The Doctor [26]
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."
The early afternoon found Margaret and Iola on their way to the Mill. It was with great difficulty that Margaret had been persuaded to leave her home for so long a time. The stern conscience law under which she regulated her life made her suspect those things which gave her peculiar pleasure, and among these was a visit to the Mill and the Mill people. It was in vain that Dick set before her, with the completeness amounting to demonstration, the reasons why she should make that visit. "Ben needs you," he argued. "And Iola will not come unless with you. Barney and I, weary with our day's work, absolutely require the cheer and refreshment of your presence. Mother wants you. I want you. We all want you. You must come." It was Mrs. Boyle's quiet invitation and her anxious entreaty and command that she should throw off the burden at times, that finally weighed with her.
The hours of that afternoon, spent partly in rowing about in the old flat-bottomed boat seeking water lilies in the pond, and partly in the
"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."
The early afternoon found Margaret and Iola on their way to the Mill. It was with great difficulty that Margaret had been persuaded to leave her home for so long a time. The stern conscience law under which she regulated her life made her suspect those things which gave her peculiar pleasure, and among these was a visit to the Mill and the Mill people. It was in vain that Dick set before her, with the completeness amounting to demonstration, the reasons why she should make that visit. "Ben needs you," he argued. "And Iola will not come unless with you. Barney and I, weary with our day's work, absolutely require the cheer and refreshment of your presence. Mother wants you. I want you. We all want you. You must come." It was Mrs. Boyle's quiet invitation and her anxious entreaty and command that she should throw off the burden at times, that finally weighed with her.
The hours of that afternoon, spent partly in rowing about in the old flat-bottomed boat seeking water lilies in the pond, and partly in the