Two months have passed away, the evil-smelling lamp is still
burning, the woman still sits at the table, but no rose-leaves
are before her; she is making black tulips. On the bed lies a
still form with limbs decently smoothed and composed; the poor
blind eyes are closed for ever. He is awaiting the day of
burial, and day after day the partner of his life and death is
sitting, and working, for in this underworld bereaved wives must
work if husbands are to be decently buried. The black tulips she
will wear as mourning for him; she will accompany his poor body
to the cemetery, and then return to live alone and to finish her
work alone.

But let us continue our midnight explorations, heedless of the
men and women now returning from their nightly prowl who jostle
us as they pass.

We enter another room where the air is thick and makes us sick
and faint. We stand at the entrance and look around; we see
again the evil-smelling lamp, and again a woman at work at a
small table, and she too is a widow!

She is making cardboard boxes, and pretty things they are. Two
beds are in the room, and one contains three, and the other two
children. On the beds lie scores of dainty boxes. The outside
parts lie on one bed, and the insides on the other. They are
drying while the children sleep; by and by they will be put
together, tied in dozens, and next morning taken to the factory.
But of their future history we dare not inquire.

The widow speaks to us, but her hands never rest; we notice the