"Ida May," said the ringleader, harshly, "we have something to say to you!"
"Yes," she answered, thinking that they had reconsidered the matter, and were going to ask her to join them.
For a moment the girl seemed at a loss to know what to say, but the angry murmurs of her companions in the rear nerved her to her task.
"After consultation, we have concluded that, as respectable girls, we can not remain in the mills another day if you are allowed to work here. You must leave at once, or we shall do so."
For an instant Ida May was fairly dazed. She scarcely believed that she had heard aright—surely her senses were playing her false. She sprung to her feet, and confronted the girls, who stood, with angered faces, looking at her.
"Surely you can not mean what you say!" she gasped. "What have I done that you should say this to me?"
The ringleader looked at her with withering scorn.
"We do not consider you a proper companion to mingle among us," returned the girl, stolidly. "We all work for our living in this cotton-mill, but if we are poor we are honest. Is that plain enough for you to understand? If not, I will add this"—and stepping up to the trembling girl's side, she whispered a few sharp words in her ear—words that made Ida May recoil as though they had been thrusts of a knife that cut to her heart.
With a piteous cry she sunk on her knees, covering her death-white face with her trembling hands.
"It remains with you to deny or affirm our accusation," went on the girl, harshly "What have you to say to our charge, Ida May; is it true or false?"