"No; Mary has never mentioned any member of her family to me."

"I feel a special interest in this woman and her children, and I believed that after you learned her circumstances you could arrange to give her certain hours away from the house."

"But you never mentioned her circumstances to me, Maurice."

"No; I have thought several times of inquiring about her, but I have been very busy. I hope we may be able to find someone to take Mary's place soon, and perhaps after a time she will be able to come back."

"Perhaps the girl will remain. If I find her satisfactory, it will save me further trouble."

"Margaret is in the high school and ought not to miss a single day. You had better try to find someone else, and in the meantime it will be well to look in and see if there is anything the family needs."

"I will do so. I regret that I did not know about the family. And this girl is in the high school here?"

"Yes; one year after this one takes her through. Mrs. McGowan has great hopes for the future. A relative some place in the country has promised to secure Margaret a position as a teacher when she finishes the school here. For years Mary supported herself and her family by taking in sewing, but her eyesight began to fail, and she decided to try a change of work; so I offered her the position here. And Jamie, the cripple, consented to stay alone while Margaret was at school. I wish there was someone to take Margaret's place to-day."

An impulse came to Mrs. Thorpe to do the work herself that day and let Margaret go, but she remembered that she was a member of a church committee that was to meet that afternoon to transact some business for the church, and she felt that it would be hardly right for her to fail to meet with them.

So during the day Margaret swept and dusted and cooked and served, and no one knew of the disastrous thoughts that surged through her heart and brain.

Mrs. Thorpe called at the little house where Mary lived, but she found her reticent and little inclined to talk of family affairs.

"Margaret will go into the factory," she said. "There is no other way at present."

When Mrs. Thorpe told her husband of this he was surprised at the mother's decision; she had seemed so anxious about the school. But he thought that after all Margaret might have given up the school of her own accord. Perhaps he had overestimated the girl; some way she had not seemed so bright and winsome that day as he had believed her to be.

It happened a few days later that Mr. Thorpe was called to see a poor parishioner who lived on the outskirts of the town. In order to reach this house he was obliged to pass through a neighborhood commonly known as the Flat. This was a disreputable district on the other side of the hill from Edgerly. When the town was in its infancy this Flat district was bought by a man named Bolton, who tried to throw the balance of power and interest on this side of the hill. To this end he erected a number of houses for tenants, built a saloon and hired the right sort of a man to run it. He also built a theatre. The Bolton stamp never left the Flat, and in time it came to be peopled by the lowest of the poor class. The saloon still did a flourishing business, and the theatre, known as the Flat theatre, answered for such plays and entertainments as more cultured and Christian Edgerly would not tolerate.

As Mr. Thorpe was returning from his call he saw a man and woman standing in the shadow of the theatre. The moon was full, and by its light he recognized the woman as Margaret. The man's face was turned from him, and he could not so readily make out his identity. But he knew it boded no good to Margaret to be there at that hour. He stopped, hesitated a moment, and caught the sound of voices. The girl spoke rapidly, and he thought she seemed in an ill-conditioned mood. The man's voice was more even and conciliatory. He drew the girl's arm through his and together they entered the theatre. The light from a lamp at the door fell upon them as they entered, and Mr. Thorpe recognized the man.

"Max! Max Morrison!" he exclaimed under his breath. He went on his way, thoughtful and troubled.

It must be true that he had overestimated Margaret, but he would speak to his wife, and see if her woman's tact could not devise some way to save the girl from the evil that threatened her.

CHAPTER III

UNDERCURRENTS

The seasons passed as seasons have a way of passing. The spring gave place to effulgent, luxurious summer; the summer slipped into autumn, and winter followed on, with bluster and storm. It was spring again at the parsonage. There was the song of birds, the hum of insects, and the rare perfume wafted from the garden.

One sweet spring evening Mrs. Thorpe stood again at her open window. A hush seemed to have fallen over the earth, and the silent moon and stars looked benignly down. A rush of emotion, restful, worshipful, swept over her. If only she might escape the stress and turmoil of life, and become a part of the quiet and calm that belong to nature!

The year had been one of honest effort, faithful, loyal service. Twice every Sabbath, morning and evening, Mr. Thorpe had stood in the pulpit and expounded the truths of the Gospel as they had been revealed to him. Mrs. Thorpe, capable and willing, had been drawn into church, charitable and benevolent work, until her hands were full of work, and her life full of care; and her thoughts were vastly more troubled than they had ever been before. She realized that where once her thoughts had been vague, half-formed, that now, full-fledged and forceful, they were overmastering her. The mysteries that had once hung about her, dim and misty, now arose like walls of blackness, forbidding and awe-inspiring; and the things that she had once gazed upon with curious eyes now shocked and terrified her.

When she started in her life's work, her ideas of religion and the truths of life were but dream-like, shadowy conceptions; reflections, as it were, from the theories and dogmas of her elders and so-called spiritual leaders. There are many people who never get beyond these reflections, these traditions of religion, these second-hand conceptions. To some natures they are satisfying; they ease the mind, point a way to safety for the future, and afford a solace in time of trouble.

Mrs. Thorpe, however, was one who was destined to abide but a very short time in the consolation afforded by this kind of religion. Yet, when she attempted to step out from the creeds that cramped and dwarfed her soul, to thrust from her theories and premises that depressed and antagonized her, she found no other ground on which to place her feet, and felt herself naked and alone, without a garment of righteousness with which to clothe herself, and without compass or guiding star. She doubted, and in agony condemned herself for her doubts; later she rebelled, yet with her own hand she would have torn her rebellious heart from her bosom, had it been in her power to do so, and cast it from her as an unclean thing, an enemy to her peace, a treachery to her soul. She believed it treason to allow her mind to wander into fields of religious research