Margaret's room, like the dining-room below, looked toward the west and the far-reaching meadows; but from the turn of the balcony where it curved to the left, one might see the town, and it was toward this curve that Margaret walked now. Once there she stopped and stood motionless, her slender hands on the balcony rail. The night was wonderfully clear. The wide dome of the sky twinkled with a myriad of stars, and seemed to laugh at the town below with its puny little lights blinking up out of the dark where the streets crossed and recrossed. Over by the river where the mills pointed big black fingers at the sky, however, the lights did not blink. They blazed in tier upon tier and line upon line of windows, and they glowed with a never-ending glare that sent a shudder to the watching girl on the balcony. "And they're working now--_now_!" she almost sobbed; then she turned with a little cry and ran down the balcony toward her room where was waiting the cool soft bed with the lavender-scented sheets. In spite of the restless night she had spent, Margaret arose early the next morning. The house was very quiet when she came down-stairs, and only the subdued rustle of the parlor maid's skirts broke the silence of the great hall which was also the living-room at Hilcrest. "Good-morning, Betty." "Good-morning, Miss," courtesied the girl. Miss Kendall had almost reached the outer hall door when she turned abruptly. "Betty, you--you don't know a little child named--er--'Maggie'; do you?" she asked. "Ma'am?" Betty almost dropped the vase she was dusting. "'Maggie,'--a little girl named 'Maggie.' She's one of the--the mill people's children, I think." Betty drew herself erect. "No, Miss, I don't," she said crisply. "No, of course not," murmured Miss Kendall, unconsciously acknowledging the reproach in Betty's voice. Then she turned and went out the wide hall door. Twice she walked from end to end of the long veranda, but not once did she look toward the mills; and when she sat down a little later, her chair was so placed that it did not command a view of the red and brown roofs of the town. Miss Kendall was restless that day. She rode and drove and sang and played, and won at golf and tennis; but behind it all was a feverish gayety that came sometimes perilously near to recklessness. Frank Spencer and his sister watched her with troubled eyes, and even Ned gave an anxious frown once or twice. Just before dinner Brandon came upon her alone in the music room where she was racing her fingers through the runs and trills of an impromptu at an almost impossible speed. "If you take me motoring with you to-night, Miss Kendall," he said whimsically, when the music had ceased with a crashing chord, "if you take me to-night, I shall make sure that the brakes _are_ on my side of the car!" The girl laughed, then grew suddenly grave. "You would need to," she acceded; "but--I shall not take you or any one else motoring to-night."