Bobby McGinnis wondered sometimes that summer why he was not happier. Viewed from the standpoint of an outsider, he surely had enough to make any man happy. He was young, strong, and in a position of trust and profit. He was, moreover, engaged to the girl he loved, and that girl was everything that was good and beautiful, and he saw her almost every day. All this Bobby knew—and still he wondered.
He saw a good deal of Margaret these days. Their engagement had come to be an accepted fact, and the first flurry of surprise and comment had passed. The Mill House, with Patty in charge, was steadily progressing. Margaret had taken up her work again with fresh zest, but, true to her promise to Mrs. Merideth, she spent many a day, and sometimes two or three days at Hilcrest. All this, however, did not interfere with Bobby’s seeing her—for he, too, went to Hilcrestin accordance with Margaret’s express wishes.
“But, Bobby,” Margaret had said in response to his troubled remonstrances, “are you not going to be my husband? Of course you are! Then you must come to meet my friends.” And Bobby went.
Bobby McGinnis found himself in a new position then. He was Mr. Robert McGinnis, the accepted suitor of Miss Margaret Kendall, and as such, he was introduced to Margaret’s friends.
It was just here, perhaps, that misery began for Bobby. He was not more at ease in his new, well-fitting evening clothes than he would have been in the garb of Sing Sing; nor did he feel less conspicuous among the gay throng about Margaret’s chair than he would if he had indeed worn the prison stripes.
As Bobby saw it, hewasin prison, beyond the four walls of which lay a world he had never seen—a world of beautiful music and fine pictures; a world of great books and famous men; a world of travel, ease, and pleasure. He could but dimly guess the meaning of half of what was said; and the conversation might as well have been conductedin a foreign language so far as there being any possibility of his participating in it. Big, tall, and silent, he stood as if apart. And because he was apart—he watched.
He began to understand then, why he was unhappy—yet he was not watching himself, he was watching Margaret. She knew this world—this world that was outside his prison walls; and she was at home in it. There was a light in her eye that he had never brought there, though he had seen it sometimes when she had been particularly interested in her work at the Mill House. As he watched her now, he caught the quick play of color on her cheeks, and heard the ring of enthusiasm in her voice. One subject after another was introduced, and for each she had question, comment, or jest. Not once did she appeal to him. But why should she, he asked himself bitterly. They—those others near her, knew this world. He did not know it.
Sometimes the mills were spoken of, and she was questioned about her work. Then, indeed, she turned to him—but he was not the only one to whom she turned: she turned quite as frequently to the man who was seldom far away fromthe sound of her voice when she was at Hilcrest—Frank Spencer.
McGinnis had a new object for his brooding eyes then; and it was not long before he saw that it was to this same Frank Spencer that Margaret turned when subjects other than the mills were under discussion. There seemed to be times, indeed, when she apparently heard only his voice, and recognized only his presence, so intimate was the sympathy between them. McGinnis saw something else, too—he saw the look in Frank Spencer’s eyes; and after that he did not question again the cause of his own misery.
Sometimes McGinnis would forget all this, or would call it the silly fears of a jealous man who sees nothing but adoration in every eye turned upon his love. Such times were always when Margaret was back at the Mill House, and when it seemed as if she, too, were inside his prison walls with him, leaving that hated, unknown world shut forever out. Then would come Hilcrest—and the reaction.
“She does not love me,” he would moan night after night as he tossed in sleepless misery. “She does not love me, but she does not know it—yet.She is everything that is good and beautiful and kind; but I never, never can make her happy. I might have known—I might have known!”
The Spencers remained at Hilcrest nearly all summer with only a short trip or two on the part of Mrs. Merideth and Ned. The place was particularly cool and delightful in summer, and this season it was more so than usual. House-parties had always been popular at Hilcrest, and never more so than now. So popular, indeed, were they that Margaret suspected them to be sometimes merely an excuse to gain her own presence at Hilcrest.
There were no guests, however, on the Monday night that the mills caught fire. Even Margaret was down at the Mill House. Mrs. Merideth, always a light sleeper, was roused by the first shrill blast of the whistle. From her bed she could see the lurid glow of the sky, and with a cry of terror she ran to the window. The next moment she threw a bath-robe over her shoulders and ran to Frank Spencer’s room across the hall.
“Frank, it’s the mills—they’re all afire!” she called frenziedly. “Oh, Frank, it’s awful!”
From behind the closed door came a sudden stir and the sound of bare feet striking the floor; then Frank’s voice.
“I’ll be out at once. And, Della, see if Ned’s awake, and if you can call up Peters, please. We shall want a motor car.”
Mrs. Merideth wrung her hands.
“Frank—Frank—I can’t have you go—I can’t have you go!” she moaned hysterically; yet all the while she was hurrying to the telephone that would give the alarm and order the car that would take him.
In five minutes the house was astir from end to end. Lights flashed here and there, and terrified voices and hurried footsteps echoed through the great halls. Down in the town the whistles were still shrieking their frenzied summons, and up in the sky the lurid glow of the flames was deepening and spreading. Then came a hurried word from McGinnis over the telephone.
The fire had caught in one of the buildings that had been closed for repairs, which accounted for the great headway it had gained before it was discovered. There was a strong east wind, and the fire was rapidly spreading, and hadalready attacked the next building on the west. The operatives were in a panic. There was danger of great loss of life, and all help possible was needed.
Mrs. Merideth, who heard, could only wring her hands and moan again: “I can’t have them go—I can’t have them go!” Yet five minutes later she sent them off, both Frank and Ned, with a fervid “God keep you” ringing in their ears.
Down in the Mill House all was commotion. Margaret was everywhere, alert, capable, and untiring.
“We can do the most good by staying right here and keeping the house open,” she said. “We are so near that they may want to bring some of the children here, if there should be any that are hurt or overcome. At all events, we’ll have everything ready, and we’ll have hot coffee for the men.”
Almost immediately they came—those limp, unconscious little forms borne in strong, tender arms. Some of the children had only fainted; others had been crushed and bruised in the mad rush for safety. Before an hour had passed theMill House looked like a hospital, and every available helper was pressed into service as a nurse.
