and on——” She paused suddenly, and fellback in her seat. “You see,” she laughed with a complete change of manner, “I am not to be trusted as a chauffeur.”
“I see,” nodded Brandon, a little soberly; then, with a whimsical smile: “Perhaps I should want the brakes shifted to my side of the car—if I rode with you!... But, after all, when you come right down to the solid comfort of motoring, you can take it best by jogging along like this at a good sensible rate of speed that will let you see something of the country you are passing through. Look at those clouds. We shall have a gorgeous sunset to-night.”
It was almost an hour later that Brandon stopped his car where two roads crossed, and looked behind him.
“By George, where are those people?” he queried.
“But we started first, and we came rapidly for a time,” reminded the girl.
“I know, but we’ve been simply creeping for the last mile or two,” returned the man. “I slowed up purposely to fall in behind the rest. I’m not so sure I know the way from here—but perhaps you do.” And he turned his eyes questioningly to hers.
“Not I,” she laughed. “But I thought you did.”
“So did I,” he grumbled. “I’ve been over this road enough in times past. Oh, I can get back to Hilcrest all right,” he added reassuringly. “It’s only that I don’t remember which is the best way. One road takes us through the town and is not so pleasant. I wanted to avoid that if possible.”
“Never mind; let’s go on,” proposed the girl. “It’s getting late, and we might miss them even if we waited. They may have taken another road farther back. If they thought you knew the way they wouldn’t feel in duty bound to keep track of us, and they may have already reached home. I don’t mind a bit which road we take.”
“All right,” acquiesced Brandon. “Just as you say. I think this is the one. Anyhow, we’ll try it.” And he turned his car to the left.
The sun had dipped behind the hills, and the quick chill of an August evening was in the air. Margaret shivered and reached for her coat. The road wound in and out through a scrubby growth of trees, then turned sharply and skirted the base of a steep hill. Beyond the next turn it droppedin a gentle descent and ran between wide open fields. A house appeared, then another and another. A man and a woman walked along the edge of the road and stopped while the automobile passed. The houses grew more frequent, and children and small dogs scurried across the road to a point of safety.
“By George, I believe we’ve got the wrong road now,” muttered Brandon with a frown. “Shall we go back?”
“No, no,” demurred the girl. “What does it matter? It’s only another way around, and perhaps no longer than the other.”
The road turned and dropped again. The hill was steeper now. The air grew heavy and fanned Margaret’s cheek with a warm breath as if from an oven. Unconsciously she loosened the coat at her throat.
“Why, how warm it is!” she exclaimed.
“Yes. I fancy there’s no doubt now where we are,” frowned Brandon. “I thought as much,” he finished as the car swung around a curve.
Straight ahead the road ran between lines of squat brown houses with men, women, and children swarmingon the door-steps or hanging on the fences. Beyond rose tier upon tier of red and brown roofs flanked on the left by the towering chimneys of the mills. Still farther beyond and a little to the right, just where the sky was reddest, rose the terraced slopes of Prospect Hill crowned by the towers and turrets of Hilcrest.
“We can at least see where we want to be,” laughed Brandon. “Fine old place—shows up great against that sky; doesn’t it?”
The girl at his side did not answer. Her eyes had widened a little, and her cheeks had lost their bright color. She was not looking at the pile of brick and stone on top of Prospect Hill, but at the ragged little urchins and pallid women that fell back from the roadway before the car. The boys yelled derisively, and a baby cried. Margaret shrank back in her seat, and Brandon, turning quickly, saw the look on her face. His own jaw set into determined lines.
“We’ll be out of this soon, Miss Kendall,” he assured her. “You mustn’t mind them. As if it wasn’t bad enough to come here anyway but that I must needs come now just when the day-shift is getting home!”
“The day-shift?”
“Yes; the hands who work days, you know.”
“But don’t they all work—days?”
Brandon laughed.
“Hardly!”
“You mean, they worknights?”
“Yes.” He threw a quizzical smile into her startled eyes. “By the way,” he observed, “you’d better not ask Frank in that tone of voice if they work nights. That night-shift is a special pet of his. He says it’s one great secret of the mills’ prosperity—having two shifts. Not that his are the only mills that run nights, of course—there are plenty more.”
