Margaret’s morning ride through the town did not have quite the effect she had hoped it would. By daylight the place looked even worse than by the softening twilight. But she was haunted now, not so much by the wan faces of the workers as by the jeering countenances of a mob of mischievous boys. To be sure, the unexpected meeting with Bobby McGinnis had in a measure blurred the vision, but it was still there; and at night she awoke sometimes with those horrid shouts in her ears. Of one thing it had cured her, however: she no longer wished to see for herself the shabby cottages and the people in them. She gave money, promptly and liberally—so liberally, in fact, that Mrs. Merideth quite caught her breath at the size of the bills that the young woman stuffed into her hands.
“But, my dear, so much!” she had remonstrated.
“No, no—take it, do!” Margaret had pleaded. “Give it to that society to do as they like with it. And when it’s gone there’ll be more.”
Mrs. Merideth had taken the money then without more ado. The one thing she wished particularly to avoid in the matter was controversy—for controversy meant interest.
There had been one other result of that morning’s experience—a result which to Frank Spencer was perhaps quite as startling as had been the roll of bills to his sister.
“I met your Mr. Robert McGinnis when I was out this morning,” Margaret had said that night at dinner. “What sort of man is he?”
Before Frank could reply Ned had answered for him.
“He’s a little tin god on wheels, Margaret, that can do no wrong. That’s what he is.”
“Ned!” remonstrated Mrs. Merideth in a horror that was not all playful. Then to Margaret: “He is a very faithful fellow and an efficient workman, my dear, who is a great help to Frank. But how and where did you see him?”
Margaret laughed.