Margaret shuddered. Her face lost a little of its radiant glow, and her hand trembled as she raised it to her head. "You are right--I did not know," she said faintly. "There must be something that can be done. There _must_ be. I will see." And she did see. That night she once more followed her guardian into the little den off the library. "It's business again," she began, smiling faintly; "and it's the mills. May I speak to you a moment?" "Of course you may," cried the man, trying to make his voice so cordial that there should be visible in his manner no trace of his real dismay at her request. "What is it?" Margaret did not answer at once. Her head drooped forward a little. She had seated herself near the desk, and her left hand and arm rested along the edge of its smooth flat top. The man's gaze drifted from her face to the arm, the slender wrist and the tapering fingers so clearly outlined in all their fairness against the dark mahogany, and so plainly all unfitted for strife or struggle. With a sudden movement he leaned forward and covered the slim fingers with his own warm-clasping hand. "Margaret, dear child, don't!" he begged. "It breaks my heart to see you like this. You are carrying the whole world on those two frail shoulders of yours." "No, no, it's not the whole world at all," protested the girl. "It's only a wee small part of it--and such a defenseless little part, too. It's the children down at the mills." Unconsciously the man straightened himself. His clasp on the outstretched hand loosened until Margaret, as if in answer to the stern determination of his face, drew her hand away and raised her head until her eyes met his unfalteringly. "It is useless, of course, to pretend not to understand," he began stiffly. "I suppose that that altogether too officious young McGinnis has been asking your help for some of his pet schemes." "On the contrary, Mr. McGinnis has not spoken to me of the mill workers," corrected Margaret, quietly, but with a curious little thrill that resolved itself into a silent exultation that there was then at least one at the mills on whose aid she might count. "I have not seen him, indeed, since that first morning I met him," she finished coldly. Though Margaret would not own it to herself, the fact that she had not seen the young man, Robert McGinnis, had surprised and disappointed her not a little--Margaret Kendall was not used to having her presence and her gracious invitations ignored. "Oh, then you haven't seen him," murmured her guardian; and there was a curious intonation of relief in his voice. "Who, then, has been talking to you?" "No one--in the way you mean. Patty inadvertently mentioned it to-day, and I questioned her. I was shocked and distressed. Those little children--just think of it--twelve years old, and working in the mills!" The man made a troubled gesture. "But, my dear Margaret, I did not put them there. Their parents did it." "But you could refuse to take them."