“We can do the most good by staying right here and keeping the house open,” she said. “We are so near that they may want to bring some of the children here, if there should be any that are hurt or overcome. At all events, we’ll have everything ready, and we’ll have hot coffee for the men.”
Almost immediately they came—those limp, unconscious little forms borne in strong, tender arms. Some of the children had only fainted; others had been crushed and bruised in the mad rush for safety. Before an hour had passed the Mill House looked like a hospital, and every available helper was pressed into service as a nurse.
Toward morning a small boy, breathless and white-faced, rushed into the main hall.
“They’re in there—they’re in there—they hain’t come out yet—an’ the roof has caved in!” he panted. “They’ll be burned up—they’ll be burned up!”
Margaret sprang forward.
“But I thought they were all out,” she cried. “We heard that every one was out. Who’s in there? What do you mean?”
The boy gasped for breath.
“The boss, Bobby McGinnis an’ Mr. Spencer—Mr. Frank Spencer. They went——”
With a sharp cry Margaret turned and ran through the open door to the street, nor did she slacken her pace until she had reached the surging crowds at the mills.
From a score of trembling lips she learned the story, told in sobbing, broken scraps of words.