y the craze for drink had not
seized him.

Connie was very fond of finery, and she was now trimming a pretty hat to
wear on the following Sunday. Not long ago she had made a new friend, a
girl at the warehouse of the name of Agnes Coppenger. Agnes was older
than Connie. She was the kind of girl who had a great admiration for
beauty, and when she saw that people turned to look at pretty Connie
with her sweet, refined face and delicate ways, she hoped that by having
such a pleasant companion she also might come in for her share of
admiration. She therefore began to make much of Connie. She praised her
beauty, and invited her to her own home. There Connie made companions
who were not nearly such desirable ones as Sue and Giles.

She began to neglect Sue and Giles, and to spend more and more of her
time with Agnes.

On a certain day when the two girls were working over their
sewing-machines, the whir of the numerous machines filling the great
warehouse, Agnes turned to Connie.

"When we go out at morning break I 'ave a word to say to yer."

Connie's eyes brightened.

"You walk with me," whispered Agnes again.

An overseer came round. Talking was forbidden in the great room, and the
girls went on with their mechanical employment, turning out long seam
after long seam of delicate stitches. The fluff from the work seemed to
smother Connie that morning. She had inherited her mother's delicacy.
She coughed once or twice. There was a longing within her to get away
from this dismal, this unhealthy life. She felt somehow, down deep in
her heart, that she was meant for better things. The child was by nature
almost a poet. She could have worshiped a lovely flower. As to the
country, what her feelings would have been could she have seen it almost
baffles description.

Now, Sue, working steadily away at her machine a little farther down the
room, had none of these sensations. Provided that Sue could earn enough
money to keep Giles going, that was all she asked of life. She was as
matter-of-fact as a young girl could be; and as to pining for what she
had not got, it never once entered her head.

At twelve o'clock there was a break of half-an-hour. The machinists were
then turned out of the building. It did not matter what sort of day it
was, whether the sun shone with its summer intensity, or whether the
snow fell in thick flakes--whatever the condition of the outside world,
out all the working women had to go. None could sku