“I am going down to Patty’s,” she said, a little hurriedly, to Mrs. Merideth, when breakfast was over. “I got some names and addresses of the mill children yesterday from Mr. McGinnis; and I shall ask Patty to go with me to see them. I want to talk with the parents.”
“But, my dear, you don’t know what you are doing,” protested Mrs. Merideth. “They are so rough—those people. Miss Alby, our visiting home missionary, told me only last week how dreadful they were—so rude and intemperate and—and ill-odored. She has been among them. She knows.”
“Yes; but don’t you see?—those are the very people that need help, then,” returned Margaret, wearily. “They don’t know what they are doing to their little children, and I must tell them. I must tell them. I shall have Patty with me. Don’t worry.” And Mrs. Merideth could only sigh and sigh again, and hurry away up-stairs to devise an altogether more delightful plan for the winter months than any that had yet been proposed—a plan so overwhelmingly delightful that Margaret could not help being interested. Of one thing, however, Mrs. Merideth was certain—if there was a place distant enough to silence the roar of the mills in Margaret’s ears, that place should be chosen if it were Egypt itself.
Patty Durgin hesitated visibly when Margaret told her what she wanted to do, until Margaret exclaimed in surprise, and with a little reproach in her voice:
“Why, Patty, don’t you want to help me?”
“Yes, yes; you don’t understand,” protested Patty. “It ain’t that. I want ter do it all. If you have money for ’em, let me give it to ’em.”
Margaret was silent. Her eyes were still hurt, still rebellious.
“I—I don’t want you ter see them,” stammered Patty, then. “I don’t want you ter feel so—so bad.”
Margaret’s face cleared.
“Oh, but I’m feeling bad now,” she asserted cheerily; “and after I see them I’ll feel better. I want to talk to them; don’t you see? They don’t realize what they are doing to their children to let them work so, and I am going to tell them.”