"The Master," she said, turning with an answering smile.

Margret was touched. The owner of the mill was not a more real
verity to this girl than the Master of whom she spoke with such
quiet knowledge.

"Are things right in the mill?" she said, testing her.

A shadow came on her face; her eyes wandered uncertainly, as if
her weak brain were confused,--only for a moment.


"They'll come right!" she said, bravely "The Master'll see to
it!"

But the light was gone from her eyes; some old pain seemed to be
surging through her narrow thought; and when she began to talk,
it was in a bewildered, doubtful way.

"It's a black place, th' mill," she said, in a low voice. "It
was a good while I was there: frum seven year old till sixteen.
'T seemed longer t' me 'n 't was. 'T seemed as if I'd been there
allus,--jes' forever, yoh know. 'Fore I went in, I had the
rickets, they say: that's what ails me. 'T hurt my head, they've
told me,-- made me different frum other folks."

She stopped a moment, with a dumb, hungry look in her eyes.
After a while she looked at Margret furtively, with a pitiful
eagerness.