Toward morning a small boy, breathless and white-faced, rushed into the main hall.
“They’re in there—they’re in there—they hain’t come out yet—an’ the roof has caved in!” he panted. “They’ll be burned up—they’ll be burned up!”
Margaret sprang forward.
“But I thought they were all out,” she cried. “We heard that every one was out. Who’s in there? What do you mean?”
The boy gasped for breath.
“The boss, Bobby McGinnis an’ Mr. Spencer—Mr. Frank Spencer. They went——”
With a sharp cry Margaret turned and ran through the open door to the street, nor did she slacken her pace until she had reached the surging crowds at the mills.
From a score of trembling lips she learned the story, told in sobbing, broken scraps of words.
Frank and Ned Spencer, together with McGinnis, had worked side by side with the firemen in clearing the mills of the frightened men, women, and children.It was not until after word came that all were out that Frank Spencer and McGinnis were reported to be still in the burning building. Five minutes later there came a terrific crash, and a roar of flames as a portion of the walls and the roof caved in. Since then neither one of the two men had been seen.
There was more—much more: tales of brave rescues, and stories of children restored to frantically outstretched arms; but Margaret did not hear. With terror-glazed eyes and numbed senses she shrank back from the crowd, clasping and unclasping her hands in helpless misery. There Ned found her.
“Margaret, you! and here? No, no, you must not. You can do no good. Let me take you home, do, dear,” he implored.
Margaret shook her head.
“Ned, he can’t be dead—not dead!” she moaned.
Ned’s face grew white. For an instant he was almost angry with the girl who had so plainly shown that to her there was but one man that had gone down into the shadow of death. Then his eyes softened. After all, it was natural, perhaps,that she should think of her lover, and of him only, in this first agonized moment.
“Margaret, dear, come home,” he pleaded.
“Ned, he isn’t dead—not dead,” moaned the girl again. “Why don’t you tell me he isn’t dead?”
Ned shuddered. His eyes turned toward the blackened, blazing pile before him—as if a man could be there, and live! Margaret followed his gaze and understood.
“But he—he may not have gone in again, Ned. He may not have gone in again,” she cried feverishly. “He—he is out here somewhere. We will find him. Come! Come—we must find him!” And she tugged at his arm.
Ned caught at the straw.
“No, no, not you—you could do nothing here; but I’ll go,” he said. “And I’ll promise to bring you the very first word that I can. Come, now you’ll go home, surely!”
Margaret gazed about her. Everywhere were men, confusion, smoke and water. The fire was clearly under control, and the flames were fast hissing into silence. Over in the east the sun was rising. A new day had begun, a day of—— Shesuddenly remembered the sufferers back at the Mill House. She turned about sharply.
“Yes, I’ll go,” she choked. “I’ll go back to the Mill House. Icando something there, and I can’t do anything here. But, Ned, you will bring me word—soon; won’t you?—soon!” And before Ned could attempt to follow her, she had turned and was lost in the crowd.
Tuesday was a day that was not soon forgotten at the mills. Scarcely waiting for the smoking timbers to cool, swarms of workmen attacked the ruins and attempted to clear their way to the point where Spencer and McGinnis had last been seen. Fortunately, that portion of the building had only been touched by the fire, and it was evident that the floors and roof had been carried down with the fall of those nearest to it. For this reason there was the more hope of finding the bodies unharmed by fire—perhaps, even, of finding a spark of life in one or both of them. This last hope, however, was sorrowfully abandoned when hour after hour passed with no sign of the missing men.
All night they worked by the aid of numerous electric lights hastily placed to illuminate the scene; and when Wednesday morning came, a new shift of workers took up the task that had come to be now merely a search for the dead. So convinced was every one of this that the mengazed with blanched faces into each other’s eyes when there came a distinct rapping on a projecting timber near them. In the dazed silence that followed a faint cry came from beneath their feet.
With a shout and a ringing cheer the men fell to work—it was no ghost, but a living human voice that had called! They labored more cautiously now, lest their very zeal for rescue should bring defeat in the shape of falling brick or timber.
Ned Spencer, who had not left the mills all night, heard the cheer and hurried forward. It was he who, when the men paused again, called:
“Frank, are you there?”
“Yes, Ned.” The voice was faint, but distinctly audible.
“And McGinnis?”
There was a moment’s hesitation. The listeners held their breath—perhaps, after all, they had been dreaming and there was no voice! Then it came again.
“Yes. He’s lying beside me, but he’s unconscious—or dead.” The last word was almost inaudible, so faint was it; but the tightening of Ned’s lips showed that he had heard it, none the less. In a moment he stooped again.
“Keep up your courage, old fellow! We’ll have you out of that soon.” Then he stepped aside and gave the signal for the men to fall to work again.
Rapidly, eagerly, but oh, so cautiously, they worked. At the next pause the voice was nearer, so near that they could drop through a small hole a rubber tube four feet long, lowering it until Spencer could put his mouth to it. Through this tube he was given a stimulant, and a cup of strong coffee.
They learned then a little more of what had happened. The two men were on the fourth floor when the crash came. They had been swept down and had been caught between the timbers in such a way that as they lay where they had been flung, a roof three feet above their heads supported the crushing weight above. Spencer could remember nothing after the first crash, until he regained consciousness long afterward, and heard the workmen far above him. It was then that he had tapped his signal on the projecting timber. He had tapped three times before he had been heard. At first it was dark, he said, and he could not see, but he knew that McGinnis wasnear him. McGinnis had spoken once, then had apparently dropped into unconsciousness. At all events he had said nothing since. Still, Spencer did not think he was dead.
Once more the rescuers fell to work, and it was then that Ned Spencer hurried away to send a message of hope and comfort to Mrs. Merideth, who had long since left the great house on the hill and had come down to the Mill House to be with Margaret. To Margaret Ned wrote the one word “Come,” and as he expected, he had not long to wait.
“You have found him!” cried the girl, hurrying toward him. “Ned, he isn’t dead!”
Ned smiled and put out a steadying hand.
