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Turn Of The Tide, The

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<h2>128CHAPTER XVII</h2> “Stars—t’ank lucky stars,” Maggie was still shouting gleefully when she reached her mother’s side. Mrs. Durgin bent keen eyes on her young daughter’s face. “Maggie, what was they sayin’ to ye?” she began, pulling the little girl into the house. Suddenly her jaw dropped. She stooped and clutched the child’s hands. “Why, Maggie, it’s money—stacks of it!” she exclaimed, prying open the small fingers. “Stars—lucky stars!” cooed Maggie. Maggie liked new words and phrases, and she always said them over and over until they were new no longer. Mrs. Durgin shook her daughter gently, yet determinedly. Her small black eyes looked almost large, so wide were they with amazement. “Maggie, Maggie, tell me—what did they say to ye?” she demanded again. “Why did they give ye all this money?” 129 Maggie was silent. Her brow was drawn into a thoughtful frown. “But, Maggie, think—there must ‘a’ been somethin’. What did ye do?” “There wa’n’t,” insisted the child. “I jest felled down an’ got up, an’ they said it.” “Said what?” “‘T’ank lucky stars.’” A sudden thought sent a quick flash of fear to Mrs. Durgin’s eyes. “Maggie, they didn’t hurt ye,” she cried, dropping on her knees and running swift, anxious fingers over the thin little arms and legs and body. “They didn’t hurt ye!” Maggie shook her head. At that moment a shadow darkened the doorway, and the kneeling woman glanced up hastily. “Oh, it’s you, Mis’ Magoon,” she said to the small, tired-looking woman in the doorway. “Yes, it’s me,” sighed the woman, dragging herself across the room to a chair. “What time did Nellie leave here?” “Why, I dunno—mebbe four o’clock. Why?” The woman’s face contracted with a sharp spasm of pain. 130 “She wa’n’t within half a mile of the mill when I met her, yet she was pantin’ an’ all out o’ breath then. She’ll be late, ‘course, an’ you know what that means.” “Yes, I know,” sighed Mrs. Durgin, sympathetically. “She—she hadn’t orter gone.” Across the room Mrs. Magoon’s head came up with a jerk. “Don’t ye s’pose I know that? The child’s sick, an’ I know it. But what diff’rence does that make? She works, don’t she?” For a moment Mrs. Durgin did not speak. Gradually her eyes drifted back to Maggie and the little pile of coins on the table. “Mis’ Magoon, see,” she cried eagerly, “what the lady give Maggie. They was in one o’ them ‘nauty-mobiles,’ as Maggie calls ’em, an’ Maggie felled down in the road. She wa’n’t hurt a mite—not even scratched, but they give her all this money.” The woman on the other side of the room sniffed disdainfully. “Well, what of it? They’d oughter give it to her,” she asserted. “But they wa’n’t ter blame, an’ they didn’t hurt her none—not a mite,” argued the other. 131 “No thanks ter them, I’ll warrant,” snapped Mrs. Magoon. “For my part, I wouldn’t tech their old money.” Then, crossly, but with undeniable interest, she asked: “How much was it?” Mrs. Durgin laughed. “Never you mind,” she retorted, as she gathered up the coins from the table; “but thar’s enough so’s I’m goin’ ter get them cough-drops fur Nellie, anyhow. So!” And she turned her back and pretended not to hear the faint remonstrances from the woman over by the window. Later, when she had bought the medicine and had placed it in Mrs. Magoon’s hands, the remonstrances were repeated in a higher key, and were accompanied again with an angry snarl against the world in general and automobiles in particular. “But why do ye hate ’em so?” demanded Mrs. Durgin, “—them autymobiles? They hain’t one of ’em teched ye, as I knows of.” There was no answer. “I don’t believe ye knows yerself,” declared the questioner then; and at the taunt the other raised her head. “Mebbe I don’t,” she flamed, “an’ ’tain’t them I hate, anyway—it’s the folks in ’em. It’s rich 132 folks. I’ve allers hated ’em anywheres, but ‘twa’n’t never so bad as now since them things came. They look so—so comfortable—the folks a-leanin’ back on their cushions; an’ so—so free, as if there wa’n’t nothin’ that could bother ’em. ‘Course I knew before that there was rich folks, an’ that they had fine clo’s an’ good things ter eat, an’ shows an’ parties, an’ spent money; but I didn’t see ’em, an’ now I do. I see ’em, I tell ye, an’ it makes me realize how I ain’t comfortable like they be, nor Nellie ain’t neither!” “But they ain’t all bad—rich folks,” argued the thin, black-eyed woman, earnestly. “Some of ’em is good.” The other shook her head. “I hain’t had the pleasure o’ meetin’ that kind,” she rejoined grimly. “Well, I have,” retorted Maggie’s mother with some spirit. “Look at that lady ter-night what give Maggie all that money.” There was no answer, and after a moment Mrs. Durgin went on. Her voice was lower now, and not quite clear. “Thar was another one, too, an’ she was jest like a angel out o’ heaven. It was years ago—much 133 as twelve or fourteen, when I lived in New York. She was the mother of the nicest an’ prettiest little girl I ever see—the one I named my Maggie for. An’ she asked us ter her home an’ we stayed weeks, an’ rode in her carriages, an’ ate ter her table, an’ lived right with her jest as she did. An’ when we come back ter New York she come with us an’ took us out of the cellar an’ found a beautiful place fur us, all sun an’ winders, an’ she paid up the rent fur us ‘way ahead whole months. An’ thar was all the Whalens an’ me an’ the twins.” “Well,” prompted Mrs. Magoon, as the speaker paused. “What next? You ain’t in New York, an’ she ain’t a-doin’ it now, is she? Where is she?” Mrs. Durgin turned her head away. “I don’t know,” she said. The other sniffed. “I thought as much. It don’t last—it never does.” “But it would ‘a’ lasted with her,” cut in Mrs. Durgin, sharply. “She wa’n’t the kind what gives up. She’s sick or dead, or somethin’—I know she is. But thar’s others what has lasted. 134 That Mont-Lawn I was tellin’ ye of, whar I learned them songs we sings, an’ whar I learned ‘most ev’rythin’ good thar is in me—that’s done by rich folks, an’ that’s lasted! They pays three dollars an’ it lets some poor little boy or girl go thar an’ stay ten whole days jest eatin’ an’ sleepin’ an’ playin’. An’ if I was in New York now my Maggie herself’d be a-goin’ one o’ these days—you’d see! I tell ye, rich folks ain’t bad—all of ’em, an’ they do do things ’sides loll back in them autymobiles!” Mrs. Magoon stared, then she shrugged her shoulders. “Mebbe,” she admitted grudgingly. “Say—er—Mis’ Durgin, how much was that money Maggie got—eh?” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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