“It is useless, of course, to pretend not to understand,” he began stiffly. “I suppose that that altogether too officious young McGinnis has been asking your help for some of his pet schemes.”
“On the contrary, Mr. McGinnis has not spoken to me of the mill workers,” corrected Margaret, quietly, but with a curious little thrill that resolved itself into a silent exultation that there was then at least one at the mills on whose aid she might count. “I have not seen him, indeed, since that first morning I met him,” she finished coldly. Though Margaret would not own it to herself, the fact that she had not seen the young man, Robert McGinnis, had surprised and disappointed her not a little—Margaret Kendall was not used to having her presence and her gracious invitations ignored.
“Oh, then you haven’t seen him,” murmured her guardian; and there was a curious intonation of relief in his voice. “Who, then, has been talking to you?”
“No one—in the way you mean. Patty inadvertently mentioned it to-day, and I questioned her. I was shocked and distressed. Those little children—just think of it—twelve years old, and working in the mills!”
The man made a troubled gesture.
“But, my dear Margaret, I did not put them there. Their parents did it.”
“But you could refuse to take them.”
“Why should I?” he shrugged. “They would merely go into some other man’s mill.”
“But you don’t know the worst of it,” moaned the girl. “They’ve lied to you. They aren’t even twelve, some of them. They’re babies of nine and ten!”
She paused expectantly, but he did not speak. He only turned his head so that she could not see his eyes.