Margaret’s lips parted, but before she could speak there came a hoarse shout and a quick cry of terror. The next instant the car under Brandon’s skilful hands swerved sharply and just avoided a collision with a boy on a bicycle.
“Narrow shave, that,” muttered Brandon. “He wasn’t even looking where he was going.”
Margaret shuddered. She turned her gaze to the right and to the left. Everywhere were wan faces and sunken eyes. With a little cry she clutched Brandon’s arm.
“Can’t we go faster—faster,” she moaned. “I want to get away—away!”
For answer came the sharp “honk-honk” of the horn, and the car bounded forward. With a shout the crowd fell back, and with another “honk-honk” Brandon took the first turn to the right.
“I think we’re out of the worst of it,” he cried in Margaret’s ear. “If we keep to the right, we’ll go through only the edge of the town.” Even as he spoke, the way cleared more and more before them, and the houses grew farther apart.
The town was almost behind them, and their speed had considerably lessened, when Margaret gave a scream of horror. Almost instantly Brandon brought the car to a stop and leaped to the ground. Close by one of the big-rimmed wheels lay a huddled little heap of soiled and ragged pink calico; but before Brandon could reach it, the heap stirred, and lifted itself. From beneath a tangled thatch of brown curls looked out two big brown eyes.
“I reckon mebbe I felled down,” said a cheery voice that yet sounded a little dazed. “I reckon I did.”
“Good heavens, baby, I reckon you did!”breathed the man in glad relief. “And you may thank your lucky stars ’twas no worse.”
“T’ank lucky stars. What are lucky stars?” demanded the small girl, interestedly.
“Eh? Oh, lucky stars—why, they’re—what are lucky stars, Miss Kendall?”
Margaret did not answer. She did not seem to hear. With eyes that carried a fascinated terror in their blue depths, she was looking at the dirty little feet and the ragged dress of the child before her.
“T’ank lucky stars,” murmured the little girl again, putting out a cautious finger and just touching the fat rubber tire of the wheel that had almost crushed out her life.
Brandon shuddered involuntarily and drew the child away.
“What’s your name, little girl?” he asked gently.
“Maggie.”
“How old are you?”
“I’m ‘most five goin’ on six an’ I’ll be twelve ter-morrer.”
Brandon smiled.
“And where do you live?” he continued.
A thin little claw of a finger pointed to an unpainted, shabby-looking cottage across the street. At that moment a shrill voice called: “Maggie, Maggie, what ye doin’? Come here, child.” And a tall, gaunt woman appeared in the doorway.
Maggie turned slowly; but scarcely had the little bare feet taken one step when the girl in the automobile stirred as if waking from sleep.
“Here—quick—little girl, take this,” she cried, tearing open the little jeweled purse at her belt, and thrusting all its contents into the small, grimy hands.
Maggie stared in wonder. Then her whole face lighted up.
“Lucky stars!” she cried gleefully, her eyes on the shining coins. “T’ank lucky stars!” And she turned and ran with all her small might toward the house.
“Quick—come—let us go,” begged Margaret, “before the mother sees—the money!” And Brandon, smiling indulgently at the generosity that was so fearful of receiving thanks, lost no time in putting a long stretch of roadway between themselves and the tall, gaunt woman behind them.
“Stars—t’ank lucky stars,” Maggie was still shouting gleefully when she reached her mother’s side.
Mrs. Durgin bent keen eyes on her young daughter’s face.
“Maggie, what was they sayin’ to ye?” she began, pulling the little girl into the house. Suddenly her jaw dropped. She stooped and clutched the child’s hands. “Why, Maggie, it’s money—stacks of it!” she exclaimed, prying open the small fingers.
“Stars—lucky stars!” cooed Maggie. Maggie liked new words and phrases, and she always said them over and over until they were new no longer.
Mrs. Durgin shook her daughter gently, yet determinedly. Her small black eyes looked almost large, so wide were they with amazement.
“Maggie, Maggie, tell me—what did they say to ye?” she demanded again. “Why did they give ye all this money?”
