"It's no wonder," said Margaret as she listened to the exquisite sound, "it's no wonder that she could catch poor Ben and his mother with a voice like that. Yes, and--and the rest of them, too."
In a few minutes there was a tap at her door and Iola came in, her hair hanging like a dusky curtain about her face. Margaret uttered an involuntary exclamation of admiration.
"My! you are lovely!" she cried. "No wonder everyone loves you."
With a sudden rush of penitent feeling for her "mean thoughts" she put her arms about Iola and kissed her warmly.
"Lovely! Nonsense!" she exclaimed, surprised at this display of affection so unusual for Margaret, "I am not half so lovely as you.
When I see you at home here with all the things to worry you and the children to care for, I think you are just splendid and I feel myself cheap and worthless."
Margaret was conscious of a grateful glow in her heart.
"Indeed, my work doesn't amount to much, washing and dusting and mending. Anybody could do it. No one would ever notice me.
Wherever you go the people just fall down and worship you." As she spoke she let down her hair preparatory to brushing it. It fell like a cloud, a golden-yellow cloud, about her face and shoulders.
Iola looked critically at her.
"You are beautiful," she said slowly. "Your hair is lovely, and your big blue eyes, and your face has something, what is it? I can't tell you. But I believe people would come to you in difficulty. Yes. That's it," she continued, with her eyes on Margaret's face, "I can please them in a way. I can sing. Yes, I can sing. Some day I shall make people listen. But suppose I couldn't sing, suppose I lost my voice, people would forget me.
They wouldn't forget you."
"What nonsense!" said Margaret brusquely. "It is not your voice alone; it is your beauty and something I cannot describe, something in your manner that is so fetching. At any rate, all the young fellows are daft about you."
"But the women don't care for me," said Iola, with the same slow, thoughtful voice. "If I wanted very much I believe I could make them. But they don't. There's Mrs. Boyle, she doesn't like me."
"Now you're talking nonsense," said Margaret impatiently. "You ought to have heard old Mrs. Fallows this evening."
"Now," continued Iola, ignoring her remark, "the women all like you, and the men, too, in a way."
"Don't talk nonsense," said Margaret impatiently. "When you're around the boys don't look at me."
"Yes, they do," said Iola, as if pondering the question. "Ben does."
Margaret laughed scornfully. "Ben likes my jelly."
"And Dick does," continued Iola, "and Barney." Here she shot a keen glance at Margaret's face. Margaret caught the glance, and, though enraged at herself, she could not prevent a warm flush spreading over her fair cheek and down her bare neck.
"Pshaw!" she cried angrily, "those boys! Of course, they like me.
I've known them ever since I was a baby. Why, I used to go swimming with them in the pond. They think of me just like--well--just like a boy, you know."
"Do you think so? They are nice boys, I think, that is, if they had a chance to be anything."
"Be anything!" cried Margaret hotly. "Why, Dick's going to be a minister and--"
"Yes. Dick will do something, though he'll make a funny clergyman.
But Barney, what will he be? Just a miller?"
"Miller or whatever he is, he'll be a man, and that's good enough," replied Margaret indignantly.
"Oh, yes, I suppose so. But it's a pity. You know in this pokey little place no one will ever hear of him. I mean he'll never make any stir." To Iola there was no crime so deadly as the "unheard of." "And yet," she went on, "if he had a chance--"
But Margaret could bear this no longer. "What are you talking about? There are plenty of good men who are never heard of."
"Oh," cried Iola quickly, "I didn't mean--of course your father.
Well, your father is a gentle man. But Barney--"
"Oh, go to bed! Come, get out of my room. Go to bed! I must get to sleep. Seven o'clock comes mighty quick. Good-night."
"Don't be cross, Margaret. I didn't mean to say anything offensive. And I want you to love me. I think I want everyone to love me. I can't bear to have people not love me. But more than anyone else I want you." As she spoke she turned impulsively toward Margaret and put her arms around her neck. Margaret relented.
"Of course I love you," she said. "There," kissing her, "good-night. Go to sleep or you'll lose your beauty."
But Iola clung to her. "Good-night, dear Margaret," she said, her lips trembling pathetically. "You are the only girl friend I ever had. I couldn't bear you to forget me or to give up loving me."
"I never forget my friends," cried Margaret gravely. "And I never cease to love them."
"Oh, Margaret!" said Iola, trembling and clinging fast to her, "don't turn from me. No matter what comes, don't stop loving me."
"You little goose," cried Margaret, caressing her as if she were a child, "of course I will always love you. Good-night now." She kissed Iola tenderly.
"Good-night," said Iola. "You know this is my last night with you for a long time."
"Not the very last," said Margaret. "We go to the Mill to-morrow night, you remember, and you come back here with me. Barney is going to have Ben there for nursing and feeding."
Next day Barney had Ben down to the Mill, and that was the beginning of a new life to Ben in more ways than one. The old mill became a place of interest and delight to him. Perhaps his happiest hours were spent in what was known as Barney's workroom, where were various labour-saving machines for churning, washing, and apple-paring, which, by Barney's invention, were run by the mill power. He offered to connect the sewing machine with the same power, but his mother would have none of it.
Before many more weeks had gone Ben was hopping about by the aid of a crutch, eager to make himself useful, and soon he was not only "paying his board," as Barney declared, but "earning good wages as well."
