o it was toward Pittsburg that I
first directed my steps, but before leaving New York I assumed my
disguise. In the Parisian clothes I am accustomed to wear I present the
familiar outline of any woman of the world. With the aid of coarse
woolen garments, a shabby felt sailor hat, a cheap piece of fur, a
knitted shawl and gloves I am transformed into a working girl of the
ordinary type. I was born and bred and brought up in the world of the
fortunate--I am going over now into the world of the unfortunate. I am
to share their burdens, to lead their lives, to be present as one of
them at the spectacle of their sufferings and joys, their ambitions and
sorrows.

I get no farther than the depot when I observe that I am being treated
as though I were ignorant and lacking in experience. As a rule the
gateman says a respectful "To the right" or "To the left," and trusts to
his well-dressed hearer's intelligence. A word is all that a moment's
hesitation calls forth. To the working girl he explains as follows: "Now
you take your ticket, do you understand, and I'll pick up your money for
you; you don't need to pay anything for your ferry--just put those three
cents back in your pocket-book and go down there to where that gentleman
is standing and he'll direct you to your train."

This without my having asked a question. I had divested myself of a
certain authority along with my good clothes, and I had become one of a
class which, as the gateman had found out, and as I find out later
myself, are devoid of all knowledge of the world and, aside from their
manual training, ignorant on all subjects.

My train is three hours late, which brings me at about noon to
Pittsburg. I have not a friend or an acquaintance within hundreds of
miles. With my bag in my hand I make my way through the dark, busy
streets to the Young Women's Christian Association. It is down near a
frozen river. The wind blows sharp and biting over the icy water; the
streets are covered with snow, and over the snow the soot falls softly
like a mantle of perpetual mourning. There is almost no traffic.
Innumerable tramways ring their way up and down wire-lined avenues;
occasionally a train of freight cars announces itself with a warning
bell in the city's midst. It is a black town of toil, one man in every
three a labourer. They have no need for vehicles of pleasure. The
trolleys take them to their work, the trains transport the products of
the mills.

I hear all lang