“We hope not—and we think not. But he is unconscious, Margaret. Don’t get your hopes too high. I had to send for you—I thought you ought to know—what we know.”
“But where is he? Have you seen him?”
Ned shook his head.
“No; but Frank says——”
“Frank!But you said Frank was unconscious!”
“No, no—they aren’t both unconscious—it isonly McGinnis. It is Frank who told us the story. He—why, Margaret!” But Margaret was gone; and as Ned watched her flying form disappear toward the Mill House, he wondered if, after all, the last hours of horror had turned her brain. In no other way could he account for her words, and for this most extraordinary flight just at the critical moment when she might learn the best—and the worst—of what had come to her lover. To Ned it seemed that the girl must be mad. He could not know that in Margaret’s little room at the Mill House some minutes later, a girl went down on her knees and sobbed:
“To think that ’twasn’t Bobby at all that I was thinking of—’twasn’t Bobby at all! ’Twas never Bobby that had my first thought. ’Twas always——” Even to herself Margaret would not say the name, and only her sobs finished the sentence.
Robert McGinnis was not dead when he was tenderly lifted from his box-like prison, but he was still unconscious. In spite of their marvelous escape from death, both he and his employer were suffering from breaks and bruises that would call for the best of care and nursing for weeks to come; and it seemed best for all concerned that this care and nursing should be given at the Mill House. A removal to Hilcrest in their present condition would not be wise, the physicians said, and the little town hospital was already overflowing with patients. There was really no place but the Mill House, and to the Mill House they were carried.
At the Mill House everything possible was done for their comfort. Two large airy rooms were given up to their use, and the entire household was devoted to their service. The children that had been brought there the night of the fire were gone, and there was no one with whom the two injured men must share the care and attention that were lavished upon them. Trained nurseswere promptly sent for, and installed in their positions. Aside from these soft-stepping, whitecapped women, Margaret and the little lame Arabella were the most frequently seen in the sickrooms.
“We’re the ornamental part,” Margaret would say brightly. “We do the reading and the singing and the amusing.”
Arabella was a born nurse, so both the patients said. There was something peculiarly soothing in the soft touch of her hands and in the low tones of her voice. She was happy in it, too. Her eyes almost lost their wistful look sometimes, so absorbed would she be in her self-appointed task.
As for Margaret—Margaret was a born nurse, too, and both the patients said that; though one of the patients, it is true, complained sometimes that she did not give him half a chance to know it. Margaret certainly did not divide her time evenly. Any one could see that. No one, however—not even Frank Spencer himself—could really question the propriety of her devoting herself more exclusively to young McGinnis, the man she had promised to marry.
Margaret was particularly bright and cheerfulthese days; but to a close observer there was something a little forced about it. No one seemed to notice it, however, except McGinnis. He watched her sometimes with somber eyes; but even he said nothing—until the day before he was to leave the Mill House. Then he spoke.
“Margaret,” he began gently, “there is something I want to say to you. I am going to be quite frank with you, and I want you to be so with me. Will you?”
“Why, of—of course,” faltered Margaret, nervously, her eyes carefully avoiding his steady gaze. Then, hopefully: “But, Bobby, really I don’t think you should talk to-day; not—not about anything that—that needs that tone of voice. Let’s—let’s read something!”
Bobby shook his head decidedly.
“No. I’m quite strong enough to talk to-day. In fact, I’ve wanted to say this for some time, but I’ve waited until to-day so I could say it. Margaret, you—you don’t love me any longer.”
“Oh—Bobby! Why,Bobby!” There was dismayed distress in Margaret’s voice. When one has for some weeks been trying to lash one’s self into a certain state of mind and heart for theexpress sake of some other one, it is distressing to have that other one so abruptly and so positively show that one’s labor has been worse than useless.
“You do not, Margaret—you know that you do not.”
“Why, Bobby, what—what makes you say such a dreadful thing,” cried the girl, reaching blindly out for some support that would not fail. “As if—I didn’t know my own mind!”
Bobby was silent. When he spoke again his voice shook a little.
“I will tell you what makes me say it. For some time I’ve suspected it—that you did not love me; but after the fire I—I knew it.”
“You knew it!”
“Yes. When a girl loves a man, and that man has come back almost from the dead, she goes to him first—if she loves him. When Frank Spencer and I were brought into the hall down-stairs that Wednesday morning, the jar or something brought back my senses for a moment, just long enough for me to hear your cry of ‘Frank,’ and to see you hurry to his side.”
Margaret caught her breath sharply. Her face grew white.
“But, Bobby, you—you were unconscious, I supposed,” she stammered faintly. “I didn’t think you could answer me if—if I did go to you.”
“But you did not—come—to—see.” The words were spoken gently, tenderly, sorrowfully.
Margaret gave a low cry and covered her face with her hands. A look that was almost relief came to the man’s face.
“There,” he sighed. “Now you admit it. We can talk sensibly and reasonably. Margaret, why have you tried to keep it up all these weeks, when it was just killing you?”
“I wanted to make—you—happy,” came miserably from behind the hands.
“And did you think I could be made happy that way—by your wretchedness?”
There was no answer.
“I’ve seen it coming for a long time,” he went on gently, “and I did not blame you. I could never have made you happy, and I knew it almost from the first. I wasn’t happy, either—because I couldn’t make you so. Perhaps now I—I shall be happier; who knows?” he asked, with a wan little smile.
Margaret sobbed. It was so like Bobby—tobelittle his own grief, just to make it easier for her!
“You see, it was for only the work that you cared for me,” resumed the man after a minute. “You loved that, and you thought you loved me. But it was only the work all the time, dear. I understand that now. You see I watched you—and I watched him.”
“Him!” Margaret’s hands were down, and she was looking at Bobby with startled eyes.
“Yes. I used to think he loved you even then, but after the fire, and I heard your cry of ‘Frank’——”
Margaret sprang to her feet.
“Bobby, Bobby, you don’t know what you are saying,” she cried agitatedly. “Mr. Spencer does not love me, and he never loved me. Why, Bobby, he couldn’t! He even pleaded with me to marry another man.”
