Then three girls from the stitching-room came crowding up behind
with furtively tender pressings of round arms against the shoulders
of the young men. "We come in here to see if that was Eva Loud,"
said one, a sharp-faced, alert girl, not pretty, but a favorite
among the male employés, to the constant wonder of the other girls.

"Yes, it's her fast enough," rejoined another, a sweet-faced blonde
with an exaggeratedly fashionable coiffure and a noticeable
smartness in the tie of her neck-ribbon and the set of her cotton
waist. "Just look at the poor thing's hair. Only see how frowsly it
is, and she has come out without her hat."

"Well, I don't wonder," said the third girl, who was elderly and
whose complexion was tanned and weather-beaten almost to the color
of the leather upon which she worked. Yet through this seamed and
discolored face, with thin grayish hair drawn back tightly from the
temples, one could discern, as through a transparent mask, a past
prettiness and an exceeding gentleness and faithfulness. "If my
sister's little Helen was to be lost I shouldn't know whether my hat
was on or not," said she. "I believe I should go raving mad."

"You wouldn't have to slave as you have done supportin' it ever
since your sister's husband died," said the pretty girl. "Only look
how Eva's waist bags in the back and she 'ain't got any belt on. I
wouldn't come out lookin' so."

"I should die if I didn't have something to work for. That's the
difference between being a worker and a slave," said the other girl,
simply. "Poor Eva!"