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's_ done 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?"

CHAPTER XVIII

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 gra.s.s; 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, thrust her 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 almost sobbed; 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 in Betty'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 brakes _are_ on my side of the car!"

The girl laughed, then grew suddenly grave.

"You would need to," she acceded; "but--I shall 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.

_Must_ they do it?"