One evening a young woman came in on her way from a shop where she was employed. She was meanly clad, but evidently making the best use of what she had. Her wages were sixteen rupees a month, out of which she had to pay rent, purchase food and clothing. She was obliged to be in the shop from eight in the morning till seven in the evening, with a little rest for a scanty tiffin at noon. All the girls were obliged to stand on their feet the whole time in the shop. If they sat down or leaned against the tables they were fined. She seemed to be in great distress, and had come to my hostess for sympathy. She said that it had been a terrible hard day. She became tired, and her feet ached so that she had to remove her shoes, and stand on the marble floor to cool her feet. The European clerks had annoyed her by calling her “Eurasian,” and they often called the girls “half castes,” “niggers,” “sooars” and such like names. The assistant manager had found fault with her clothes; that she looked too slovenly to be seen. Summoning up courage she went to the manager, and asked him if he couldn’t increase her wages a little. He asked what she was receiving, and then said it was considerable, and with a bland smile he asked, insinuatingly: “Haven’t you some young gentleman friend who could help you out a little?” As she told this she fell to sobbing. After a little my hostess said: “Mary, what did you tell him?” She answered with much hesitation: “At first I could not comprehend what he meant, and then I was so shocked that I seemed stunned, and turned and left him without a word. Had I resented what he said, he would have dismissed me at once, and then what would I do? How I wish I could end this cursed life, I am tired of it!” She fell to weeping again, and no wonder. And this bland, smiling, Christian Mephistopheles, manager and part owner of the big shop, was a member of the church and an official, and probably often resting his hands on his fat paunch, talked about the fearful unchastity and lack of honesty among the rising generation. I don’t believe in a place of hell, but I think there ought to be a fiery pen where such sleek hypocrites could have a good roasting. But he will get all he deserves, else there is no use in having a just God or any faith in justice. I could fill a book with such stories of want, temptation and wretchedness, but of what use? There must be a screw, or many of them, loose in this inhuman social arrangement of life, or else I am a fool.