Mary Minds Her Business | Page 9

drilling machines which whirred to her, the polishing machines which danced for her, the power hammers which bowed to her. Yes, and better than all was the smile that each man gave her, smiles that came from the heart, for all the quiet respect that accompanied them.
"It's his daughter," they whispered as soon as Josiah was out of hearing. Here and there one would stop smiling and say, "I remember the day he brought her mother through--"
At the end of one of the workshops, Mr. Spencer looked at his watch again.
"We'd better get back to the office," he said. "Tired, dear?"
In a rapture of denial, she kicked her little toes against his side.
"Bred in the bone..." he mused. "Eh, if she had only been a boy...!" But that was past all sighing for, and in the distance he saw Cousin Stanley, just back from Boston, evidently coming to find him.
Mary, too, was watching the approaching figure. She had sometimes seen him at the house and had formed against him one of those instinctive dislikes which few but children know. As Stanley drew near she turned her head and buried her face against her father's shoulder.
"Good news?" asked Josiah.
"Good news, of course," said Stanley, speaking as an irresistible force might speak, if it were endowed with a tongue. "When Spencer & Son start out for a thing, they get it." You could tell that what he meant was "When Stanley Woodward starts out for a thing, he gets it." His elbows suddenly grew restless. "It will take a lot of money," he added. "Of course we shall have to increase the factory here--"
Still Mary kept her face hidden against her father's shoulder.
"Got the little lady with you, I see."
"Yes; I'm afraid I've tired her out."
A murmur arose from his shoulder.
"What?" said Josiah. "Not tired? Then turn around and shake hands with Uncle Stanley."
Slowly, reluctantly, Mary lifted her head and began to reach out her hand. Then just before their fingers would have touched, she quickly clasped her hands around her father's neck and again she buried her face upon his shoulder.
"She doesn't seem to take to you," said Josiah.
"So it seems," said the other dryly. Reaching around he touched Mary's cheek with the back of his finger. "Not mad at your uncle, are you, little girl?" he asked.
"Don't!" said Josiah, speaking with quick concern. "You're only making her tremble...."
The two stared at each other, slightly frowning. Stanley was the first to catch himself. "I'll see you at the office later," he said, and with a bow at the little figure on Josiah's arm he added with a touch of irony, "Perhaps I had better wait until you're alone!"
He turned and made his way back to the office, his elbows grown restless again.
"A good thing it isn't a boy," he thought, "or he might not like me when he grows up, either. But a girl... Oh, well, as it happens, girls don't count.... And a good thing, too, they don't," he thoughtfully added. "A good thing, too, they don't...."

CHAPTER V
Mary grew, and grew, and grew.
She never outgrew her aversion to Uncle Stanley, though.
One day, when she was in Josiah's office, a young man entered and was warmly greeted by her father. He carried a walking stick, sported a white edging on his waistcoat and had just the least suspicion of perfumery on him--a faint scent that reminded Mary of raspberry jam.
"He smells nice," she thought, missing nothing of this.
"You've never seen my daughter, have you?" asked Josiah.
"A little queen," said the young man with a brilliant smile. "I hope I'll see her often."
"That's Uncle Stanley's son Burdon," said Josiah when he had left. "He's just through college; he's going to start in the office here."
Mary liked to hear that, and always after that she looked for Burdon and watched him with an interest that had something of fascination in it.
Before she was ten, she and Josiah had become old chums. She knew the factory by the river almost as well as she knew the house on the hill. Not only that but she could have told you most of the processes through which the bearings passed before they were ready for the shipping room.
To show you how her mind worked, one night she asked her father, "What makes a machine squeak?"
"Needs oil," said Josiah, "generally speaking."
The next Saturday morning she not only kept her eyes open, but her ears as well.
Presently her patience was rewarded.
"Squee-e-eak! Squee-e-eak!" complained a lathe which they were passing. Mary stopped her father and looked her very old-fashionedest at the lathe hand.
"Needs oil," said she, "gen'ly speaking."
It was one of the proud moments in Josiah's life, and yet when back of him he heard a whisper, "Chip of the old block," he couldn't repress the well nigh passionate