“Do you take boarders?”

“Why, yes.  I don’t generally like to take ladies, they give so much trouble.  You can come in if you like.  Here’s the room,” she continues, opening a door near the vestibule.  She brushes her hand over her forehead and stares at me; and then, as though she can no longer silence the knell that is ringing in her heart, she says to me, always staring: 

“My husband was killed on the railroad last week.  He lived three hours.  They took him to the hospital—­a boy come running down and told me.  I went up as fast as I could, but it was too late; he never spoke again.  I guess he didn’t know what struck him; his head was all smashed.  He was awful good to me—­so easy-going.  I ain’t got my mind down to work yet.  If you don’t like this here room,” she goes on listlessly, “maybe you could get suited across the way.”

Thompson Seton tells us in his book on wild animals that not one among them ever dies a natural death.  As the opposite extreme of vital persistence we have the man whose life, in spite of acute disease, is prolonged against reason by science; and midway comes the labourer, who takes his chances unarmed by any understanding of physical law, whose only safeguards are his wits and his presence of mind.  The violent death, the accidents, the illnesses to which he falls victim might be often warded off by proper knowledge.  Nature is a zealous enemy; ignorance and inexperience keep a whole class defenseless.

The next day is Saturday.  I feel a fresh excitement at going back to my job; the factory draws me toward it magnetically.  I long to be in the hum and whir of the busy workroom.  Two days of leisure without resources or amusement make clear to me how the sociability of factory life, the freedom from personal demands, the escape from self can prove a distraction to those who have no mental occupation, no money to spend on diversion.  It is easier to submit to factory government which commands five hundred girls with one law valid for all, than to undergo the arbitrary discipline of parental authority.  I speed across the snow-covered courtyard.  In a moment my cap and apron are on and I am sent to report to the head forewoman.

“We thought you’d quit,” she says.  “Lots of girls come in here and quit after one day, especially Saturday.  To-day is scrubbing day,” she smiles at me.  “Now we’ll do right by you if you do right by us.  What did the timekeeper say he’d give you?”

“Sixty or seventy a day.”

“We’ll give you seventy,” she says.  “Of course, we can judge girls a good deal by their looks, and we can see that you’re above the average.”