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<h2>200CHAPTER XXVII</h2> With a relief which she did not attempt to hide from herself, Margaret saw the male members of the family at Hilcrest leave early the next morning on a trip from which they could not return until the next day; and with a reluctance which she could not hide from either herself or Mrs. Merideth, she said that afternoon: “Mr. McGinnis is coming to see me this evening, Aunt Della. I sent for him. You know I am interested in the children at the mills, and I wanted to ask him some questions.” Mrs. Merideth was dumb with dismay. For some days Margaret’s apparent inactivity had lulled her into a feeling of security. And now, with her brothers away, the blow which they had so dreaded for weeks had fallen—McGinnis was coming. Summoning all her strength, Mrs. Merideth finally managed to murmur a faint remonstrance that Margaret should trouble herself over 201 a matter that could not be helped; then with an earnest request that Margaret should not commit herself to any foolish promises, she fled to her own room, fearful lest, in her perturbation, she should say something which she would afterward regret. When Miss Kendall came down-stairs at eight o’clock that night she found waiting for her in the drawing-room—into which McGinnis had been shown by her express orders—a young man whose dress, attitude, and expression radiated impersonality and business, in spite of his sumptuous surroundings. In directing that the young man should be shown into the drawing-room instead of into the more informal library or living-room, Margaret had vaguely intended to convey to him the impression that he was a highly-prized friend, and as such was entitled to all honor; but she had scarcely looked into the cold gray eyes, or touched the half-reluctantly extended fingers before she knew that all such efforts had been without avail. The young man had not come to pay a visit: he was an employee who had obeyed the command of one in authority. 202 McGinnis stood just inside the door, hat in hand. His face was white, and his jaw stern-set. His manner was quiet, and his voice when he spoke was steady. There was nothing about him to tell the girl—who was vainly trying to thaw the stiff frigidity of his reserve—that he had spent all day and half the night in lashing himself into just this manner that so displeased her. “You sent for me?” he asked quietly. “Yes,” smiled the girl. “And doesn’t your conscience prick you, sir, because I had to send for you, when you should have come long ago of your own accord to see me?” she demanded playfully, motioning him to a seat. Then, before he could reply, she went on hurriedly: “I wanted to see you very much. By something that Mr. Spencer said the other evening I suspected that you were interested in the children who work in the mills—particularly interested. And—you are?” “Yes, much interested.” “And you know them—lots of them? You know their parents, and how they live?” “Yes, I know them well—too well.” He added the last softly, almost involuntarily. 203 The girl heard, and threw a quick look of sympathy into his eyes. “Good! You are just the one I want, then,” she cried. “And you will help me; won’t you?” McGinnis hesitated. An eager light had leaped to his eyes. For a moment he dared not speak lest his voice break through the lines of stern control he had set for it. “I shall be glad to give you any help I can,” he said at last, steadily; “but Mr. Spencer, of course, knows——” he paused, leaving his sentence unfinished. “But that is exactly it,” interposed Margaret, earnestly. “Mr. Spencer does not know—at least, he does not know personally about the mill people, I mean. He told me long ago that you stood between him and them, and had for a long time. It is you who must tell me.” “Very well, I will do my best. Just what—do you want to know?” “Everything. And I want not only to be told, but to see for myself. I want you to take me through the mills, and afterward I want to visit some of the houses where the children live.” 204 “Miss Kendall!” The distressed consternation in the man’s voice was unmistakable. “Is it so bad as that?” questioned the girl. “You don’t want me to see all these things? All the more reason why I should, then! If conditions are bad, help is needed; but before help can be effectual, or even given at all, the conditions must be understood. That is what I mean to do—understand the conditions. How many children are there employed in the mills, please?” McGinnis hesitated. “Well, there are some—hundreds,” he acknowledged. “Of course many of them are twelve and fourteen and fifteen, and that is bad enough; but there are others younger. You see the age limit of this state is lower than some. Many parents bring their children here to live, so that they can put them into the mills.” Margaret shuddered. “Then it is true, as Patty said. There are children there nine and ten years old!” “Yes, even younger than that, I fear. Only last week I turned away a man who brought a puny little thing with a request for work. He swore she was twelve. I’d hate to tell you how 205 old—or rather, how young, she really looked. I sent him home with a few remarks which I hope he will remember. She was only one, however, out of many. I am not always able to do what I would like to do in such cases—I am not the only man at the mills. You must realize that.” “Yes, I realize it, and I understand why you can’t always do what you wish. But just suppose you tell me now some of the things you would like to do—if you could.” And she smiled encouragement straight into his eyes until in spite of his stern resolve he forgot himself and his surroundings, and began to talk. Robert McGinnis was no silver-tongued orator, but he knew his subject, and his heart was in it. For long months he had been battling alone against the evils that had little by little filled his soul with horror. Accustomed heretofore only to rebuffs and angry denunciations of his “officious meddling,” he now suddenly found a tenderly sympathetic ear eagerly awaiting his story, and a pair of luminous blue eyes already glistening with unshed tears. No wonder McGinnis talked, and talked well. He seemed to be speaking to the Maggie of long 206 ago—the little girl who stood ready and anxious to “divvy up” with all the world. Then suddenly his eyes fell on the rich folds of the girl’s dress, and on the velvety pile of the rug beneath her feet. “I have said too much,” he broke off sharply, springing to his feet. “I forgot myself.” “On the contrary you have not said half enough,” declared the girl, rising too; “and I mean to go over the mills at once, if you’ll be so good as to take me. I’ll let you know when. And come to see me again, please—without being sent for,” she suggested merrily, adding with a pretty touch of earnestness: “We are a committee of two; and to do good work the committee must meet!” McGinnis never knew exactly how he got home that night. The earth was beneath him, but he did not seem to touch it. The sky was above him—he was nearer that. But, in spite of this nearness, the stars seemed dim—he was thinking of the light in a pair of glorious blue eyes. McGinnis told himself that it was because of his mill people—this elation that possessed him. He was grateful that they had found a friend. He 207 did not ask himself later whether it was also because of his mill people that he sat up until far into the morning, with his eyes dreamily fixed on the note in his hand signed, “Margaret Kendall.” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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