The mill had been running several hours when Kingsley looked up, and saw standing before him at his office window a girl of such stately beauty that he stood looking sillily at her, and wondering.
He did not remember very clearly afterwards anything except this first impression; that her hair was plaited in two rich coils upon her head, and that never before had he seen so much beauty in a gingham dress.
He remembered, too, that her eyes, which held him spellbound, wore more an expression of despair and even desperation than of youthful hope. He could not understand why they looked that way, forerunners as they were of such a face and hair.
And so he stood, sillily smiling, until Richard Travis arose from his desk and came forward to meet her.
She nodded at him and tried to smile, but Kingsley noticed that it died away into drawn, hard lines around her pretty mouth.
“It is Miss Conway,” he said to Kingsley, taking her hand familiarly and holding it until she withdrew it with a conscious touch of embarrassment.
“She is one of my neighbors, and, by the way, Kingsley, she must have the best place in the mill.”
Kingsley continued to look sillily at her. He had not heard of Helen—he did not understand.
“A place in the mill—ah, let me see,” he said thoughtfully.
“I've been thinking it out,” went on Travis, “and there is a drawing-in machine ready for her. I understand Maggie is going to quit on account of her health.”