Margaret's morning ride through the town did not have quite the effect
she had hoped it would. By daylight the place looked even worse than by
the softening twilight. But she was haunted now, not so much by the wan
faces of the workers as by the jeering countenances of a mob of
mischievous boys. To be sure, the unexpected meeting with Bobby McGinnis
had in a measure blurred the vision, but it was still there; and at
night she awoke sometimes with those horrid shouts in her ears. Of one
thing it had cured her, however: she no longer wished to see for herself
the shabby cottages and the people in them. She gave money, promptly and
liberally--so liberally, in fact, that Mrs. Merideth quite caught her
breath at the size of the bills that the young woman stuffed into her
hands.
"But, my dear, so much!" she had remonstrated.
"No, no--take it, do!" Margaret had pleaded. "Give it to that society to
do as they like with it. And when it's gone there'll be more."
Mrs. Merideth had taken the money then without more ado. The one thing
she wished particularly to avoid in the matter was controversy--for
controversy meant interest.
There had been one other result of that morning's experience--a result
which to Frank Spencer was perhaps quite as startling as had been the
roll of bills to his sister.
"I met your Mr. Robert McGinnis when I was out this morning," Margaret
had said that night at dinner. "What sort of man is he?"
Before Frank could reply Ned had answered for him.
"He's a little tin god on wheels, Margaret, that can do no wrong. That's
what he is."
"Ned!" remonstrated Mrs. Merideth in a horror that was not all playful.
Then to Margaret: "He is a very faithful fellow and an efficient
workman, my dear, who is a great help to Frank. But how and where did
_you_ see him?"
Margaret laughed.
"I'll tell you," she promised in response to Mrs. Merideth's question;
"but I haven't heard yet from the head of the house."
"I can add little to what has been said," declared Frank with a smile.
"He is all that they pictured him. He is the king-pin, the
keystone--anything you please. But, why?"
"Nothing, only I know him. He is an old friend."
"You know him!--a _friend_!" The three voices were one in shocked
amazement.
"Yes, long ago in Houghtonsville," smiled Margaret. "He knew me still
longer ago than that, but that part I remember only as it has been told
to me. He was the little boy who found me crying in the streets of New
York, and took me home to his mother."
There was a stunned silence around the table. It was the first time the
Spencers had ever heard Margaret speak voluntarily of her childhood, and
it frightened them. It seemed to bring into the perfumed air of the
dining-room the visible presence of poverty and misery. They feared,
too, for Margaret: this was the one thing that must be guarded
against--the possible return to the morbid fancies of her youth. And this
man--
"Why, how strange!" murmured Mrs. Merideth, breaking the pause. "But
then, after all, he'll not annoy you, I fancy."
"Of course not," cut in Ned. "McGinnis is no fool, and he knows his
place."
"Most assuredly," declared Frank, with a sudden tightening of his lips.
"You'll not see him again, I fancy. If he annoys you, let me know."
"Oh, but 'twon't be an annoyance," smiled Margaret. "I _asked_ him to
come and see me."
"You--asked--him--to come!" To the Spencers it was as if she had taken one
of the big black wheels from the mills and suggested its desirability
for the drawing-room. "You asked him to come!"
Was there a slight lifting of the delicately moulded chin opposite?--the
least possible dilation of the sensitive nostrils? Perhaps. Yet
Margaret's voice when she answered, was clear and sweet.
"Yes. I told him that Hilcrest would always welcome my friends, I was
sure. And--wasn't I right?"
"Of course--certainly," three almost inaudible voices had murmured. And
that had been the end of it, except that the two brothers and the sister
had talked it over in low distressed voices after Margaret had gone
up-stairs to bed.
Two weeks had passed now, however, since that memorable night, and the
veranda of Hilcrest had not yet echoed to the sound of young McGinnis's
feet. The Spencers breathed a little more freely in consequence. It
might be possible, after all, thought they, that _McGinnis_ had some
sense!--and the emphasis was eloquent.