She had spent the day in a fruitless search for her lover.  She had been to his boss and to his rooms.  He had paid his debts and gone, nobody knew where.  She was pretty, vain, homeless; alone to bear the responsibility she had not been alone to incur.  She could not shirk it as the man had done.  They had both disregarded the law.  On whom were the consequences weighing more heavily?  On the woman.  She is the sufferer; she is the first to miss the law’s protection.  She is the weaker member whom, for the sake of the race, society protects.  Nature has made her man’s physical inferior; society is obliged to recognize this in the giving of a marriage law which beyond doubt is for the benefit of woman, since she can least afford to disregard it.

Another evening when the matron was out I sat for a time with a young working woman and her baby.  There is a comradeship among the poor that makes light of indiscreet questions.  I felt only sympathy in asking: 

“Are you alone to bring up your child?”

“Yes, ma’am,” was the answer.  “I’ll never go home with him.”

I looked at him:  a wizened, four-months-old infant with a huge flat nose, and two dull black eyes fixed upon the gas jet.  The girl had the grace of a forest-born creature; she moved with the mysterious strength and suppleness of a tree’s branch.  She was proud; she felt herself disgraced.  For four months she had not left the house.  I talked on, proposing different things.

“I don’t know what to do,” she said.  “I can’t never go home with him, and if I went home without him I’d never be the same.  I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to him.”  Her head bowed over the child; she held him close to her breast.

But to return to the coloured cook and my day in the kitchen.  I had ample opportunity to compare domestic service with factory work.  We set the table for two hundred, and do a thousand miserable slavish tasks that must be begun again the following day.  At twelve the two hundred troop in, toil-worn and begrimed.  They pass like locusts, leaving us sixteen hundred dirty dishes to wash up and wipe.  This takes us four hours, and when we have finished the work stands ready to be done over the next morning with peculiar monotony.  In the factory there is stimulus in feeling that the material which passes through one’s hands will never be seen or heard of again.

On Saturday the owner of the factory comes at lunch time with several friends and talks to us with an amazing camaraderie.  He is kindly, humourous and tactful.  One or two missionaries speak after him, but their conversation is too abstract for us.  We want something dramatic, imaginative, to hold our attention, or something wholly natural.  Tell us about the bees, the beavers or the toilers of the sea.  The longing for flowers has often come to me as I work, and a rose seems of all things the most desirable.