"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 rich folks. 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--so
_free_, 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't
_see_ 'em, an' now I do. I _see_ '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--much as 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'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?"