“He pleaded with you!” Bobby’s eyes were puzzled.
“Yes. Now, Bobby, surely you understand that he doesn’t love me. Surely you must see!”
Bobby threw a quick look into the flushed, quivering face; then hastily turned his eyes away.
“Yes, I see,” he said almost savagely. And he did see—more than he wanted to. But he did not understand: how a mancouldhave the love of Margaret Kendall and not want it, was beyond the wildest flights of his fancy.
Frank Spencer had already left the Mill House and gone to Hilcrest when McGinnis was well enough to go back to his place in the mills. The mills, in spite of the loss of the two buildings (which were being rapidly rebuilt) were running full time, and needed him greatly, particularly as the senior member of the firm had not entirely regained his old health and strength.
For some time after McGinnis went away, Margaret remained at the Mill House; but she was restless and unhappy in the position in which she found herself. McGinnis taught an evening class at the Mill House, and she knew that it could not be easy for him to see her so frequently now that the engagement was broken. Margaret blamed herself bitterly, not for the broken engagement, but for the fact that there had ever been any engagement at all. She told herself that she ought to have known that the feeling she had for Bobby was not love—and she asked herself scornfullywhat she thought of a young woman who could give that love all unsought to a man who was so very indifferent as to beg her favor for another! Those long hours of misery when the mills burned had opened Margaret’s eyes; and now that her eyes were opened, she was frightened and ashamed.
It seemed to Margaret, as she thought of it, that there was no way for her to turn but to leave both the Mill House and Hilcrest for a time. Bobby would be happier with her away, and the Mill House did not need her—Clarabella had come from New York, and had materially strengthened the teaching force. As for Hilcrest—she certainly would not stay at Hilcrest anyway—now. Later, when she had come to her senses, perhaps—but not now.
It did not take much persuasion on the part of Margaret to convince Mrs. Merideth that a winter abroad would be delightful—just they two together. The news of Margaret’s broken engagement had been received at Hilcrest with a joyous relief that was nevertheless carefully subdued in the presence of Margaret herself; but Mrs. Merideth could not conceal her joy that she was totake Margaret away from the “whole unfortunate affair,” as she expressed it to her brothers. Frank Spencer, however, was not so pleased at the proposed absence. He could see no reason for Margaret’s going, and one evening when they were alone together in the library he spoke of it.
“But, Margaret, I don’t see why you must go,” he protested.
For a moment the girl was silent; then she turned swiftly and faced him.
“Frank, Bobby McGinnis was my good friend. From the time when I was a tiny little girl he has been that. He is good and true and noble, but I have brought him nothing but sorrow. He will be happier now if I am quite out of his sight at present. I am going away.”
Frank Spencer stirred uneasily.
“But you will be away—from him—if you are here,” he suggested.
“Oh, but if I’m here I shall be there,” contested Margaret with a haste that refused to consider logic; then, as she saw the whimsical smile come into the man’s eyes, she added brokenly: “Besides, I want to get away—quite away from my work.”
Spencer grew sober instantly. The whimsical look in his eyes gave place to one of tender sympathy.
“You poor child, of course you do, and no wonder! You are worn out with the strain, Margaret.”
She raised a protesting hand.
“No, no, you do not understand. I—I have made a failure of it.”
“A failure of it!”
“Yes. I want to get away—to look at it from a distance, and see if I can’t find out what is the trouble with it, just as—as artists do, you know, when they paint a picture.” There was a feverishness in Margaret’s manner and a tremulousness in her voice that came perilously near to tears.
“But, my dear Margaret,” argued the man, “there’s nothing the matter with it. It’s no failure at all. You’ve done wonders down there at the Mill House.”
Margaret shook her head slowly.
“It’s so little—so very little compared to what ought to be done,” she sighed. “The Mill House is good and does good, I acknowledge; but it’sso puny after all. It’s like a tiny little oasis in a huge desert of poverty and distress.”
“But what—what more could you do?” ventured the man.
Margaret rose, and moved restlessly around the room.
“I don’t know,” she said at last. “That’s what I mean to find out.” She stopped suddenly, facing him. “Don’t you see? I touch only the surface. The great cause behind things I never reach. Sometimes it seems as if it were like that old picture—where was it? in Pilgrim’s Progress?—of the fire. On one side is the man trying to put it out; on the other, is the evil one pouring on oil. My two hands are the two men. With one I feed a hungry child, or nurse a sick woman; with the other I make more children hungry and more women sick.”
“Margaret, are you mad? What can you mean?”
“Merely this. It is very simple, after all. With one hand I relieve the children’s suffering; with the other I take dividends from the very mills that make the children suffer. A long time ago I wanted to ‘divvy up’ with Patty, and Bobbyand the rest. I have even thought lately that I would still like to ‘divvy up’; and—well, you can see the way I am ‘divvying up’ now with my people down there at the mills!” And her voice rang with self-scorn.
The man frowned. He, too, got to his feet and walked nervously up and down the room. When he came back the girl had sat down again. Her elbows were on the table, and her linked fingers were shielding her eyes. Involuntarily the man reached his hand toward the bowed head. But he drew it back before it had touched a thread of the bronze-gold hair.
“I do see, Margaret,” he began gently, “and you are right. It is at the mills themselves that the first start must be made—the first beginning of the ‘divvying up.’ Perhaps, if there were some one to show us”—he paused, then went on unsteadily: “I suppose it’s useless to say again what I said that day months ago: that if you stayed here, and showed him—the man who loves you—the better way——”
Margaret started. She gave a nervous little laugh and picked up a bit of paper from the floor.
“Of course it is useless,” she retorted in what she hoped was a merry voice. “And he doesn’t even love me now, besides.”
“He doesn’t love you!” Frank Spencer’s eyes and voice were amazed.
“Of course not! He never did, for that matter. ’Twas only the fancy of a moment. Why, Frank, Ned never cared for me—that way!”
“Ned!” The tone and the one word were enough. For one moment Margaret gazed into the man’s face with startled eyes; then she turned and covered her own telltale face with her hands—and because it was a telltale face, Spencer took a long stride toward her.