Maggie was silent. Her brow was drawn into a thoughtful frown.
“But, Maggie, think—there must ‘a’ been somethin’. What did ye do?”
“There wa’n’t,” insisted the child. “I jest felled down an’ got up, an’ they said it.”
“Said what?”
“‘T’ank lucky stars.’”
A sudden thought sent a quick flash of fear to Mrs. Durgin’s eyes.
“Maggie, they didn’t hurt ye,” she cried, dropping on her knees and running swift, anxious fingers over the thin little arms and legs and body. “They didn’t hurt ye!”
Maggie shook her head. At that moment a shadow darkened the doorway, and the kneeling woman glanced up hastily.
“Oh, it’s you, Mis’ Magoon,” she said to the small, tired-looking woman in the doorway.
“Yes, it’s me,” sighed the woman, dragging herself across the room to a chair. “What time did Nellie leave here?”
“Why, I dunno—mebbe four o’clock. Why?”
The woman’s face contracted with a sharp spasm of pain.
“She wa’n’t within half a mile of the mill when I met her, yet she was pantin’ an’ all out o’ breath then. She’ll be late, ‘course, an’ you know what that means.”
“Yes, I know,” sighed Mrs. Durgin, sympathetically. “She—she hadn’t orter gone.”
Across the room Mrs. Magoon’s head came up with a jerk.
“Don’t ye s’pose I know that? The child’s sick, an’ I know it. But what diff’rence does that make? She works, don’t she?”
For a moment Mrs. Durgin did not speak. Gradually her eyes drifted back to Maggie and the little pile of coins on the table.
“Mis’ Magoon, see,” she cried eagerly, “what the lady give Maggie. They was in one o’ them ‘nauty-mobiles,’ as Maggie calls ’em, an’ Maggie felled down in the road. She wa’n’t hurt a mite—not even scratched, but they give her all this money.”
The woman on the other side of the room sniffed disdainfully.
“Well, what of it? They’d oughter give it to her,” she asserted.
“But they wa’n’t ter blame, an’ they didn’t hurt her none—not a mite,” argued the other.
“No thanks ter them, I’ll warrant,” snapped Mrs. Magoon. “For my part, I wouldn’t tech their old money.” Then, crossly, but with undeniable interest, she asked: “How much was it?”
Mrs. Durgin laughed.
“Never you mind,” she retorted, as she gathered up the coins from the table; “but thar’s enough so’s I’m goin’ ter get them cough-drops fur Nellie, anyhow. So!” And she turned her back and pretended not to hear the faint remonstrances from the woman over by the window. Later, when she had bought the medicine and had placed it in Mrs. Magoon’s hands, the remonstrances were repeated in a higher key, and were accompanied again with an angry snarl against the world in general and automobiles in particular.
“But why do ye hate ’em so?” demanded Mrs. Durgin, “—them autymobiles? They hain’t one of ’em teched ye, as I knows of.”
There was no answer.
“I don’t believe ye knows yerself,” declared the questioner then; and at the taunt the other raised her head.
“Mebbe I don’t,” she flamed, “an’ ’tain’t them I hate, anyway—it’s the folks in ’em. It’s richfolks. I’ve allers hated ’em anywheres, but ‘twa’n’t never so bad as now since them things came. They look so—so comfortable—the folks a-leanin’ back on their cushions; an’ so—sofree, as if there wa’n’t nothin’ that could bother ’em. ‘Course I knew before that there was rich folks, an’ that they had fine clo’s an’ good things ter eat, an’ shows an’ parties, an’ spent money; but I didn’tsee’em, an’ now I do. Isee’em, I tell ye, an’ it makes me realize how I ain’t comfortable like they be, nor Nellie ain’t neither!”
“But they ain’t all bad—rich folks,” argued the thin, black-eyed woman, earnestly. “Some of ’em is good.”
The other shook her head.
“I hain’t had the pleasure o’ meetin’ that kind,” she rejoined grimly.
“Well, I have,” retorted Maggie’s mother with some spirit. “Look at that lady ter-night what give Maggie all that money.”
