CHAPTER II.
THE MILL IN THE GLEN

"Hi! ducked myself that time, sure!"

Amy ventured to open her eyes. There, dripping and grinning, evidently enjoying the fright he had given her, stood her strange new acquaintance. His hand still clutched the scarlet branch with its swinging nest that he had risked his safety to secure, nor would relinquish for so trivial a matter as a fall into the water.

"You – you might have been drowned!"

"But I wasn't."

"I should have felt that it was all my fault!" she exclaimed, now that her fear was past, growing angry at his hardihood.

He stared at her in genuine surprise; all the gayety of his expression giving place to disappointment.

"Don't you like it? They always build far out."

"Oh, yes. It's beautiful, and I thank you, of course. But I want to get home. You must show me the way."

"Make the donkey carry 'em."

"Very well."

So they piled the branches upon the back of the dumbly protesting "Californian," Amy retaining the delicate nest and gently shaking the water from it.

"She don't like 'em, does she?"

"Not at all. Idle Pepita likes nothing that is labor. But I love her, even though she's lazy."

"What'll you take for her?"

"Why – nothing."

"Won't swop?"

"No, indeed."

"Why not?"

"Oh! dozens of 'whys.' The idea of my selling Pepita! For one thing, she was a gift."

"Who from?"

"My uncle Frederic."

"When? Where? What for?"

"Oh! what a question asker. Come, Pepit! Tcht!"

Shaking her body viciously, but unable to rid herself of her brilliant burden, the burro started swiftly along the footpath running toward the distant buildings, and over the little bridge that crossed just there. Both path and bridge were worn smooth by the feet of the operatives from the mills, which interested Amy more and more, the nearer she approached them. Once or twice, on some rare outing among the hills where her home lay, she had caught glimpses of their roofs and chimneys, and she remembered to have asked some questions about them; but her father had answered her so indifferently, even shortly, that she had learned little.

Seen from this point they impressed her by contrast to all she had ever known. There was a whirl and stir of life about them that excited and thrilled her. Through the almost numberless windows, wide open to the air, she could see hundreds of busy people moving to and fro, in a sort of a rhythmic measure with the pulsating engines.

As yet she did not know what these engines were. She heard the mighty beat and rumble, regular, unchanging, like a gigantic heart of which this many-storied structure was the enclosing body; and she slowly advanced, fascinated, and quite heedless of some staring eyes which regarded her curiously from those wide windows.

A discontented bray and the touch of a hand upon her shoulder suddenly recalled her, to observe that she had reached the bottom of a steep stairway, and was face to face with another stranger.

"Beg pardon, but can I be of service to you?"

"Oh! sir. Thank you. I – I don't know just where I am."

"In the yard of the Crawford carpet mill."

"Is that the wonderful building yonder?"

"Yes. Have you never seen it before?"

"Not at near hand. I am here by accident. I was lost on the river bank, a long distance back, and a strange lad helped me so far. I don't see him now, and I'm rather frightened about him, for he fell into the water, getting me this nest. He doesn't act just like other people, I think."

"No. Poor 'Bony'! He has run up into the street above us, yet even he knew better than to have brought you just here," and he glanced significantly toward a large sign of "No Admittance."

"Is it wrong? I'm very sorry. I'll go away at once, when I'm shown how."

Gazing about, her perplexity became almost distress; for she found herself shut in a little space by buildings of varying heights. Behind her lay the difficult route over which she had come, and on the east uprose a steep bank or bluff. Against this was placed a nearly perpendicular sort of ladder, and this steep stair was the only visible outlet from the ravine.

The gentleman smiled at her dismay.

"Oh, that isn't as bad as it looks. I fancy you could easily climb it, as do our own mill girls; but this pretty beast of yours, with the fanciful burden, how about him?"

"I don't know. She might. She's right nimble-footed – when she chooses to be."

"So 'he' is a young lady, too? Well, I have great faith in girls, even girl donkeys, as well as in those who own them. There will certainly be a way out; if not up the bank, then through the mill. By the by, if you've never visited such a place, and have come to it 'by accident,' wouldn't you like to go through it now? I'm the superintendent, William Metcalf, and am just about to make my rounds, before we shut down for the night. I'd be pleased to show you about, though we must first find a safe place where we can tie your donkey. She looks very intelligent."

"Oh, indeed, sir, she is! She's the dearest burro. She and her brother Balaam were sent to my brother and me from California. Her name is Pepita, and I am Amy Kaye. I live at Fairacres."

At this announcement the gentleman looked as if he were about to whistle, though courtesy prevented. He bowed gravely: —

"I'm very glad to know you. If you'll excuse me for a moment, I'll find something with which to tie the burro."

He soon returned, bringing a leather strap.

"We'll fasten her to the stair, but it will be better to put these branches on the ground. Having them on her back frets her."

"Thank you. You're very kind."

Pepita did not endorse this opinion. In the matter of tying she gave them all the trouble she could, and allowed them to depart only after a most indignant bray. Her racket brought various heads to the windows, and the visitors were as much of interest to the artisans as themselves were to Amy.

She followed her guide eagerly, too self-unconscious to be abashed by any stare; and though he had shown many strangers "over the works," he felt that explaining things to this bright-eyed girl would be a pleasanter task than ordinary.

"I like to begin all things at the foundation," he remarked, with a smile, "so we'll go to the fire-room first."

