"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. "You must 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!"

CHAPTER XIX

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 you cough. 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 should suddenly 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.