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<h2>208CHAPTER XXVIII</h2> Frank Spencer found the mental atmosphere of Hilcrest in confusion when he returned from his two days’ trip. Margaret had repeated to Mrs. Merideth the substance of what McGinnis had told her, drawing a vivid picture of the little children wearing out their lives in plain sight of the windows of Hilcrest. Mrs. Merideth had been shocked and dismayed, though she hardly knew which she deplored the more—that such conditions existed, or that Margaret should know of them. At Margaret’s avowed determination to go over the mills, and into the operatives’ houses, she lifted her hands in horrified protest, and begged her to report the matter to the Woman’s Guild, and leave the whole thing in charge of the committee. “But don’t you see that they can’t reach the seat of the trouble?” Margaret had objected. “Why, even that money which I intended for little Maggie went into a general fund, and 209 never reached its specified destination.” And Mrs. Merideth could only sigh and murmur: “But, my dear, it’s so unnecessary and so dreadful for you to mix yourself up personally with such people!” When her brother came home, Mrs. Merideth went to him. Frank was a man: surely Frank could do something! But Frank merely grew white and stern, and went off into his own den, shutting himself up away from everybody. The next morning, after a fifteen minute talk with Margaret, he sought his sister. His face was drawn into deep lines, and his eyes looked as if he had not slept. “Say no more to Margaret,” he entreated. “It is useless. She is her own mistress, of course, in spite of her insistence that I am still her guardian; and she must be allowed to do as she likes in this matter. Make her home here happy, and do not trouble her. We must not make her quite—hate us!” His voice broke over the last two words, and he was gone before Mrs. Merideth could make any reply. Some twenty-four hours later, young McGinnis at the mills was summoned to the telephone. 210 “If you are not too busy,” called a voice that sent a quick throb of joy to the young man’s pulse, “the other half of the committee would like to begin work. May she come down to the mills this afternoon at three o’clock?” “By all means!” cried McGinnis. “Come.” He tried to say more, but while he was searching for just the right words, the voice murmured, “Thank you”; and then came the click of the receiver against the hook at the other end of the line. The clock had not struck three that afternoon when Margaret was ushered into the inner office of Spencer & Spencer. Only Frank was there, for which Margaret was thankful. She avoided Ned these days when she could. There was still that haunting reproach in his eyes whenever they met hers. Frank was expecting her, and only a peculiar tightening of his lips betrayed his disquietude as he turned to his desk and pressed the button that would summon McGinnis to the office. “Miss Kendall would like to go over one of the mills,” he said quietly, as the young man entered, in response to his ring. “Perhaps you will be her escort.” 211 Margaret gave her guardian a grateful look as she left the office. She thought she knew just how much the calm acceptance of the situation had cost him, and she appreciated his unflinching determination to give her actions the sanction of his apparent consent. It was for this that she gave him the grateful glance—but he did not see it. His head was turned away. “And what shall I show you?” asked McGinnis, as the office door closed behind them. “Everything you can,” returned Margaret; “everything! But particularly the children.” From the first deafening click-clack of the rattling machines she drew back in consternation. “They don’t work there—the children!” she cried. For answer he pointed to a little girl not far away. She was standing on a stool, that she might reach her work. Her face was thin and drawn looking, with deep shadows under her eyes, and little hollows where the roses should have been in her cheeks. Her hair was braided and wound tightly about her small head, though at the temples and behind her ears it kinked into rebellious 212 curls that showed what it would like to do if it had a chance. Her ragged little skirts were bound round and round with a stout cord so that the hungry jaws of the machine might not snap at any flying fold or tatter. She did not look up as Margaret paused beside her. She dared not. Her eyes were glued to the whizzing, whirring, clattering thing before her, watching for broken threads or loose ends, the neglect of which might bring down upon her head a snarling reprimand from “de boss” of her department. Margaret learned many things during the next two hours. Conversation was not easy in the clattering din, but some few things her guide explained, and a word or two spoke volumes sometimes. She saw what it meant to be a “doffer,” a “reeler,” a “silk-twister.” She saw what it might mean if the tiny hand that thrust the empty bobbin over the buzzing spindle-point should slip or lose its skill. She saw a little maid of twelve who earned two whole dollars a week, and she saw a smaller girl of ten who, McGinnis said, was with her sister the only support of an invalid mother at home. She saw more, much more, until her mind 213 refused to grasp details and the whole scene became one blurred vision of horror. Later, after a brief rest—she had insisted upon staying—she saw the “day-shift” swarm out into the chill December night, and the “night-shift” come shivering in to take their places; and she grew faint and sick when she saw among them the scores of puny little forms with tired-looking faces and dragging feet. “And they’re only beginning!” she moaned, as McGinnis hurried her away. “And they’ve got to work all night—all night!” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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