in! as we stand in the land of crushed womanhood and
starving childhood. We hear a gentle voice, "Mother, it is nearly one
o'clock, the men have gone by from the public-house; you go to bed,
dear, and I will finish the work." A feeble woman, with every nerve
broken, rises from her machine, shakes her dress and lies down on her
bed, but her daughter sits on and on.

Oh the sighs and groans and accents of sorrow that come upon our
listening ears! Oh the weariness, the utter weariness of this land below
the line!

Midnight! and thousands of women are working! One o'clock, and thousands
are still at it! Two o'clock, the widows are still at work! Thank God
the children are asleep. Three o'clock a.m., the machines cease to
rattle, and in the land of crushed womanhood there is silence if not
peace. But who is to pay? Shall we ultimately evolve a people that
require no sleep, that cannot sleep if they would? Is crushed womanhood
to produce human automatic machines? Or is civilisation generally to pay
the penalty for all this grinding of human flesh and blood? Let me tell
the story of an old machinist! I have told part of it before, but the
sequel must be told. I had made the acquaintance and friendship of three
old women in Bethnal Green who lived together, and collaborated in their
work. They made trousers for export trade; one machined, one finished,
and one pressed, brave old women all! They all worked in the machinist's
room, for this saved gas and coal, and prevented loss of time. At night
they separated, each going to her own room. The machinist was a widow,
and her machine had been bought out of her husband's club and insurance
money when he died twenty-one years before. I had often seen it, heard
its rattle, and witnessed its whims.

She once told me that it required a new shuttle, and I offered to pay
for one; but she said, "I cannot part with it; it will last my time, for
I want a new shuttle too!"

Six months after she was found dead in her bed by her partners when they
came to resume work.

Her words had come true! The old machine stood silent under the little
window; its old shuttle no longer whirred and rattled with uncertain
movements. It was motionless and cold. On a little bed the poor old
brave woman lay cold and motionless too! for the shuttle of her life had
stopped, never to move again.

The heroic partnership of the old women was broken, never in this world
to be resumed, and so two old hearts sorro