There was no answer, and after a moment Mrs. Durgin went on. Her voice was lower now, and not quite clear.
“Thar was another one, too, an’ she was jest like a angel out o’ heaven. It was years ago—muchas twelve or fourteen, when I lived in New York. She was the mother of the nicest an’ prettiest little girl I ever see—the one I named my Maggie for. An’ she asked us ter her home an’ we stayed weeks, an’ rode in her carriages, an’ ate ter her table, an’ lived right with her jest as she did. An’ when we come back ter New York she come with us an’ took us out of the cellar an’ found a beautiful place fur us, all sun an’ winders, an’ she paid up the rent fur us ‘way ahead whole months. An’ thar was all the Whalens an’ me an’ the twins.”
“Well,” prompted Mrs. Magoon, as the speaker paused. “What next? You ain’t in New York, an’ she ain’t a-doin’ it now, is she? Where is she?”
Mrs. Durgin turned her head away.
“I don’t know,” she said.
The other sniffed.
“I thought as much. It don’t last—it never does.”
“But it would ‘a’ lasted with her,” cut in Mrs. Durgin, sharply. “She wa’n’t the kind what gives up. She’s sick or dead, or somethin’—I know she is. But thar’s others what has lasted.That Mont-Lawn I was tellin’ ye of, whar I learned them songs we sings, an’ whar I learned ‘most ev’rythin’ good thar is in me—that’sdone by rich folks, an’ that’s lasted! They pays three dollars an’ it lets some poor little boy or girl go thar an’ stay ten whole days jest eatin’ an’ sleepin’ an’ playin’. An’ if I was in New York now my Maggie herself’d be a-goin’ one o’ these days—you’d see! I tell ye, rich folks ain’t bad—all of ’em, an’ they do do things ’sides loll back in them autymobiles!”
Mrs. Magoon stared, then she shrugged her shoulders.
“Mebbe,” she admitted grudgingly. “Say—er—Mis’ Durgin, how much was that money Maggie got—eh?”
Margaret Kendall did not sleep well the night after the picnic at Silver Lake. She was restless, and she tossed from side to side finding nowhere a position that brought ease of mind and body. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but her active brain painted the dark with a panorama of the day’s happenings, and whether her eyes were open or closed, she was forced to see it. There were the lake, the mountain, and the dainty luncheon spread on the grass; and there were the faces of the merry friends who had accompanied her. There were the shifting scenes of the homeward ride, too, with the towers of Hilcrest showing dark and clear-cut against a blood-red sky. But everywhere, from the lake, the mountain, and even from Hilcrest itself, looked out strange wan faces with hollow cheeks and mournful eyes; and everywhere fluttered the ragged skirts of a child’s pink calico dress.
It was two o’clock when Margaret arose, thrusther feet into a pair of bed-slippers and her arms into the sleeves of a long, loose dressing-gown. There was no moon, but a starlit sky could be seen through the open windows, and Margaret easily found her way across the room to the door that led to the balcony.
Margaret’s room, like the dining-room below, looked toward the west and the far-reaching meadows; but from the turn of the balcony where it curved to the left, one might see the town, and it was toward this curve that Margaret walked now. Once there she stopped and stood motionless, her slender hands on the balcony rail.
The night was wonderfully clear. The wide dome of the sky twinkled with a myriad of stars, and seemed to laugh at the town below with its puny little lights blinking up out of the dark where the streets crossed and recrossed. Over by the river where the mills pointed big black fingers at the sky, however, the lights did not blink. They blazed in tier upon tier and line upon line of windows, and they glowed with a never-ending glare that sent a shudder to the watching girl on the balcony.
“And they’re working now—now!” she almostsobbed; then she turned with a little cry and ran down the balcony toward her room where was waiting the cool soft bed with the lavender-scented sheets.
In spite of the restless night she had spent, Margaret arose early the next morning. The house was very quiet when she came down-stairs, and only the subdued rustle of the parlor maid’s skirts broke the silence of the great hall which was also the living-room at Hilcrest.
“Good-morning, Betty.”
“Good-morning, Miss,” courtesied the girl.
