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 grass; 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?"
"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!"