to hustle."

She is a forlorn specimen of humanity, ugly, old, dirty, condemned to
the slow death of the overworked. I am a green hand. I make mistakes; I
have no experience in the fierce sustained effort of the bread-winners.
Over and over I turn to her, over and over she is obliged to correct me.
During the ten hours we work side by side not one murmur of impatience
escapes her. When she sees that I am getting discouraged she calls out
across the deafening din, "That's all right; you can't expect to learn
in a day; just keep on steady."

As I go about distributing bottles to the labelers I notice a strange
little elf, not more than twelve years old, hauling loaded crates; her
face and chest are depressed, she is pale to blueness, her eyes have
indigo circles, her pupils are unnaturally dilated, her brows
contracted; she has the appearance of a cave-bred creature. She seems
scarcely human. When the time for cleaning up arrives toward five my
boss sends me for a bucket of water to wash up the floor. I go to the
sink, turn on the cold water and with it the steam which takes the place
of hot water. The valve slips; in an instant I am enveloped in a
scalding cloud. Before it has cleared away the elf is by my side.

"Did you hurt yourself?" she asks.

Her inhuman form is the vehicle of a human heart, warm and tender. She
lifts her wide-pupiled eyes to mine; her expression does not change from
that of habitual scrutiny cast early in a rigid mould, but her voice
carries sympathy from its purest source.

There is more honour than courtesy in the code of etiquette. Commands
are given curtly; the slightest injustice is resented; each man for
himself in work, but in trouble all for the one who is suffering. No
bruise or cut or burn is too familiar a sight to pass uncared for.

It is their common sufferings, their common effort that unites them.

When I have become expert in the corking art I am raised to a better
table, with a bright boy, and a girl who is dignified and indifferent
with the indifference of those who have had too much responsibility. She
never hurries; the work slips easily through her fingers. She keeps a
steady bearing over the morning's ups and downs. Under her load of
trials there is something big in the steady way she sails.

"Used to hard work?" she asks me.

"Not much," I answer; "are you?"

"Oh, yes. I began at thirteen in a bakery. I had a place near the oven
and the heat overcame me."

Her s