It was, indeed, "lucky stars," as little Maggie soon found out. Others
found it out, too; but to some of these it was not "lucky" stars.
At the dinner table on that first night after the visit to Patty's
house, Margaret threw the family into no little consternation by
abruptly asking:
"How do you go to work to get men and things to put houses into livable
shape?... I don't suppose I did word it in a very businesslike manner,"
she added laughingly, in response to Frank Spencer's amazed ejaculation.
"But what--perhaps I don't quite understand," he murmured.
"No, of course you don't," replied Margaret; "and no wonder. I'll
explain. You see I've found another of my friends. It's the little girl,
Patty, with whom I lived three years in New York. She's down in one of
the mill cottages, and it leaks and is in bad shape generally. I want to
fix it up."
There was a dazed silence; then Frank Spencer recovered his wits and his
voice.
"By all means," he rejoined hastily. "It shall be attended to at once.
Just give me your directions and I will send the men around there right
away."
"Thank you; then I'll meet them there and tell them just what I want
done."
Frank Spencer moistened his lips, which had grown unaccountably dry.
"But, my dear Margaret," he remonstrated, "surely it isn't necessary
that you yourself should be subjected to such annoyance. I can attend to
all that is necessary."
"Oh, but I don't mind a bit," returned Margaret, brightly. "I _want_ to
do it. It's for Patty, you know." And Frank Spencer could only fall back
in his chair with an uneasy glance at his sister.
Before the week was out there seemed to be a good many things that were
"for Patty, you know." There was the skilled physician summoned to
prescribe for Maggie; and there was the strong, capable woman hired to
care for her, and to give the worn-out mother a much needed rest. There
were the large baskets of fruit and vegetables, and the boxes of
beautiful flowers. In fact there seemed to be almost nothing throughout
the whole week that was not "for Patty, you know."
Even Margaret's time--that, too, was given to Patty. The golf links and
the tennis court were deserted. Neither Ned nor the beautiful October
weather could tempt Margaret to a single game. The music room, too, was
silent, and the piano was closed.
Down in the little house on the Prospect Hill road, however, a radiant
young woman was superintending the work that was fast putting the
cottage into a shape that was very much "livable." Meanwhile this same
radiant young woman was getting acquainted with her namesake.
"Lucky Stars," as the child insisted upon calling her, and Maggie were
firm friends. Good food and proper care were fast bringing the little
girl back to health; and there was nothing she so loved to do as to
"play" with the beautiful young lady who had never yet failed to bring
toy or game or flower for her delight.
"And how old are you now?" Margaret would laughingly ask each day, just
to hear the prompt response:
"I'm 'most five goin' on six an' I'll be twelve ter-morrow."
Margaret always chuckled over this retort and never tired of hearing it,
until one day Patty sharply interfered.
"Don't--please don't! I can't bear it when you don't half know what it
means."
"When I don't know what it means! Why, Patty!" exclaimed Margaret.
"Yes. It's Sam. He learned it to her."
"Well?" Margaret's eyes were still puzzled.
"He likes it. He _wants_ her ter be twelve, ye know," explained Patty
with an effort. Then, as she saw her meaning was still not clear, she
added miserably:
"She can work then--in the mills."
"In the mills--at twelve years old!"
"That's the age, ye know, when they can git their papers--that is, if
it's summer--vacation time: an' they looks out that 'tis summer, most
generally, when they does gits 'em. After that it don't count; they jest
works, lots of 'em, summer or winter, school or no school."
"The age! Do you mean that they let mere children, twelve years old,
work in those mills?"
For a moment Patty stared silently. Then she shook her head.
"I reckon mebbe ye don't know much about it," she said wearily. "They
don't wait till they's twelve. They jest says they's twelve. Nellie
Magoon's eleven, an' Bess is ten, an' Susie McDermot ain't but nine--but
they's all twelve on the mill books. Sam's jest a-learnin' Maggie ter
say she's twelve even now, an' the minute she's big enough ter work she
will be twelve. It makes me jest sick; an' that's why I can't bear ter
hear her say it."
