“Come to think 'ont, 't was,” he answered, like one awaking from a dream.
“Then, the ungrateful thing's gone; and I am glad, if she could n't be more thankful to us for her home.”
“Yes,—Margaret's gone.” His voice sounded far off, as though his soul was off in search of her.
“Margaret Thorne has run away!” went from mouth to mouth, and harsh comments, bitter words, flashed through the village a few days, and then all was still again.
Wild and fearful emotions rushed through the mind of Margaret, when, after a long, weary walk, she reached the town of N—, with old Trot at her side.
It was a small white house, apart from others, and far from the road, at which she applied for board, drawn thither by its quiet, home-like appearance, and a strange feeling within her mind which she had not fully learned to trust.
She felt that her weary feet could go no farther, as she walked up the path, bordered by flowers, and knocked timidly at the door.
It was opened by a woman of about forty years, whose pleasant face smiled upon her, as she invited her to enter.
Margaret took courage from the kind manner in which she was met, and at once made known her desire to obtain a boarding place, designing to work in the factory near at hand.
“I have no room at present for any one,” she answered, “but if you are to work in the factory there are boarding houses built by the corporation, at which you can obtain accommodations. The first step, however, will be to call upon the overseer, and if you like I will go with you after you have rested.”