Miss Kendall had almost reached the outer hall door when she turned abruptly.
“Betty, you—you don’t know a little child named—er—‘Maggie’; do you?” she asked.
“Ma’am?” Betty almost dropped the vase she was dusting.
“‘Maggie,’—a little girl named ‘Maggie.’ She’s one of the—the mill people’s children, I think.”
Betty drew herself erect.
“No, Miss, I don’t,” she said crisply.
“No, of course not,” murmured Miss Kendall, unconsciously acknowledging the reproach inBetty’s voice. Then she turned and went out the wide hall door.
Twice she walked from end to end of the long veranda, but not once did she look toward the mills; and when she sat down a little later, her chair was so placed that it did not command a view of the red and brown roofs of the town.
Miss Kendall was restless that day. She rode and drove and sang and played, and won at golf and tennis; but behind it all was a feverish gayety that came sometimes perilously near to recklessness. Frank Spencer and his sister watched her with troubled eyes, and even Ned gave an anxious frown once or twice. Just before dinner Brandon came upon her alone in the music room where she was racing her fingers through the runs and trills of an impromptu at an almost impossible speed.
“If you take me motoring with you to-night, Miss Kendall,” he said whimsically, when the music had ceased with a crashing chord, “if you take me to-night, I shall make sure that the brakesareon my side of the car!”
The girl laughed, then grew suddenly grave.
“You would need to,” she acceded; “but—Ishall not take you or any one else motoring to-night.”
In the early evening after dinner Margaret sought her guardian. He was at his desk in his own special den out of the library, and the door was open.
“May I come in?” she asked.
Spencer sprang to his feet.
“By all means,” he cried as he placed a chair. “You don’t often honor me—like this.”
“But this is where you do business, when at home; isn’t it?” she inquired. “And I—I have come to do business.”
The man laughed.
“So it’s business—just plain sordid business—to which I am indebted for this,” he bemoaned playfully. “Well, and what is it? Income too small for expenses?” He chuckled a little, and he could afford to. Margaret had made no mistake in asking him still to have the handling of her property. The results had been eminently satisfactory both to his pride and her pocketbook.
“No, no, it’s not that; it’s the mills.”
“The mills!”
“Yes. Is it quite—quite necessary to work—nights?”
For a moment the man stared wordlessly; then he fell back in his chair.
“Why, Margaret, what in the world——” he stopped from sheer inability to proceed. He had suddenly remembered the stories he had heard of the early life of this girl before him, and of her childhood’s horror at the difference between the lot of the rich and the poor.
“Last night we—we came through the town,” explained Margaret, a little feverishly; “and Mr. Brandon happened to mention that they worked—nights.”
The man at the desk roused himself.
“Yes, I see,” he said kindly. “You were surprised, of course. But don’t worry, my child, or let it fret you a moment. It’s nothing new. They are used to it. They have done it for years.”
“But at night—all night—it doesn’t seem right. And it must be so—hard.Mustthey do it?”
“Why, of course. Other mills run nights; why shouldn’t ours? They expect it, Margaret.Besides, they are paid for it. Come, come, dear girl, just look at it sensibly. Why, it’s the night work that helps to swell your dividends.”
Margaret winced.
“I—I think I’d prefer them smaller,” she faltered. She hesitated, then spoke again. “There’s another thing, too, I wanted to ask you about. There was a little girl, Maggie. She lives in one of those shabby, unpainted houses at the foot of the hill. I want to do something for her. Will you see that this reaches her mother, please?” And she held out a fat roll of closely folded bills. “Now don’t—please don’t!” she cried, as she saw the man’s remonstrative gesture. “Please don’t say you can’t, and that indiscriminate giving encourages pauperism. I used to hear that so often at school whenever I wanted to give something, and I—I hated it. If you could have seen that poor little girl yesterday!—you will see that she gets it; won’t you?”
“But, Margaret,” began the man helplessly, “I don’t know the child—there are so many——” he stopped, and Margaret picked up the dropped thread.
“But you can find out,” she urged. “Youmust find out. Her name’s Maggie. You can inquire—some one will know.”
