“It's Maggie's,” she whispered.
He had not seen Maggie and he stood looking at Helen with such passionate, patronizing, commanding, masterful eyes, that she shrank for a moment, sideways.
Then he laughed: “How beautiful you are! There are queens born and queens made—I shall call you the queen of the mill, eh?”
He reached out and tried to take her hand, but she shrank behind the machine and then—
“Oh, Maggie!” she exclaimed—for the girl's face was now white and she stood with a strained mouth as if ready to sob.
“Oh, Maggie's a good little girl,” said Travis, catching her hand.
“Oh, please don't—please”—said Maggie.
Then she walked out, drawing her thin shawl around her.