I had proved a point at the first step; help had been extended.  If I myself failed to find shelter I could go to her for protection.  I intended to find my lodging place if possible without any reference or any aid.

Out of the town proper in a quiet side street I saw a little wooden tenement set back from the road.

“Furnished Room to Rent,” read the sign in the window.  A sweet-faced woman responded to the bell I had rung.  One glance at me and she said: 

“Ve only got a ‘sheep’ room.”

At the compliment I was ill-pleased and told her I was looking for a cheap room:  I had come to Lynn to work.  Oh! that was all right.  That was the kind of people she received.

I followed her into the house.  I must excuse her broken English.  She was French.  Ah! was she?  That made my way easier.  I told her I was from Paris and a stranger in this part of the country, and thenceforth our understanding was complete.  In 28 Viger Street we spoke French always.

My room in the attic was blue-and-white papered; a little, clean, agreeable room.

Madam begged that I would pardon the fact that my bed had no sheets.  She would try to arrange later.  She also insinuated that the “young ladies” who boarded with her spoiled all her floor and her furniture by slopping the water around.  I assured her that she should not have to complain of me—­I would take care.

The room was $1.25 a week.  Could I pay her in advance?  I did so, of course.  I would have to carry up my water for washing from the first floor morning and night and care for my room.  On the landing below I made arrangements with the tenant for board at ten cents a meal.  Madame Courier was also a French Canadian, a mammoth creature with engaging manners.

“Mademoiselle Ballard has work?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, if you don’t get a job my husband will speak for you.  I have here three other young ladies who work in the shops; they’ll speak for you!”

Before the door of the first factory I failed miserably.  I could have slunk down the street and gladly taken the first train away from Lynn!  My garments were heavy; my skirt, lined with a sagging cotton goods, weighed a ton; the woolen gloves irritated.

The shop fronted the street, and the very sight through the window of the individuals representing power, the men whom I saw behind the desks, frightened me.  I could not go in.  I fairly ran through the streets, but stopped finally before a humbler shop—­where a sign swung at the door:  “Hands Wanted.”  I went in here and opened a door on the third floor into a small office.

I was before a lank Yankee manufacturer.  Leaning against his desk, twisting from side to side in his mouth a toothpick, he nodded to me as I entered.  His wife, a grim, spectacled New Englander, sat in the revolving desk-chair.

“I want work.  Got any?”

“Waal, thet’s jist what we hev got!  Ain’t we, Mary?”