[Footnote 3:  At Plant’s, Boston, fresh air cylinders ventilate
  the shop.]

Heated by a brisk walk home, I climbed the stairs to my attic room, as cold as Greenland.  It was nearly six thirty, supper hour, and I made a shift at a toilet.

Into the kitchen I was the last comer.  All of the supper not on the table was on the stove, and between this red-hot buffet and the supper table was just enough room for the landlady to pass to and fro as she waited upon her nine guests.

No sooner did I open the door into the smoky atmosphere, into the midst of the little world here assembled, than I felt the quick kindness of welcome.

My place was at the table’s end, before the Irish stew.

“Miss Ballard!” The landlady put her arm about my waist and introduced me, mentioning the names of every one present.  There were four women besides myself and four men.

“I don’t want Miss Ballard to feel strange,” said my hostess in her pretty Canadian patois.  “I want her to be at home here.”

I sat down.

“Oh, she’ll be at home all right!” A frowzy-headed, pretty brunette from the table’s other end raised kind eyes to me and nodded a smiling good-fellowship.

“Come to work in the shops?”

“Yes.”

“Ever been to Lynn before?”

“No; live in Paris—­stranger.”

“My, but that’s hard—­all alone here!  Got a job?”

“Yes.”

And I explained to the attentive interest of all.

From the Irish stew before me they helped themselves, or passed to me the plates from the distance.  If excitement had not taken from me every shred of appetite, the kitchen odours, smoke and frying, the room’s stifling heat would have dulled hunger.

Let it go!  I was far too interested to eat.

The table was crowded with all manner of substances passing for food—­cheese, preserves, onion pickles, cake and Irish stew, all eaten at one time and at will; the drink was tea.

At my left sat a well-dressed man who would pass anywhere for a business man of certain distinction.  He was a common operator.  Next him was a bridal couple, very young and good looking; then came the sisters, Mika and Nannette, their brother, a packer at a shop, then Mademoiselle Frances, expert hand at fourteen dollars a week (a heavy swell indeed), then Maurice.

Although I was evidently an object of interest, although countless questions were put to me, let me say that curiosity was markedly absent.  Their attitude was humane, courteous, sympathetic, agreeable, which qualities I firmly believe are supreme in those who know hardship, who suffer privation, who labour.

Great surprise was evinced that I had so soon found a job.  Mika and Nannette, brunette Canadians, with voices sweet and carrying, talked in good English and mediocre French.

“It’s wonderful you got a job right off!  Ain’t she in luck!  Why, most has to get spoken of weeks in advance—­introduced by friends, too!”