“Margaret! And did you think it was Ned I was pleading for, when all the while it was I who was hungering for you with a love that sent me across the seas to rid myself of it? Did you, Margaret?”
There was no answer.
“Margaret, look at me—let me see your eyes!” There was a note of triumphant joy in his voice now.
Still no answer.
“Margaret, it did not go—that love. It stayedwith me day after day, and month after month, and it only grew stronger and deeper until there was nothing left me in all this world but you—just you. And now—Margaret, my Margaret,” he said softly and very tenderly. “Youaremy Margaret!” And his arms closed about her.
In spite of protests and pleadings Margaret spent the winter abroad.
“As if I’d stay here and flaunt my happiness in poor Bobby’s face!” she said indignantly to her lover. Neither would she consent to a formal engagement. Even Mrs. Merideth and Ned were not to know.
“It is to be just as it was before,” she had declared decidedly, “only—well, you may write to me,” she had conceded. “I refuse to stay here and—and be just happy—yet! I’ve been unkind and thoughtless, and have brought sorrow to my dear good friend. I’m going away. I deserve it—and Bobby deserves it, too!” And in spite of Frank Spencer’s efforts to make her see matters in a different light, she still adhered to her purpose.
All through the long winter Frank contented himself with writing voluminous letters, and telling her of the plans he was making to “divvy up” at the mills, as he always called it.
“I shall make mistakes, of course, dear,” he wrote. “It is a big problem—altogether more so than perhaps you realize. Of course the mills must still be a business—not a philanthropy; otherwise we should defeat our own ends. But I shall have your clear head and warm heart to aid me, and little by little we shall win success.
“Already I have introduced two or three small changes to prepare the way for the larger ones later on. Even Ned is getting interested, and seems to approve of my work, somewhat to my surprise, I will own. I’m thinking, however, that I’m not the only one in the house, sweetheart, to whom you and your unselfishness have shown the ‘better way.’”
Month by month the winter passed, and spring came, bringing Mrs. Merideth, but no Margaret.
“She has stopped to visit friends in New York,” explained Mrs. Merideth, in reply to her brother’s anxious questions. “She may go on west with them. She said she would write you.”
Margaret did “go on west,” and it was while she was still in the west that she received a letter from Patty, a portion of which ran thus:
“Mebbe youd like to know about Bobby McGinnis. Bobby is goin to get married. She seemed to comfort him lots after you went. Shes that pretty and sympathizing in her ways you know. I think he was kind of surprised hisself, but the first thing he knew he was in love with her. I think he felt kind of bad at first on account of you. But I told him that was all nonsense, and that I knew youd want him to do it. I think his feelins for you was more worship than love, anyhow. He didn’t never seem happy even when he was engaged to you. But hes happy now, and Arabella thinks hes jest perfect. Oh, I told you twas Arabella didn’t I? Well, tis. And say its her thats been learnin me to spell. Ain’t it jest grand?”
Not very many days later Frank Spencer at Hilcrest received a small card on which had been written:
“Mrs. Patty Durgin announces the engagement of her sister, Arabella Murphy, to Mr. Robert McGinnis.”
Beneath, in very fine letters was: “I’m coming home the eighteenth. Please tell Della;and—you may tell her anything else that you like.Margaret.”
For a moment the man stared at the card with puzzled eyes; then he suddenly understood.
“Della,” he cried joyously, a minute later, “Della, she’s coming the eighteenth!”
“Who’s coming the eighteenth?”
Frank hesitated. A light that was half serious, half whimsical, and wholly tender, came into his eyes.
“My wife,” he said.
“Yourwife!”
“Oh, you know her as Margaret Kendall,” retorted Frank with an airiness that was intended to hide the shake in his voice. “But she will be my wife before she leaves here again.”
“Frank!” cried Mrs. Merideth, joyfully, “you don’t mean——” But Frank was gone. Over his shoulder, however, he had tossed a smile and a reassuring nod.
Mrs. Merideth sank back with a sigh of content.
“It’s exactly what I always hoped would happen,” she said.
THE END
THE END
Popular Copyright NovelsAT MODERATE PRICESAsk Your Dealer for a Complete List ofA. L. Burt Company’s Popular Copyright Fiction
Popular Copyright Novels
AT MODERATE PRICES
Ask Your Dealer for a Complete List of
A. L. Burt Company’s Popular Copyright Fiction
