Yetta, having no idea how the powers of darkness were again closing about her, set out to work in the morning in high spirits--her face illumined by her new resolve. But her exaltation was short lived. Mrs. Cohen's lungs were much worse. All through the morning hours she struggled desperately with her cough. Mrs. Levy had seen the same thing so often before that she gave it no attention. But Mrs. Weinstein's merry eyes turned serious. And every cough tore at Yetta's heart. She was partly to blame. During the noon respite she and Mrs. Weinstein took care of the consumptive woman, tried to tempt her to eat with the choicest morsels of their none too savory lunches. Yetta urged her to go home for the afternoon and rest. But that was impossible. Goldfogle would "fire" her if she left, and she needed the job. So when the short lull was over, the women took their places about the table. Hardly five minutes had passed when a paroxysm of coughing checked Mrs. Cohen's hands, and the work began to pile up. Yetta broke her thread, and by the time she had mended it Mrs. Cohen had caught up. Jake, hearing the stop, came to the door, but, seeing that Yetta was to blame, went back without speaking. Within half an hour Yetta had to break her thread again. But Mrs. Cohen was past the aid of such momentary rests. Before three the crisis came. She let go her work and dropped her head on her hands, horribly shaken by sobs and coughs. Yetta, feeling that she had helped to kill the woman, stopped her machine. Jake rushed out into the shop. "_Wos hat da passiert?_" he demanded of Yetta, nervous and angry. "Did your thread break again?" "No." Yetta stood up. "I stopped." "Stopped?" he repeated in amazement. "Yes. I stopped. It's a shame. Mrs. Cohen is sick and can't keep up." Jake was only too glad to find some one else to vent his vile temper upon. He ran around the table and grabbed Mrs. Cohen roughly by the shoulder. "You're fired," he shrieked. "I've had too much from you. You're the slowest woman here. Now you stop the whole table. You're fired." "No, you don't, Mr. Goldfogle," Yetta cried, as excited as he was. "You don't fire her without you fire me too. See? Ain't you got no heart? She's killed herself working for you. You ought to take care of her now she's sick." "Vot you tink?" he wailed. "Is it a hospital or a factory I'm running?" "If it's a slaughter-house, Jake Goldfogle, I won't work in it." The altercation had stopped all the work. The shop was strangely quiet. And Jake, his hope of success, his dream of love, trembling about his ears, could hardly keep back his tears. Suddenly he found voice and turned on the other women. "Vot for do you stop? Vork! Vork, or I'll fire you." And then coming up close to Yetta he said:--"You come vid me to my office. I vant to talk vid you."