“She does nothing?”

Madame shrugged.

“But yes!  She reads novels!”

It was half-past six when I got into the streets.  The midwinter sky is slowly breaking to dawn.  The whole town white with fresh snow, and still half-wedded to night, is nevertheless stirring to life.

I become, after a block or two, one of a hurrying throng of labour-bound fellows—­dark forms appear from streets and avenues, going in divers directions toward their homes.  Homes?  Where one passes most of one’s life, is it not Home?

These figures to-day bend head and shoulders against the wind as it blows neck-coverings about, forces bare hands into coat pockets.

By the time the town has been traversed, railroad track crossed, and Parsons’ in sight, day has nearly broken.  Pink clouds float over factory roofs in a sky growing bluer, flushing to day.

[Illustration:  THE WINDOW SIDE OF MISS K.’s PARLOUR AT LYNN, MASS]

From now on the day is shut out for those who here and there enter the red-brick factories.  An hour at noon?  Of course, this magnificent hour is theirs!  Time to eat, time to feed the human machine.  One hour in which to stretch limbs, to pull to upright posture the bent body.  Meanwhile daylight progresses from glowing beauty to high noon, and there the acme of brilliance seems to pause, as freed humanity stares half-blinded at God’s midday rest.

All the remaining hours of daylight are for the leisure world.  Not till night claims Lynn shall the factory girl be free.

Ascending the five flights of dirty stairs, my steps fell side by side those of a young workman in drilling coat.  He gave me a good-morning in a cheery tone.

“Working here?  Got it good?”

“I guess so.”

“That’s all right.  Good-day.”

Therefore I began my first labour day with a good wish from my new class!

On the fifth floor I was one of the very first arrivals.  If in the long, low-ceiled room windows had been opened, the flagging air gave no sign to the effect.  It was fetid and cold.  Daylight had not fully found the workshop, gas was lit, and no work prepared.  I was eager to begin, but was forced to wait before idle tools till work was given me—­hard ordeal for ambitious piece-worker.  At the tick of seven, however, I had begun my branch of the shoe-making trade.  One by one my mates arrived; the seats beyond me and on either side were filled.

Opposite me sat a ghost of girlhood.  A tall, slender creature, cheeks like paper, eyes sunken.  She, too, had the smile of good-fellowship—­coin freely passed from workwoman to workwoman.

This girl’s job was filthy.  She inked edges of the shoes with a brush dipped in a pot of thick black fluid.  Pile after pile of piece-work was massed in front of her; pile by pile disappeared.  She worked like lightning.

“Do you like your job?” I ventured.  This seemed to be the open sesame to all conversations in the shops.  She shrugged her narrow shoulders but made no direct reply.  “I used to have what you’re doing; it’s awful.  That glue made me sick.  I was in bed.  So when I came back I got this.”  She was separated from my glue-pot by a table’s length only.