“But, Margaret,” began the man helplessly, “I don’t know the child—there are so many——” he stopped, and Margaret picked up the dropped thread.
“But you can find out,” she urged. “You must find out. Her name’s Maggie. You can inquire—some one will know.”
“But, don’t you see——” the man’s face cleared suddenly. “I’ll give it to Della,” he broke off in quick relief. “She runs the charity part, and she’ll know just what to do with it. Meanwhile, let me thank you——”
“No, no,” interrupted Margaret, rising to go. “It is you I have to thank for doing it for me,” she finished as she hurried from the room.
“By George!” muttered the man, as he looked at the denominations of the bills in his fingers. “I’m not so sure but we may have our hands full, after all—certainly, if she keeps on as she’s begun!”
CHAPTER XIX
It was after eight o’clock. The morning, for so early in September, was raw and cold. A tall young fellow, with alert gray eyes and a square chin hurried around the corner of one of the great mills, and almost knocked down a small girl who was coming toward him with head bent to the wind.
“Heigh-ho!” he cried, then stopped short. The child had fallen back and was leaning against the side of the building in a paroxysm of coughing. She was thin and pale, and looked as if she might be eleven years old. “Well, well!” he exclaimed as soon as the child caught her breath. “I reckon there’s room for both of us in the world, after all.” Then, kindly: “Where were you going?”
“Home, sir.”
He threw a keen look into her face.