Abner Daniel.By Will N. Harben.Adventures of Gerard.By A. Conan Doyle.Adventures of a Modest Man.By Robert W. Chambers.Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.By A. Conan Doyle.Adventures of Jimmie Dale, The. By Frank L. Packard.After House, The.By Mary Roberts Rinehart.Alisa Paige.By Robert W. Chambers.Alton of Somasco.By Harold Bindloss.A Man’s Man.By Ian Hay.Amateur Gentleman, The.By Jeffery Farnol.Andrew The Glad.By Maria Thompson Daviess.Ann Boyd.By Will N. Harben.Anna the Adventuress.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Another Man’s Shoes.By Victor Bridges.Ariadne of Allan Water.By Sidney McCall.Armchair at the Inn, The.By F. Hopkinson Smith.Around Old Chester.By Margaret Deland.Athalie.By Robert W. Chambers.At the Mercy of Tiberius.By Augusta Evans Wilson.Auction Block, The.By Rex Beach.Aunt Jane.By Jeannette Lee.Aunt Jane of Kentucky.By Eliza C. Hall.Awakening of Helena Richie.By Margaret Deland.Bambi.By Marjorie Benton Cooke.Bandbox, The.By Louis Joseph Vance.Barbara of the Snows.By Harry Irving Green.Bar 20.By Clarence E. Mulford.Bar 20 Days.By Clarence E. Mulford.Barrier, The.By Rex Beach.Beasts of Tarzan, The.By Edgar Rice Burroughs.Beechy.By Bettina Von Hutten.Bella Donna.By Robert Hichens.Beloved Vagabond, The.By Wm. J. Locke.Beltane the Smith.By Jeffery Farnol.Ben Blair.By Will Lillibridge.Betrayal, The.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Better Man, The.By Cyrus Townsend Brady.Beulah.(Ill. Ed.) By Augusta J. Evans.Beyond the Frontier.By Randall Parrish.Black Is White.By George Barr McCutcheon.Blind Man’s Eyes, The.By Wm. MacHarg & Edwin Balmer.Bob Hampton of Placer.By Randall Parrish.Bob, Son of Battle.By Alfred Ollivant.Britton of the Seventh.By Cyrus Townsend Brady.Broad Highway, The.By Jeffery Farnol.Bronze Bell, The.By Louis Joseph Vance.Bronze Eagle, The.By Baroness Orczy.Buck Peters, Ranchman.By Clarence E. Mulford.Business of Life, The.By Robert W. Chambers.By Right of Purchase.By Harold Bindloss.Cabbages and Kings.By O. Henry.Calling of Dan Matthews, The.By Harold Bell Wright.Cape Cod Stories.By Joseph C. Lincoln.Cap’n Dan’s Daughter.By Joseph C. Lincoln.Cap’n Eri.By Joseph C. Lincoln.Cap’n Warren’s Wards.By Joseph C. Lincoln.Cardigan.By Robert W. Chambers.Carpet From Bagdad, The.By Harold MacGrath.Cease Firing.By Mary Johnson.Chain of Evidence, A.By Carolyn Wells.Chief Legatee, The.By Anna Katharine Green.Cleek of Scotland Yard.By T. W. Hanshew.Clipped Wings.By Rupert Hughes.Coast of Adventure, The.By Harold Bindloss.Colonial Free Lance, A.By Chauncey C. Hotchkiss.Coming of Cassidy, The.By Clarence E. Mulford.Coming of the Law, The.By Chas. A. Seltzer.Conquest of Canaan, The.By Booth Tarkington.Conspirators, The.By Robt. W. Chambers.Counsel for the Defense.By Leroy Scott.Court of Inquiry, A.By Grace S. Richmond.Crime Doctor, The.By E. W. HornungCrimson Gardenia, The, and Other Tales of Adventure.By Rex Beach.Cross Currents.By Eleanor H. Porter.Cry in the Wilderness, A.By Mary E. Waller.Cynthia of the Minute.By Louis Jos. Vance.Dark Hollow, The.By Anna Katharine Green.Dave’s Daughter.By Patience Bevier Cole.Day of Days, The.By Louis Joseph Vance.Day of the Dog, The.By George Barr McCutcheon.Depot Master, The.By Joseph C. Lincoln.Desired Woman, The.By Will N. Harben.Destroying Angel, The.By Louis Joseph Vance.Dixie Hart.By Will N. Harben.Double Traitor, The.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Drusilla With a Million.By Elizabeth Cooper.Eagle of the Empire, The.By Cyrus Townsend Brady.El Dorado.By Baroness Orczy.Elusive Isabel.By Jacques Futrelle.Empty Pockets.By Rupert Hughes.Enchanted Hat, The.By Harold MacGrath.Eye of Dread, The.By Payne Erskine.Eyes of the World, The.By Harold Bell Wright.Felix O’Day.By F. Hopkinson Smith.50-40 or Fight.By Emerson Hough.Fighting Chance, The.By Robert W. Chambers.Financier, The.By Theodore Dreiser.Flamsted Quarries.By Mary E. Waller.Flying Mercury, The.By Eleanor M. Ingram.For a Maiden Brave.By Chauncey C. Hotchkiss.Four Million, The.By O. Henry.Four Pool’s Mystery, The.By Jean Webster.Fruitful Vine, The.By Robert Hichens.Get-Rich-Quick Wallingford.By George Randolph Chester.Gilbert Neal.By Will N. Harben.Girl From His Town, The.By Marie Van Vorst.Girl of the Blue Ridge, A.By Payne Erskine.Girl Who Lived in the Woods, The.By Marjorie Benton Cook.Girl Who Won, The.By Beth Ellis.Glory of Clementina, The.By Wm. J. Locke.Glory of the Conquered, The.By Susan Glaspell.God’s Country and the Woman.By James Oliver Curwood.God’s Good Man.By Marie Corelli.Going Some.By Rex Beach.Gold Bag, The.By Carolyn Wells.Golden Slipper, The.By Anna Katharine Green.Golden Web, The.By Anthony Partridge.Gordon Craig.By Randall Parrish.Greater Love Hath No Man.By Frank L. Packard.Greyfriars Bobby.By Eleanor Atkinson.Guests of Hercules, The.By C. N. & A. M. Williamson.Halcyone.By Elinor Glyn.Happy Island(Sequel to Uncle William). By Jeannette Lee.Havoc.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Heart of Philura, The.By Florence Kingsley.Heart of the Desert, The.By Honoré Willsie.Heart of the Hills, The.By John Fox, Jr.Heart of the Sunset.By Rex Beach.Heart of Thunder Mountain, The.By Elfrid A. Bingham.Heather-Moon, The.By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.Her Weight in Gold.By Geo. B. McCutcheon.Hidden Children, The.By Robert W. Chambers.Hoosier Volunteer, The.By Kate and Virgil D. Boyles.Hopalong Cassidy.By Clarence E. Mulford.How Leslie Loved.By Anne Warner.Hugh Wynne, Free Quaker.By S. Weir Mitchell, M.D.Husbands of Edith, The.By George Barr McCutcheon.I Conquered.By Harold Titus.Illustrious Prince, The.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Idols.By William J. Locke.Indifference of Juliet, The.By Grace S. Richmond.Inez.