Leaving the rectory, Constance postponed the quest for that afternoon and went to pay her daily visit to Margaret. On the way downtown a happy thought came to her, and she welcomed it as an inspiration, setting it to work as soon as she had put the convalescent's room in order.
"You are feeling better to-day, aren't you, Margaret?" she began.
"Yes. I'm thinking I'll be able to go to work again before long; only Pete Grim mightn't have no use for me."
Constance brought the hair-brush, and letting Margaret's luxuriant hair fall in heavy masses over the back of the chair, began another of her ministries of service.
"Do you really want to go back to the Bijou?" she asked, knowing well enough what the answer would be.
"You know you needn't to ask that; it's just Pete Grim's place or something worse. I can't do no different"—she paused and the fingers of her clasped hands worked nervously—"and you can't help it, Miss Constance. I know you've been trying and worrying; but it ain't no use."
Connie did not find words to reply at once, but after a little she said: "Tell me more about your old home, Margaret."
"I've told you all there was to tell, many's the time since you found me with the fever."
"Let me see if I can remember it. You said your father was the village blacksmith, and that you used to sit in the shop and watch the sparks fly from the anvil as he worked. And when his day's work was done, he would take you on his shoulder and carry you home to your mother, who called you her pretty colleen, and loved you because you were the only girl. And then"—
"Oh, don't!" There was sharp anguish in the cry, and Margaret covered her eyes with her hands as if to shut out the picture. Constance waited until she thought she had given the seed time to germinate. Then she went on.