"Margaret will go into the factory," she said. "There is no other way at present."
When Mrs. Thorpe told her husband of this he was surprised at the mother's decision; she had seemed so anxious about the school. But he thought that after all Margaret might have given up the school of her own accord. Perhaps he had overestimated the girl; some way she had not seemed so bright and winsome that day as he had believed her to be.
It happened a few days later that Mr. Thorpe was called to see a poor parishioner who lived on the outskirts of the town. In order to reach this house he was obliged to pass through a neighborhood commonly known as the Flat. This was a disreputable district on the other side of the hill from Edgerly. When the town was in its infancy this Flat district was bought by a man named Bolton, who tried to throw the balance of power and interest on this side of the hill. To this end he erected a number of houses for tenants, built a saloon and hired the right sort of a man to run it. He also built a theatre. The Bolton stamp never left the Flat, and in time it came to be peopled by the lowest of the poor class. The saloon still did a flourishing business, and the theatre, known as the Flat theatre, answered for such plays and entertainments as more cultured and Christian Edgerly would not tolerate.
As Mr. Thorpe was returning from his call he saw a man and woman standing in the shadow of the theatre. The moon was full, and by its light he recognized the woman as Margaret. The man's face was turned from him, and he could not so readily make out his identity. But he knew it boded no good to Margaret to be there at that hour. He stopped, hesitated a moment, and caught the sound of voices. The girl spoke rapidly, and he thought she seemed in an ill-conditioned mood. The man's voice was more even and conciliatory. He drew the girl's arm through his and together they entered the theatre. The light from a lamp at the door fell upon them as they entered, and Mr. Thorpe recognized the man.
"Max! Max Morrison!" he exclaimed under his breath. He went on his way, thoughtful and troubled.
It must be true that he had overestimated Margaret, but he would speak to his wife, and see if her woman's tact could not devise some way to save the girl from the evil that threatened her.
CHAPTER III
UNDERCURRENTS
The seasons passed as seasons have a way of passing. The spring gave place to effulgent, luxurious summer; the summer slipped into autumn, and winter followed on, with bluster and storm. It was spring again at the parsonage. There was the song of birds, the hum of insects, and the rare perfume wafted from the garden.
One sweet spring evening Mrs. Thorpe stood again at her open window. A hush seemed to have fallen over the earth, and the silent moon and stars looked benignly down. A rush of emotion, restful, worshipful, swept over her. If only she might escape the stress and turmoil of life, and become a part of the quiet and calm that belong to nature!