Margaret shuddered. Her face lost a little of its radiant glow, and her
hand trembled as she raised it to her head.
"You are right--I did not know," she said faintly. "There must be
something that can be done. There _must_ be. I will see."
And she did see. That night she once more followed her guardian into the
little den off the library.
"It's business again," she began, smiling faintly; "and it's the mills.
May I speak to you a moment?"
"Of course you may," cried the man, trying to make his voice so cordial
that there should be visible in his manner no trace of his real dismay
at her request. "What is it?"
Margaret did not answer at once. Her head drooped forward a little. She
had seated herself near the desk, and her left hand and arm rested along
the edge of its smooth flat top. The man's gaze drifted from her face to
the arm, the slender wrist and the tapering fingers so clearly outlined
in all their fairness against the dark mahogany, and so plainly all
unfitted for strife or struggle. With a sudden movement he leaned
forward and covered the slim fingers with his own warm-clasping hand.
"Margaret, dear child, don't!" he begged. "It breaks my heart to see you
like this. You are carrying the whole world on those two frail shoulders
of yours."
"No, no, it's not the whole world at all," protested the girl. "It's
only a wee small part of it--and such a defenseless little part, too.
It's the children down at the mills."
Unconsciously the man straightened himself. His clasp on the
outstretched hand loosened until Margaret, as if in answer to the stern
determination of his face, drew her hand away and raised her head until
her eyes met his unfalteringly.
"It is useless, of course, to pretend not to understand," he began
stiffly. "I suppose that that altogether too officious young McGinnis
has been asking your help for some of his pet schemes."
"On the contrary, Mr. McGinnis has not spoken to me of the mill
workers," corrected Margaret, quietly, but with a curious little thrill
that resolved itself into a silent exultation that there was then at
least one at the mills on whose aid she might count. "I have not seen
him, indeed, since that first morning I met him," she finished coldly.
Though Margaret would not own it to herself, the fact that she had not
seen the young man, Robert McGinnis, had surprised and disappointed her
not a little--Margaret Kendall was not used to having her presence and
her gracious invitations ignored.
"Oh, then you haven't seen him," murmured her guardian; and there was a
curious intonation of relief in his voice. "Who, then, has been talking
to you?"
"No one--in the way you mean. Patty inadvertently mentioned it to-day,
and I questioned her. I was shocked and distressed. Those little
children--just think of it--twelve years old, and working in the mills!"
The man made a troubled gesture.
"But, my dear Margaret, I did not put them there. Their parents did it."
"But you could refuse to take them."
"Why should I?" he shrugged. "They would merely go into some other man's
mill."
"But you don't know the worst of it," moaned the girl. "They've lied to
you. They aren't even twelve, some of them. They're babies of nine and
ten!"
She paused expectantly, but he did not speak. He only turned his head so
that she could not see his eyes.
"You did not know it, of course," she went on feverishly. "But you do
now. And surely now, _now_ you can do something."
Still he was silent. Then he turned sharply.
"Margaret, I beg of you to believe me when I say that you do not
understand the matter at all. Those people are poor. They need the
money. You would deprive some of the families of two-thirds of their
means of support if you took away what the children earn. Help them,
pity them, be as charitable as you like. That is well and good; but,
Margaret, don't, for heaven's sake, let your heart run away with your
head when it comes to the business part of it!"
"Business!--with babies nine years old!"
The man sprang to his feet and walked twice the length of the room; then
he turned about and faced the scornful eyes of the girl by the desk.
"Margaret, don't look at me as if you thought I was a fiend incarnate. I
regret this sort of thing as much as you do. Indeed I do. But my hands
are tied. I am simply a part of a great machine--a gigantic system, and I
must run my mills as other men do. Surely you must see that. Just think
it over, and give me the credit at least for knowing a little more of
the business than you do, when I and my father before me, have been here
as many years as you have days. Come, please don't let us talk of this
thing any more to-night. You are tired and overwrought, and I don't
think you realize yourself what you are asking."
"Very well, I will go," sighed Margaret, rising wearily to her feet.
"But I can't forget it. There must be some way out of it. There must be
some way out of it--somehow--some time."