“But, don’t you see——” the man’s face cleared suddenly. “I’ll give it to Della,” he broke off in quick relief. “She runs the charity part, and she’ll know just what to do with it. Meanwhile, let me thank you——”
“No, no,” interrupted Margaret, rising to go. “It is you I have to thank for doing it for me,” she finished as she hurried from the room.
“By George!” muttered the man, as he looked at the denominations of the bills in his fingers. “I’m not so sure but we may have our hands full, after all—certainly, if she keeps on as she’s begun!”
It was after eight o’clock. The morning, for so early in September, was raw and cold. A tall young fellow, with alert gray eyes and a square chin hurried around the corner of one of the great mills, and almost knocked down a small girl who was coming toward him with head bent to the wind.
“Heigh-ho!” he cried, then stopped short. The child had fallen back and was leaning against the side of the building in a paroxysm of coughing. She was thin and pale, and looked as if she might be eleven years old. “Well, well!” he exclaimed as soon as the child caught her breath. “I reckon there’s room for both of us in the world, after all.” Then, kindly: “Where were you going?”
“Home, sir.”
He threw a keen look into her face.
“Are you one of the mill girls?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Night shift?”
She nodded.
“But it’s late—it’s after eight o’clock. Why didn’t you go home with the rest?”
The child hesitated. Her eyes swerved from his gaze. She looked as if she wanted to run away.
“Come, come,” he urged kindly. “Answer me. I won’t hurt you. I may help you. Let us go around here where the wind doesn’t blow so.” And he led the way to the sheltered side of the building. “Now tell us all about it. Why didn’t you go home with the rest?”
“I did start to, sir, but I was so tired, an’—an’ I coughed so, I stopped to rest. It was nice an’ cool out here, an’ I was so hot in there.” She jerked her thumb toward the mill.
“Yes, yes, I know,” he said hastily; and his lips set into stern lines as he thought of the hundreds of other little girls that found the raw morning “nice and cool” after the hot, moist air of the mills.
“But don’t you see,” he protested earnestly, “that that’s the very time you mustn’t stop and rest? You take cold, and that’s what makes youcough. You shouldn’t be——” he stopped abruptly. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Nellie Magoon.”
“How old are you?”
The thin little face before him grew suddenly drawn and old, and the eyes met his with a look that was half-shrewd, half-terrified, and wholly defiant.
“I’m thirteen, sir.”
“How old were you when you began to work here?”
“Twelve, sir.” The answer was prompt and sure. The child had evidently been well trained.
“Where do you live?”
“Over on the Prospect Hill road.”
“But that’s a long way from here.”
“Yes, sir. I does get tired.”
“And you’ve walked it a good many times, too; haven’t you?” said the man, quietly. “Let’s see, how long is it that you’ve worked at the mills?”
“Two years, sir.”
A single word came sharply from between the man’s close-shut teeth, and Nellie wondered why the kind young man with the pleasant eyes shouldsuddenly look so very cross and stern. At that moment, too, she remembered something—she had seen this man many times about the mills. Why was he questioning her? Perhaps he was not going to let her work any more, and if he did not let her work, what would her mother say and do?
“Please, sir, I must go, quick,” she cried suddenly, starting forward. “I’m all well now, an’ I ain’t tired a mite. I’ll be back ter-night. Jest remember I’m thirteen, an’ I likes ter work in the mills—I likes ter, sir,” she shouted back at him.
“Humph!” muttered the man, as he watched the frail little figure disappear down the street. “I thought as much!” Then he turned and strode into the mill. “Oh, Mr. Spencer, I’d like to speak to you, please, sir,” he called, hurrying forward, as he caught sight of the younger member of the firm of Spencer & Spencer.
Fifteen minutes later Ned Spencer entered his brother’s office, and dropped into the nearest chair.
“Well,” he began wearily, “McGinnis is on the war-path again.”
Frank smiled.
“So? What’s up now?”
“Oh, same old thing—children working under age. By his own story the girl herself swears she’s thirteen, but he says she isn’t.”
Frank shrugged his shoulders.
“Perhaps he knows better than the girl’s parents,” he observed dryly. “He’d better look her up on our registers, or he might ask to see her certificate.”