(Ill. Ed.) By Augusta J. Evans.Infelice.By Augusta Evans Wilson.In Her Own Right.By John Reed Scott.Initials Only.By Anna Katharine Green.In Another Girl’s Shoes.By Berta Ruck.Inner Law, The.By Will N. Harben.Innocent.By Marie Corelli.Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu, The.By Sax Rohmer.In the Brooding Wild.By Ridgwell Cullum.Intrigues, The.By Harold Bindloss.Iron Trail, The.By Rex Beach.Iron Woman, The.By Margaret Deland.Ishmael.(Ill.) By Mrs. Southworth.Island of Regeneration, The.By Cyrus Townsend Brady.Island of Surprise, The.By Cyrus Townsend Brady.Japonette.By Robert W. Chambers.Jean of the Lazy A.By B. M. Bower.Jeanne of the Marshes.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Jennie Gerhardt.By Theodore Dreiser.Joyful Heatherby.By Payne Erskine.Jude the Obscure.By Thomas Hardy.Judgment House, The.By Gilbert Parker.Keeper of the Door, The.By Ethel M. Dell.Keith of the Border.By Randall Parrish.Kent Knowles: Quahaug.By Joseph C. Lincoln.King Spruce.By Holman Day.Kingdom of Earth, The.By Anthony Partridge.Knave of Diamonds, The.By Ethel M. Dell.Lady and the Pirate, The.By Emerson Hough.Lady Merton, Colonist.By Mrs. Humphrey Ward.Landloper, The.By Holman Day.Land of Long Ago, The.By Eliza Calvert Hall.Last Try, The.By John Reed Scott.Last Shot, The.By Frederick N. Palmer.Last Trail, The.By Zane Grey.Laughing Cavalier, The.By Baroness Orczy.Law Breakers, The.By Ridgwell Cullum.Lighted Way, The.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Lighting Conductor Discovers America, The.By C. N. & A. M. Williamson.Lin McLean.By Owen Wister.Little Brown Jug at Kildare, The.By Meredith Nicholson.Lone Wolf, The.By Louis Joseph Vance.Long Roll, The.By Mary Johnson.Lonesome Land.By B. M. Bower.Lord Loveland Discovers America.By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.Lost Ambassador.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Lost Prince, The.By Frances Hodgson Burnett.Lost Road, The.By Richard Harding Davis.Love Under Fire.By Randall Parrish.Macaria.(Ill. Ed.) By Augusta J. Evans.Maids of Paradise, The.By Robert W. Chambers.Maid of the Forest, The.By Randall Parrish.Maid of the Whispering Hills, The.By Vingie E. Roe.Making of Bobby Burnit, The.By Randolph Chester.Making Money.By Owen Johnson.Mam’ Linda.By Will N. Harben.Man Outside, The.By Wyndham Martyn.Man Trail, The.By Henry Oyen.Marriage.By H. G. Wells.Marriage of Theodora, The.By Mollie Elliott Seawell.Mary Moreland.By Marie Van Vorst.Master Mummer, The.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Max.By Katherine Cecil Thurston.Maxwell Mystery, The.By Caroline Wells.Mediator, The.By Roy Norton.Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes.By A. Conan Doyle.Mischief Maker, The.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Miss Gibbie Gault.By Kate Langley Bosher.Miss Philura’s Wedding Gown.By Florence Morse Kingsley.Molly McDonald.By Randall Parrish.Money Master, The.By Gilbert Parker.Money Moon, The.By Jeffery Farnol.Motor Maid, The.By C. N and A. M. Williamson.Moth, The.By William Dana Orcutt.Mountain Girl, The.By Payne Erskine.Mr. Bingle.By George Barr McCutcheon.Mr. Grex of Monte Carlo.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Mr. Pratt.By Joseph C. Lincoln.Mr. Pratt’s Patients.By Joseph C. Lincoln.Mrs. Balfame.By Gertrude Atherton.Mrs. Red Pepper.By Grace S. Richmond.My Demon Motor Boat.By George Fitch.My Friend the Chauffeur.By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.My Lady Caprice.By Jeffery Farnol.My Lady of Doubt.By Randall Parrish.My Lady of the North.By Randall Parrish.My Lady of the South.By Randall Parrish.Ne’er-Do-Well, The.By Rex Beach.Net, The.By Rex Beach.New Clarion.By Will N. Harben.Night Riders, The.By Ridgwell Cullum.Night Watches.By W. W. Jacobs.Nobody.By Louis Joseph Vance.Once Upon a Time.By Richard Harding Davis.One Braver Thing.By Richard Dehan.One Way Trail, The.By Ridgwell Cullum.Otherwise Phyllis.By Meredith Nicholson.Pardners.By Rex Beach.Parrott & Co.By Harold MacGrath.Partners of the Tide.By Joseph C. Lincoln.Passionate Friends, The.By H. G. Wells.Patrol of the Sun Dance Trail, The.By Ralph Connor.Paul Anthony, Christian.By Hiram W. Hayes.Perch of the Devil.By Gertrude Atherton.Peter Ruff.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.People’s Man, A.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Phillip Steele.By James Oliver Curwood.Pidgin Island.By Harold MacGrath.Place of Honeymoon, The.By Harold MacGrath.Plunderer, The.By Roy Norton.Pole Baker.By Will N. Harben.Pool of Flame, The.By Louis Joseph Vance.Port of Adventure, The.By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.Postmaster, The.By Joseph C. Lincoln.Power and the Glory, The.By Grace McGowan Cooke.Prairie Wife, The.By Arthur Stringer.Price of Love, The.By Arnold Bennett.Price of the Prairie, The.By Margaret Hill McCarter.Prince of Sinners.By A. E. Phillips Oppenheim.Princes Passes, The.By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.Princess Virginia, The.By C. N. and A. N. Williamson.Promise, The.By J. B. Hendryx.Purple Parasol, The.By Geo. B. McCutcheon.Ranch at the Wolverine, The.By B. M. Bower.Ranching for Sylvia.By Harold Bindloss.Real Man, The.By