"Yes, even younger than that, I fear. Only last week I turned away a man who brought a puny little thing with a request for work. He swore she was twelve. I'd hate to tell you how old--or rather, how young, she really looked. I sent him home with a few remarks which I hope he will remember. She was only one, however, out of many. I am not always able to do what I would like to do in such cases--I am not the only man at the mills. You must realize that." "Yes, I realize it, and I understand why you can't always do what you wish. But just suppose you tell me now some of the things you would like to do--if you could." And she smiled encouragement straight into his eyes until in spite of his stern resolve he forgot himself and his surroundings, and began to talk. Robert McGinnis was no silver-tongued orator, but he knew his subject, and his heart was in it. For long months he had been battling alone against the evils that had little by little filled his soul with horror. Accustomed heretofore only to rebuffs and angry denunciations of his "officious meddling," he now suddenly found a tenderly sympathetic ear eagerly awaiting his story, and a pair of luminous blue eyes already glistening with unshed tears. No wonder McGinnis talked, and talked well. He seemed to be speaking to the Maggie of long ago--the little girl who stood ready and anxious to "divvy up" with all the world. Then suddenly his eyes fell on the rich folds of the girl's dress, and on the velvety pile of the rug beneath her feet. "I have said too much," he broke off sharply, springing to his feet. "I forgot myself." "On the contrary you have not said half enough," declared the girl, rising too; "and I mean to go over the mills at once, if you'll be so good as to take me. I'll let you know when. And come to see me again, please--without being sent for," she suggested merrily, adding with a pretty touch of earnestness: "We are a committee of two; and to do good work the committee must meet!" McGinnis never knew exactly how he got home that night. The earth was beneath him, but he did not seem to touch it. The sky was above him--he was nearer that. But, in spite of this nearness, the stars seemed dim--he was thinking of the light in a pair of glorious blue eyes. McGinnis told himself that it was because of his mill people--this elation that possessed him. He was grateful that they had found a friend. He did not ask himself later whether it was also because of his mill people that he sat up until far into the morning, with his eyes dreamily fixed on the note in his hand signed, "Margaret Kendall." CHAPTER XXVIII