work at six-thirty in the morning," she explained to
Carmen, when the little fellow had started to the mills with the pail
unwontedly full. "And he does not leave until five-thirty. He was a
weaver, and he earned sometimes ten dollars a week. But he didn't
last. He wore out. And so he had to take a job as carder. He earns
about eight dollars a week now. But sometimes only six or seven."

"But you can't live on that, with your children!" exclaimed Carmen.

"Yes, we could," replied the woman, "if the work was steady. But it
isn't. You see, if I could work steady, and the children too, we could
live. I am a good spinner. And I am not nearly so worn out as he is. I
have several years left in me yet."

The widow Marcus, who spoke the language from an association with
Italian immigrants since childhood, added her comments from time to
time. She was a gray-haired, kindly soul, bearing no enmity toward the
man to whom she had yielded her husband's life and her own.

"A man's no good in the mills after he's fifty," she said. "You see,
Miss, it's all piece-work, and a man has to be most terribly spry and
active. The strain is something awful, day after day, in the noise and
bad air, and having to keep your eyes fixed on your work for ten hours
at a stretch; and he wears out fast. Then he has to take a job where
he can't make so much. And when he's about fifty he's no good for the
mills any more."

"And then what?" asked Carmen.

"Well, if he hasn't any children, he goes to the poor-house. But, if
he has, then they take care of him."

"Then mill workers must have large families?"

"Yes, they've got to, Miss. The little ones must work in the mills,
too. These mills here take them on when they are only twelve, or even
younger. Tony has worked there, and he is only ten. It's against the
law; but Mr. Ames gets around the law some way."

"Tell me, Mrs. Marcus, how do you live?" the girl asked.

"I? Oh, I manage. The company paid me some money two years ago, and I
haven't spent all of it yet. Besides, I work round a bit. I'm pretty
spry with one arm."

"But--you do not pay rent for your home?"

"Oh, yes. I have only one room. It's small. There's no window in it.
It's an inside room."

"And you pay rent--to Mr. Ames--the man whose machines killed your
husband and took off your arm--you still pay rent to him, for one
little room?"

"Yes, Miss. He owns these tenements. Why, his company gave me almost a
hundred dollars, y