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they would get on without her. You wouldn't believe the things she does, all those papers full of writing and figures—that's the worst, all those numbers— but she reads them pretty as you please and tells the men what they should do."
    "And they take orders from her?" Megan asked.
    "Well, but you see, she's Master John's child. There was nobody like him—the kindest master in the county. He took her with him to the mill when she was a tiny little thing. She was the pet of the place; the men laughed at her first-off, but it warn't long before they found she could add a column of figures faster than any on 'em, and she knew how all the nasty machines worked. . . ."
    Megan was sorry she had asked. The old woman rambled on and on, boasting of Miss Mandeville's accomplishments. She actually seemed proud to see her mistress doing a man's work.
    As Megan was to learn, the old nurse had not exaggerated by much. Miss Mandeville was more modest, but her explanation made it clear that she ran Mandeville's Fine Woollens and Worsteds.
    "There was no one else to do it," she explained. "Edmund was away, first at school and then at university; when the Crimean affair began, he was wild to go, and Father did not feel he could stand in the way. It is a family business, you see. My grandfather founded it, and the workers like to feel that the family is still involved. I do very little, I assure you, beyond settling disputes and making sure all is working smoothly."
    "I did not mean to criticize—"
    "I assure you, I did not mean to apologize! There is not a machine in the mill I could not repair if I had to." Her eyes sparkled with amusement as she observed Megan's surprise. "No doubt you think me peculiar, Miss O'Neill, but you must take me as I am. I am too old and set in my ways to change."
    "I think you are the kindest person I have ever known," Megan said sincerely.
    "Then you must have met with only very unkind people. No"—she extended an impulsive hand—"that was a stupid thing to say. I know your life has not been easy. Would you like to come to the mill with me one day and see for yourself what goes on there?"
    It was several days before the visit could take place. Megan did not press it; she had read the published reports of the commissions sent out to investigate conditions in mines and factories, and the descriptions of weary child workers falling asleep after twelve hours at the looms had haunted her for days. The mines, to be sure, were even worse, but an outraged nation, learning of small children crawling on all fours through fetid tunnels dragging coal carts, had forced the passage of legislation correcting some of these evils. Still, Megan was not looking forward to seeing the mill children, and when Miss Mandeville finally proposed that she and Lina accompany her next day, she voiced shocked protest.
    "I will come, thank you. But the child—"
    "It will not be her first visit. Good heavens, Miss O'Neill, what are you expecting to see? I think you are in for a surprise."
    Though the mill was due south of the house, on the other side of the hill, there was no through road, so they took the long way around, through the small village of St. Arca Underhill. The big barracklike buildings, with their tall chimneys spouting smoke, had nothing attractive about them, but when the carriage drove into the stone-paved yard, Megan was impressed at the air of cheerful, purposeful industry. The men who turned from their work to touch their caps or their forelocks were all stout and healthy in appearance, and all greeted the diminutive figure of their lady-manager with grins or waves. Jane led the way into the countinghouse through an outer office where several clerks sat perched on their high stools, and she greeted each man by name before proceeding to her own office. Once inside, she whipped off her bonnet and tossed it onto a chair, with a look of great satisfaction. She seemed almost to sniff the air as if it were filled with