Francis Lynde.Reason Why, The.By Elinor Glyn.Red Cross Girl, The.By Richard Harding Davis.Red Mist, The.By Randall Parrish.Redemption of Kenneth Gait, The.By Will N. Harben.Red Lane, The.By Holman Day.Red Mouse, The.By Wm. Hamilton Osborne.Red Pepper Burns.By Grace S. Richmond.Rejuvenation of Aunt Mary, The.By Anne Warner.Return of Tarzan, The.By Edgar Rice Burroughs.Riddle of Night, The.By Thomas W. Hanshew.Rim of the Desert, The.By Ada Woodruff Anderson.Rise of Roscoe Paine, The.By J. C. Lincoln.Road to Providence, The.By Maria Thompson Daviess.Robinetta.By Kate Douglas Wiggin.Rocks of Valpré, The.By Ethel M. Dell.Rogue by Compulsion, A.By Victor Bridges.Rose in the Ring, The.By George Barr McCutcheon.Rose of the World.By Agnes and Egerton Castle.Rose of Old Harpeth, The.By Maria Thompson Daviess.Round the Corner in Gay Street.By Grace S. Richmond.Routledge Rides Alone.By Will L. Comfort.St. Elmo.(Ill. Ed.) By Augusta J. Evans.Salamander, The.By Owen Johnson.Scientific Sprague.By Francis Lynde.Second Violin, The.By Grace S. Richmond.Secret of the Reef, The.By Harold Bindloss.Secret History.By C. N. & A. M. Williamson.Self-Raised.(Ill.) By Mrs. Southworth.Septimus.By William J. Locke.Set in Silver.By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.Seven Darlings, The.By Gouverneur Morris.Shea of the Irish Brigade.By Randall Parrish.Shepherd of the Hills, The.By Harold Bell Wright.Sheriff of Dyke Hole, The.By Ridgwell Cullum.Sign at Six, The.By Stewart Edw. White.Silver Horde, The.By Rex Beach.Simon the Jester.By William J. Locke.Siren of the Snows, A.By Stanley Shaw.Sir Richard Calmady.By Lucas Malet.Sixty-First Second, The.By Owen Johnson.Slim Princess, The.By George Ade.Soldier of the Legion, A.By C. N. and A. M. Williamson.Somewhere in France.By Richard Harding Davis.Speckled Bird, A.By Augusta Evans Wilson.Spirit in Prison, A.By Robert Hichens.Spirit of the Border, The.By Zane Grey.Splendid Chance, The.By Mary Hastings Bradley.Spoilers, The.By Rex Beach.Spragge’s Canyon.By Horace Annesley Vachell.Still Jim.By Honoré Willsie.Story of Foss River Ranch, The.By Ridgwell Cullum.Story of Marco, The.By Eleanor H. Porter.Strange Disappearance, A.By Anna Katharine Green.Strawberry Acres.By Grace S. Richmond.Streets of Ascalon, The.By Robert W. Chambers.Sunshine Jane.By Anne Warner.Susan Clegg and Her Friend Mrs. Lathrop.By Anne Warner.Sword of the Old Frontier, A.By Randall Parrish.Tales of Sherlock Holmes.By A. Conan Doyle.Taming of Zenas Henry, The.By Sara Ware Bassett.Tarzan of the Apes.By Edgar R. Burroughs.Taste of Apples, The.By Jeannette Lee.Tempting of Tavernake, The.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Tess of the D’Urbervilles.By Thomas Hardy.Thankful Inheritance.By Joseph C. Lincoln.That Affair Next Door.By Anna Katharine Green.That Printer of Udell’s.By Harold Bell Wright.Their Yesterdays.By Harold Bell Wright.The Side of the Angels.By Basil King.Throwback, The.By Alfred Henry Lewis.Thurston of Orchard Valley.By Harold Bindloss.To M. L. G.; or, He Who Passed.By Anon.Trail of the Axe, The.By Ridgwell Cullum.Trail of Yesterday, The.By Chas. A. Seltzer.Treasure of Heaven, The.By Marie Corelli.Truth Dexter.By Sidney McCall.T. Tembarom.By Frances Hodgson Burnett.Turbulent Duchess, The.By Percy J. Brebner.Twenty-fourth of June, The.By Grace S. Richmond.Twins of Suffering Creek, The.By Ridgwell Cullum.Two-Gun Man, The.By Charles A. Seltzer.Uncle William.By Jeannette Lee.Under the Country Sky.By Grace S. Richmond.Unknown Mr. Kent, The.By Roy Norton.“Unto Caesar.”By Baroness Orczy.Up From Slavery.By Booker T. Washington.Valiants of Virginia, The.By Hallie Erminie Rives.Valley of Fear, The.By Sir A. Conan Doyle.Vane of the Timberlands.By Harold Bindloss.Vanished Messenger, The.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Vashti.By Augusta Evans Wilson.Village of Vagabonds, A.By F. Berkley Smith.Visioning, The.By Susan Glaspell.Wall of Men, A.By Margaret H. McCarter.Wallingford in His Prime.By George Randolph Chester.Wanted—A Chaperon.By Paul Leicester Ford.Wanted—A Matchmaker.By Paul Leicester Ford.Watchers of the Plains, The.By Ridgwell Cullum.Way Home, The.By Basil King.Way of an Eagle, The.By E. M. Dell.Way of a Man, The.By Emerson Hough.Way of the Strong, The.By Ridgwell Cullum.Way of These Women, The.By E. Phillips Oppenheim.Weavers, The.By Gilbert Parker.West Wind, The.By Cyrus T. Brady.When Wilderness Was King.By Randolph Parrish.Where the Trail Divides.By Will Lillibridge.Where There’s a Will.By Mary R. Rinehart.White Sister, The.By Marion Crawford.White Waterfall, The.By James Francis Dwyer.Who Goes There?By Robert W. Chambers.Window at the White Cat, The.By Mary Roberts Rinehart.Winning of Barbara Worth, The.By Harold Bell Wright.Winning the Wilderness.By Margaret Hill McCarter.With Juliet in England.By Grace S. Richmond.Witness for the Defense, The.By A. E. W. Mason.Woman in Question, The.By John Reed Scott.Woman Haters, The.By Joseph C. Lincoln.Woman Thou Gavest Me, The.By Hall Caine.Woodcarver of ‘Lympus, The.By Mary E. Waller.Woodfire in No. 3, The.By F. Hopkinson Smith.Wooing of Rosamond Fayre, The.By Berta Ruck.You Never Know Your Luck.By Gilbert Parker.Younger Set, The.By Robert W. Chambers.