This was down another short flight of steps, and over a bridge spanning the race, which deep, dark watercourse immediately caught Amy's attention.

"How smooth and swift it looks; and so black. Isn't that man afraid to stand there?" indicating a workman stationed upon the sluice gate, engaged in the endless task of raking fallen leaves away from the rack.

"Oh, no! not afraid! The work is monotonous, but it must be done, or there'll be the mischief to pay. Now, here are the fires."

A soot-grimed man approached the door of the furnace room, and respectfully touched his forehead to his superior, then glanced toward Amy.

"I'm afeared the little lady will soil her pretty frock," he remarked, with another pull at his forelock.

"Thank you for thinking of it. I'll try to be careful," she answered, tiptoeing across the earthen floor, to stoop and peer into the roaring furnaces. "I should be afraid it would burn the whole place up. How hot it is! Is it all right?"

"Yes; they're doing prime to-day. We takes care of the danger, miss. But hot? Well, you should ought to be here about midsummer, say. Ah! this isn't bad, is it, boss?"

"Very comfortable. You like your job, eh, Ben?"

"Sure; it's a good one. Steady, an' wages regular. Good day, miss, you're welcome, I'm sure," he concluded, as she thanked him again for opening the furnace doors and explaining how it was he managed the great fires.

"Now, the engine room; to see the object of all that heat," said Mr. Metcalf.

"If only Hallam were here!" exclaimed Amy.

"Is he your brother?"

"Yes. Oh! it all seems just like fairyland; even better, for this is useful, while fairyland is merely pleasant."

"Then you deem useful things of more account than pleasant ones? Hmm; most young ladies who have visited us have seemed afraid rather than pleased. The whir of the machinery frightened them."

"It frightens me, too, and yet – I like it. The power of it all awes me."

"Well, your enthusiasm is certainly agreeable."

Nor was he the only one who found it so. Even the usually silent workmen in the fireproof storehouse, where the bales of wool were piled to the ceiling with little aisles of passage between, were moved to explanation by the alert, inquiring glances of this dainty visitor. So she quickly learned the difference between Turkish and Scottish fleeces, and remarked to her guide on the oddity of the sorted ones, "that look just like whole sheepskins, legs and tail and all, with the skins left out." In the scouring room she saw the wool washing and passing forward through the long tanks of alkaline baths; and in the "willying" house her lungs were filled by the dust that the great machines cleaned from the freshly dried fleeces. Indeed, she would have lingered long before the big chute, through which compressed air forced the cleansed fibres to the height of four stories and the apartment where began its real manufacture into yarn.

Mr. Metcalf took her next to this top floor; and though the deafening noise of the machinery made her own voice sound queerly in her ears, she managed to ask so many questions, that before she again reached the ground floor and passed outward to the impatient Pepita, she had gained a clear general idea how some sorts of carpets are made.

"And now, Miss Amy, that our little tour is over, I'd like to hear what, of all you've seen, has most impressed you," said Mr. Metcalf, kindly.

"The girls."

"The – girls? In the spinning room?"

"Everywhere; all of them. They are so clean, so jolly, and – think! They are actually earning money."

"Of course; else they wouldn't be here. Does it strike you oddly that a girl should earn her own living?"

"I think it's grand."

"Hmm. You caught but a fleeting glimpse of them. There's a deal of reality in their lives, poor things."

"Why! Are you sorry for them?"

"No, – and yes. They haven't much leisure, and I dare say that you are an object of envy to every mill girl who has seen you to-day."

"Oh! I hope not. I liked them so. It seems so fine to really earn some of the money which everybody needs so much, just by standing before one of those 'jennies' and doing what little they did. They laughed often, as if they were glad. Nobody looked sorrowful, so I don't see why you pity them."

"It may be misplaced, for, after all, they are happy in their way. I do not think it is always the best way; still – Why, here's 'Bony.' Well, young man, what mischief's up now? Do you march again to-night?"

"No. I'm going with her."

"Best wait till you're invited," suggested the superintendent.

The lad said nothing, but kept on tying into a compact bundle all the branches heaped upon the ground, and to which he had made a considerable addition during Amy's inspection of the mill. He had begged a bit of rope from the office in the street above; and when he had secured the boughs to his satisfaction, he slung them across his shoulder.

"Come on. I'll pack 'em for you to where you live."

He seemed none the worse for his fall into the water, and Amy laughed; not only at the readiness with which he constituted himself her assistant, but also at Pepita's frantic efforts to ascend the steep stairway.

"Thank you. But if we can get her up there, above, she can carry the stuff herself. I can walk, when I am told the road."

"Up she goes she!" shouted the startling Lafayette, and gave the unprepared burro a sharp prod with a stick he held.

Astonished, Pepita leaped to escape the attack and landed her forefeet upon the fourth stair.

"Hi! There you be! You're a regular Rep-Dem-Prob! Up you go – I tell you!"

"Oh! you dreadful boy!" exclaimed Amy, and tried to take the stick from the fellow's hand.

"Don't. He isn't hurting her, and she is going up!" laughed the superintendent, as the burro made another skyward spring. But his merriment suddenly ceased.

The "Californian" could use her nimble feet for more than one purpose. She resented the indignity of her present position in the only manner possible to her, and when a third prod touched her dainty flesh, she flung one heel backward, with an airy readiness that might have been funny save for its result.