e work from the big tailoring establishments to the dozens
and dozens of home workers, and to collect it from them at the appointed
time. You may easily recognize them by the large black-lining bundles
which they carry so deftly under either arm. Mostly they are dear little
girls of about fourteen, in short frocks, and mostly they are pretty.
They have a casual manner, and they smile very winningly. Often their
little feet tramp twelve and fourteen miles a day delivering and
collecting; often they are sworn at by the foreman for being late; often
they are very unhappy, and hardly ever do they get more than
seven-and-sixpence a week. But they always smile: a little timidly, you
know, because they are so young and London is so full of perils; yea,
though they work harder than any other sweated labourer--they smile.

And over the bridges they come at nightfall, if they are not doing
overtime, chattering and smiling, each with a Dorothy-bag, or imitation
leather dispatch-case, each with a paper novelette, and so to the clear
spaces of Clapham Common, now glittering with the lights of home, and
holding in its midst a precious jewel--the sparkled windows of the
Windmill Inn.

At home, tea is ready set for them and their brothers. Brothers are
probably in warehouses or offices, somewhere in the brutal City; for
every member of the suburban family earns something; they all contribute
their little bit to help "keep the home going." Tea is set in the
kitchen, or living-room, and Mother sits there by the fire, awaiting the
return of her brood, and reading, for the forty-fourth time, _East
Lynne_. Acacia Grove is a narrow street of small houses, but each house
is pridefully held by its owners, and fierce competition, in the matter
of front gardens, is waged during spring and summer. Now it is a
regiment of soft lights, each carrying its message of cheer and promises
of tea, armchair, and slippered ease. The fragrance of the meal is
already on the air, and through the darling twilight comes the
muffin-man and the cheery tinkle of his bell--one of the last of a once
great army of itinerant feeders of London. Gaslight and firelight leap
on the spread table, glinting against cups and saucers and spoons, and
lighting, with sudden spurts, the outer gloom. A sweet warmth fills the
room--the restful homeliness imparted by a careful, but not too careful,
woman. The wallpaper is flaring, but very clean. The pictures are
flaring, but framed