ht
up no water! It is interesting to wonder how scrupulous we would all be
if our baths were carried up and down two flights of stairs pitcher by
pitcher. A little water nearly frozen was at hand for my toilet. By six
I was dressed and my bed made; by 6:15 in the kitchen, dense with smoke
from the frying breakfast. Through the haze the figures of my friends
declared themselves. Codfish balls, bread and butter and coffee formed
the repast.

Maurice is the first to finish, standing a moment to light his pipe, his
hat acock; then he is gone. The sisters wash at the sink, Mika combing
her mass of frowzy dark hair, talking meanwhile. The sisters' toilet,
summary and limited, is frankly displayed.

At my right the bride consumes five enormous fish balls, as well as much
bread. Her husband, a young, handsome, gentle creature, eats sparingly.
His hand is strapped up at the wrist.

"What's wrong?"

"Strained tendons. Doctor says they'd be all right if I could just hold
up a little. They don't get no chance to rest."

"But why not 'hold up' awhile?" He regards me sympathetically as one who
says to an equal, a fellow: "You know why!--for the same reason that you
yourself will work sick or well."

"_On fait ce que l'on peut_!"

("One does one's best!")

When the young couple had left the room our landlady said:

"The little woman eats well, doesn't she! She needs no tonic! All day
long she sits in my parlour and rocks--and rocks."

"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 ho