One thing I have not succeeded in picturing—and it is the thing which seems to me perhaps the most terrible of all: the change of the working girl into the working woman. I have not drawn the factory girl as I have known her and delighted in her, gay to “cheekiness,” staunchly loyal, wonderfully uncomplaining, wonderfully ready to make allowances for “the governor” as long as he speaks her fair and shows consideration in trifles, but equally resolute to “pay him out,” when once she is convinced of his meanness or spitefulness. Her language is devoid, to a degree remarkable even in our undemonstrative race, of any tenderness or emotion. She accepts an invitation with the ungracious formula: “I don’t mind if I do.” Upon the “mate” of her own sex, to whom she is so much more warmly devoted than to her “chap,” she never bestows a word of endearment. “Hi, ‘Liza, d’y’ think I’m going to wait all night for you?” is the tone of her address to the friend with whom she will share her last penny or for whom she will pawn her last item of pawnable property. She speaks roughly to her relatives and aggressively to the world at large; she is no respecter of persons, and her eye for affectation or insincerity is unerring. Condescend to her and she will “chaff” you off the field. But meet her on equal terms, help her without attempting to “boss” her, and within a month or two you will have won her unalterable allegiance; her face will light up at your coming; she will bear the plainest speech from you, and on occasion of emergency will obey implicitly your every command. Nor is she lacking in the fundamental parts of politeness. Here is an instance. Years ago, in the days when some of us still believed in the possibility of organising unskilled women, a member of the Dockers’ Union sent me word that I should find it possible to walk at dinner time straight into the dining-room of a certain factory and talk to the workers undisturbed, since at that hour both the foreman and the porter went home to their own meals. I went, accordingly, though I confess that I felt myself very much of a trespasser. As I mounted the extremely grimy stair to the dining-room, I heard the loud voices of the girls. Their language was singularly vile. It did not, no doubt, mean very much to them; they used horrible words as the young of another class use slang. I went in and said my little say. After the first few words, most of them listened; several asked questions; a certain amount of conversation continued to go on. But while I was in the room—and, remember, I was a complete stranger to all of them—not one word was spoken which I could justly have felt to be offensive. I distributed my handbills, told them I hoped they would come to the meeting, and departed. As I went downstairs, I heard them relapsing into their hideous vernacular. But I could not help reflecting that they had shown the essence of good manners; and also that, if the