CHAPTER IV
MAGGIE
It was Maggie's last day at the mill, and she had been unusually thoughtful. Her face was more pinched, Helen thought, and the sadness in her eyes had increased.
Helen had proved to be an apt pupil, and Maggie declared that thereafter she would be able to run her machine without assistance.
It was Saturday noon and Maggie was ready to go, though the mill did not shut down until six that day. And so she found herself standing and looking with tearful eyes at the machine she had learned to love, at the little room in which she had worked so long, supporting her invalid father and her little ones—as she motherly called the children. It had been hard—so hard, and the years had been long and she was so weak now, compared to what she had been. How happy she had thought the moment of her leaving would be; and yet now that it had come—now—she was weeping.
“I didn't think,” she said to Helen—“I didn't think I'd—I'd care so to leave it—when—when—the time—came.”
She turned and brushed away her tears in time to see Travis come smiling up.
“Why, Maggie,” he said playfully flipping the tip of her ear as he passed her. “I thought you left us yesterday afternoon. You'll not be forgetting us now that you will not see us again, will you?”