ing her father's drinking bouts,
notwithstanding his cruelty and neglect, the free life, the above-board
life--even the dull, dull factory life--were all as heaven compared to
this terrible, mysterious existence in Mrs. Warren's comfortable rooms.

CHAPTER VIII.

COMPARISONS.

Mrs. Warren and Agnes talked together for quite three quarters of an
hour. When they came out of the bedroom, Mrs. Warren was wearing a
tight-fitting cloth jacket, which made her look more enormous even than
the cloak had done. She had a small black bonnet on her head, over which
she had drawn a spotted net veil. Her hands were encased in decent black
gloves, her skirt was short, and her boots tidy. She carried in her hand
a fair-sized brown leather bag; and telling Connie that she was "goin'
out," and would be back when she saw her and not before, left the two
girls alone in the little sitting-room.

After she had shut the door behind her, Agnes went over to it, and
possessing herself of the key, slipped it into her pocket. Then she
stared hard at Connie.

"Well," she said, "an' 'ow do yer like it?"

"I don't like it at all," answered Connie, "I want to go--I will go. I'd
rayther a sight be back in the factory. Mrs. Warren--she frightens me."

"You be a silly," said Agnes. "You talk like that 'cos you knows no
better. Why, 'ere you are as cosy and well tended as gel could be. Look
at this room. Think on the soft chair you're sittin' upon; think on the
meals; think on yer bedroom; think on the beautiful walk you 'ad this
morning. My word! you be a silly! No work to do, and nothing whatever to
trouble yer, except to act the lydy. My word! ef _you're_ discontent,
the world'll come to an end. Wish I were in your shoes--that I do."

"Well, Agnes, get into them," said Connie. "I'm sure you're more than
welcome. I'm jest--jest pinin' for wot you thinks naught on. I want to
see Giles and Sue and--and--father. You git into my shoes--you like
it--I don't like it."

Agnes burst into a loud laugh.

"My word!" she said, "you're be a gel and a 'arf. Wouldn't I jest jump
at gettin' into your shoes if I could? But there! yer shoes don't fit
me, and that's the truth."

"Don't fit yer, don't they?" exclaimed Connie. "Wot do yer mean by
that?"

"Too small," said Agnes, sticking out her ugly foot in its broken
boot--"too genteel--too neat. No one could make a lydy o' me. Look at my
'ands." She spread out her coarse, stumpy fingers. "Look at my