The forewoman is a pretty girl of twenty. Her restless eyes, her
metallic voice are the messengers who would know all. I am afraid of
her. I long to please her. I am sure she must be saying "_How well the
new girl works_."

Conversation is possible among those whose work has become mechanical.
Twice I am sent to the storeroom for more caps. In these brief moments
my companions volunteer a word of themselves.

"I was out to a ball last night," the youngest one says. "I stayed so
late I didn't feel a bit like getting up this morning."

"That's nothing," another retorts. "There's hardly an evening we don't
have company at the house, music or somethin'; I never get enough rest."

And on my second trip the pale creature with me says:

"I'm in deep mourning. My mother died last Friday week. It's awful
lonely without her. Seems as though I'd never get over missing her. I
miss her _dreadful_. Perhaps by and by I'll get used to it."

"Oh, no, you won't," the answer comes from a girl with short skirts.
"You'll never get used to it. My ma's been dead eight years next month
and I dreamt about her all last night. I can't get her out o' me mind."

Born into dirt and ugliness, disfigured by effort, they have the same
heritage as we: joys and sorrows, grief and laughter. With them as with
us gaiety is up to its old tricks, tempting from graver rivals, making
duty an alien. Grief is doing her ugly work: hollowing round cheeks,
blackening bright eyes, putting her weight of leaden loneliness in