"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. "He _has_ a 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 him run 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.

CHAPTER XX

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. "She asked 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 pa.s.sed 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 side of 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 streets down 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 mult.i.tudes 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 antic.i.p.ations 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 send the 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.

CHAPTER XXI

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 a.s.sailed 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "A MOB OF SMALL BOYS HAD FOUND AN OBJECT UPON WHICH TO VENT THEIR WILDEST MISCHIEF."]

It was all done so quickly that even the girl herself could not have told how it happened. Almost unconsciously she slipped over into the vacant seat and gave her place to the fearless, square-jawed man who seemingly had risen from the ground. An apparently impossible number of long arms shot out to the right and to the left, and the squirming urchins dropped to the ground, sprawling on all fours, and howling with surprise and chagrin. Then came a warning cry and a sharp "honk-honk-honk" from the horn. The next moment the car bounded forward on a roadway that opened clear and straight before it.

Not until he had left the town quite behind him did McGinnis bring the car to a halt in the shade of a great tree by the roadside. Then he turned an anxious face to the girl at his side.

"You're not hurt, I hope, Miss Kendall," he began. "I didn't like to stop before to ask. I hope you didn't mind being thrust so unceremoniously out of your place and run away with," he finished, a faint twinkle coming into his gray eyes.

Margaret flushed. Before she spoke she put both hands to her head and straightened her hat.

"No, I--I'm not hurt," she said faintly; "but I _was_ frightened. You--you were very good to run away with me," she added, the red deepening in her cheeks. "I'm sure I don't know what I should have done if you hadn't."

The man's face darkened.

"The little rascals!" he cried. "They deserve a sound thrashing--every one of them."

"But I'd done nothing--I'd not spoken to them," she protested. "I don't see why they should have molested me."

"Pure mischief, to begin with, probably," returned the man; "then they saw that you were frightened, and that set them wild with delight. All is--I'm glad I was there," he concluded, with grim finality.