Ned laughed. He made an impatient gesture.
“Good heavens, Frank,” he snapped; “as if ’twas our fault that they lie so about the kids’ ages! They’d put a babe in arms at the frames if they could. But McGinnis—by the way, where did you get that fellow? and how long have you had him? I can’t remember when he wasn’t here. He acts as if he owned the whole concern, and had a personal interest in every bobbin in it.”
“That’s exactly it,” laughed Frank. “Hehasa personal interest, and that’s why I keep him, and put up with some of his meddling that’s not quite so pleasant. He’s as honest as the daylight, and as faithful as the sun.”
“Where did you get him? He must have been here ages.”
“Ages? Well, for twelve—maybe thirteen years, to be exact. He was a mere boy, fourteen or fifteen, when he came. He said he was from Houghtonsville, and that he had known Dr. Harry Spencer. He asked for work—any kind, and brought good references. We used him about the office for awhile, then gradually worked him into the mills. He was bright and capable, and untiring in his efforts to please, so we pushed him ahead rapidly. He went to night school at once, and has taken one or two of those correspondence courses until he’s acquired really a good education.
“He’s practically indispensable to me now—anyhow, I found out that he was when he was laid up for a month last winter. He stands between me and the hands like a strong tower, and takes any amount of responsibility off my shoulders. You’ll see for yourself when you’ve been here longer. The hands like him, and will do anything for him. That’s why I put up with some of his notions. They’re getting pretty frequent of late, however, and he’s becoming a little too meddlesome. I may have to call him down a peg.”
“You’d think so, I fancy, if you had heard himrun on about this mill-girl half an hour ago,” laughed Ned. “He said he should speak to you.”
“Very good. Then I can speak to him,” retorted the other, grimly.
Early in the second week of September the houseful of guests at Hilcrest went away, leaving the family once more alone.
“It seems good; doesn’t it—just by ourselves,” said Margaret that first morning at breakfast. As she spoke three pairs of eyes flashed a message of exultant thankfulness to each other, and three heads nodded an “I told you so!” when Margaret’s gaze was turned away. Later, Mrs. Merideth put the sentiment into words, as she followed her brothers to the door.
“You see, I was right,” she declared. “Margaret only needed livening up. She’s all right now, and will be contented here with us.”
“Sure!” agreed Ned, as he stepped out on to the veranda. Frank paused a moment.
“Has she ever been to you again, Della, with money, or—or anything?” he asked in a low voice.
“No, never,” replied Mrs. Merideth. “Sheasked once if I’d found the child, Maggie, to give the money to, and I evaded a direct reply. I told her I had put the money into the hands of the Guild, and that they were in constant touch with all cases of need. I got her interested in talking of something else, and she did not say anything more about it.”
“Good! It’s the best way. You know her history, and how morbid she got when she was a child. It won’t do to run any chances of that happening again; and I fear ‘twouldn’t take much to bring it back. She was not a little excited when she brought the money in to me that night. We must watch out sharp,” he finished as he passed through the door, and hurried down the steps after his brother.
Back in the dining-room Margaret had wandered listlessly to the window. It had been some weeks since she had seen a long day before her with no plans to check off the time into hours and half-hours of expected happenings. She told herself that it was a relief and that she liked it—but her fingers tapped idly upon the window, and her eyes gazed absent-mindedly at a cloud sailing across a deep blue sky.
After a time she turned to the door near by and stepped out upon the veranda. She could hear voices from around the corner, and aimlessly she wandered toward them. But before she had reached the turn the voices had ceased; and a minute later she saw Frank and Ned step into the waiting automobile and whir rapidly down the driveway.
Mrs. Merideth had disappeared into the house, and Margaret found herself alone. Slowly she walked toward the railing and looked at the town far below. The roofs showed red and brown and gray in the sunlight, and were packed close together save at the outer edges, where they thinned into a straggling fringe of small cottages and dilapidated shanties.
