I stepped over quickly toward her, hat in hand. She was a mere slip of a girl, rather comely, I thought, with small childish features and a half-timid, half-bold look in her eyes. I could not remember having seen her before.
She smiled at me—and then I knew!
Well, if some one had struck me a brutal blow in the face I could not have been more astonished.
We know of things!—and yet how little we know until they are presented to us in concrete form. Just such a little school girl as I have seen a thousand times in the country, the pathetic childish curve of the chin, a small rebellious curl hanging low on her temple.
I could not say a word. The girl evidently saw in my face that something was the matter, for she turned and began to move quickly away. Such a wave of compassion (and anger, too) swept over me as I cannot well describe. I stepped after her and asked in a low voice:
“Do you work in the mills?”
“Yes, when there's work.”
“What is your name?”
“Maggie—”
“Well, Maggie,” I said, “let's be friends.”