In the early evening after dinner Margaret sought her guardian. He was at his desk in his own special den out of the library, and the door was open. "May I come in?" she asked. Spencer sprang to his feet. "By all means," he cried as he placed a chair. "You don't often honor me--like this." "But this is where you do business, when at home; isn't it?" she inquired. "And I--I have come to do business." The man laughed. "So it's business--just plain sordid business--to which I am indebted for this," he bemoaned playfully. "Well, and what is it? Income too small for expenses?" He chuckled a little, and he could afford to. Margaret had made no mistake in asking him still to have the handling of her property. The results had been eminently satisfactory both to his pride and her pocketbook. "No, no, it's not that; it's the mills." "The mills!" "Yes. Is it quite--quite necessary to work--nights?" For a moment the man stared wordlessly; then he fell back in his chair. "Why, Margaret, what in the world----" he stopped from sheer inability to proceed. He had suddenly remembered the stories he had heard of the early life of this girl before him, and of her childhood's horror at the difference between the lot of the rich and the poor. "Last night we--we came through the town," explained Margaret, a little feverishly; "and Mr. Brandon happened to mention that they worked--nights." The man at the desk roused himself. "Yes, I see," he said kindly. "You were surprised, of course. But don't worry, my child, or let it fret you a moment. It's nothing new. They are used to it. They have done it for years." "But at night--all night--it doesn't seem right. And it must be so--hard. _Must_ they do it?" "Why, of course. Other mills run nights; why shouldn't ours? They expect it, Margaret. Besides, they are paid for it. Come, come, dear girl, just look at it sensibly. Why, it's the night work that helps to swell your dividends." Margaret winced. "I--I think I'd prefer them smaller," she faltered. She hesitated, then spoke again. "There's another thing, too, I wanted to ask you about. There was a little girl, Maggie. She lives in one of those shabby, unpainted houses at the foot of the hill. I want to do something for her. Will you see that this reaches her mother, please?" And she held out a fat roll of closely folded bills. "Now don't--please don't!" she cried, as she saw the man's remonstrative gesture. "Please don't say you can't, and that indiscriminate giving encourages pauperism. I used to hear that so often at school whenever I wanted to give something, and I--I hated it. If you could have seen that poor little girl yesterday!--you will see that she gets it; won't you?" "But, Margaret," began the man helplessly, "I don't know the child--there are so many----" he stopped, and Margaret picked up the dropped thread. "But you can find out," she urged. "You must find out. Her name's Maggie. You can inquire--some one will know."