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