Margaret shivered with repulsion. How dreadful it must be to live like that—no air, no sun, no view of the sky and of the cool green valley! And there were so many of them—those poor creatures down there, with their wasted forms and sunken eyes! She shuddered again as she thought of how they had thronged the road on the day of the picnic at Silver Lake—and then she turned and walked with resolute steps to the farther sideof the veranda where only the valley and the hills met her eyes.
It had been like this with Margaret every day since that memorable ride home with Mr. Brandon. Always her steps, her eyes, and her thoughts had turned toward the town; and always, with uncompromising determination, they had been turned about again by sheer force of will until they looked toward the valley with its impersonal green and silver. Until now there had been gay companions and absorbing pastimes to make this turning easy and effectual; now there was only the long unbroken day of idleness in prospect, and the turning was neither so easy nor so effectual. The huddled roofs and dilapidated shanties of the town looked up at her even from the green of the valley; and the wasted forms and hollow eyes of the mill workers blurred the sheen of the river.
“I’ll go down there,” she cried aloud with sudden impulsiveness. “I’ll go back through the way we came up; then perhaps I’ll be cured.” And she hurried away to order the runabout to be brought to the door for her use.
To Margaret it was all very clear. She needed but a sane, daylight ride through those streetsdown there to drive away forever the morbid fancies that had haunted her so long. She told herself that it was the hour, the atmosphere, the half-light, that had painted the picture of horror for her. Under the clear light of the sun those swarming multitudes would be merely men, women, and children, not haunting ghosts of misery. There was the child, Maggie, too. Perhaps she might be found, and it would be delightful, indeed, to see for herself the comforting results of the spending of that roll of money she had put into her guardian’s hands some time before.
Of all this Margaret thought, and it was therefore with not unpleasant anticipations that she stepped into the runabout a little later, and waved a good-bye to Mrs. Merideth, with a cheery: “I’m off for a little spin, Aunt Della. I’ll be back before luncheon.”
Margaret was very sure that she knew the way, and some distance below the house she made the turn that would lead to what was known as the town road. The air was fresh and sweet, and the sun flickered through the trees in dancing little flecks of light that set the girl’s pulses to throbbing in sympathy, and caused her to sendthe car bounding forward as if it, too, had red blood in its veins. Far down the hill the woods thinned rapidly, and a house or two appeared. Margaret went more slowly now. Somewhere was the home of little Maggie, and she did not want to miss it.
Houses and more houses appeared, and the trees were left behind. There was now only the glaring sunlight showing up in all their barrenness the shabby little cottages with their dooryards strewn with tin cans and bits of paper, and swarming with half-clothed, crying babies.
From somewhere came running a saucy-faced, barefooted urchin, then another and another, until the road seemed lined with them.
“Hi, thar, look at de buz-wagon wid de gal in it!” shrieked a gleeful voice, and instantly the cry was taken up and echoed from across the street with shrill catcalls and derisive laughter.
Margaret was frightened. She tooted her horn furiously, and tried to forge ahead; but the children, reading aright the terror in her eyes, swarmed about her until she was forced to bring the car almost to a stop lest she run over the small squirming bodies.
With shrieks of delight the children instantly saw their advantage, and lost no time in making the most of it. They leaped upon the low step and clung to the sides and front of the car like leeches. Two larger boys climbed to the back and hung there with swinging feet, their jeering lips close to Miss Kendall’s shrinking ears. A third boy, still more venturesome, had almost reached the vacant seat at Miss Kendall’s side, when above the din of hoots and laughter, sounded an angry voice and a sharp command.
It had been young McGinnis’s intention to look up the home and the parents of the little mill-girl, Nellie Magoon, at once, and see if something could not be done to keep—for a time, at least—that frail bit of humanity out of the mills. Some days had elapsed, however, since he had talked with the child, and not until now had he found the time to carry out his plan. He was hurrying with frowning brow along the lower end of Prospect Hill road when suddenly his ears were assailed by the unmistakable evidence that somewhere a mob of small boys had found an object upon which to vent their wildest mischief. The next moment a turn of the road revealed the almost motionless runabout with its living freight of shrieking urchins, and its one white-faced, terrified girl.
With a low-breathed “Margaret!” McGinnis sprang forward.