These thoughts called to mind words of the late Franklin B. Sanborn when recounting to me his recollections of Louisa M. Alcott. It was near the end of a perfect October day spent rambling about Concord with Mr. Sanborn as my escort. After spending some time in the School of Philosophy we crossed to the Alcott house and, going up-stairs, took our seats near the window at which Miss Alcott sat when writing “Little Women.” Mr. Sanborn had been talking continuously for several minutes when suddenly he stopped and sat looking thoughtfully out of the window. “Louisa was wonderful!” he exclaimed, beginning to talk as suddenly as he had stopped. “Yes, she was wonderful. Even to the last she was as ready to experiment as she had been when a young girl.” He paused for an instant, then added in a different tone: “It was that that caused her to try going out as a domestic servant.” He shook his head. “It was a mistake. It was a mistake. Even Louisa couldn’t stand that.” Now recalling these words, I wondered what it was that even Louisa could not stand. Louisa, the woman whom Mr. Sanborn had described as wonderful, with a heart overflowing with love and human kindliness. What was it that even such a woman could not stand? Thinking of the women and girls with whom I had worked, I wondered why some of them who appeared so sensible should persist in a struggle to eke out a half-starved existence on such low wages when in domestic service they would get all the comforts of a good home along with wages. All my life I had heard persons, experienced men and women, protesting against this condition. Some of them had gone so far as to assert that there should be laws prohibiting women and girls from working in shops and factories—so forcing them into domestic service. Once while working in the premium station I attempted to discuss the subject with Nora. “Not that!” the girl cried, the lines in her forehead contracting into little knots. “I’ll go to the river first.” Nora was a sensible girl. Why should she feel like that? She helped her mother with the work of their little flat. She washed her own clothes and on Sunday enjoyed cooking dinner. She made many of her own clothes and helped sew for her younger brothers and sisters. She looked forward to the time when the young man to whom she was engaged would earn enough for them to marry. She expected to do her own housework. Then why should she object, and so passionately, to doing housework for which she was paid, to becoming a domestic servant? The problem haunted me for weeks. During that period every time I looked over the help-wanted columns of certain papers I saw that Sea Foam Hotel was in need of chambermaids and waitresses. Not until I had mailed my letter applying for a position as chambermaid did I mention it to Alice and Mrs. Wilkins.