Well, our girls not being very hungry (for their lungs are full of impure air, and they feel tired and weary--rather sleepy too--all from the same cause), they think they will make themselves "a nice cup of tea--strong, you know." They do not care whether they have milk with it or not, so long as the tea is strong and gives them a fillip. With this they will eat a little roll and butter or bread and cheese. This so-called meal is either partaken of in the room in which they work, or our girls go out for it. In the latter case they stand a little better chance; for often the fact of going out of the room in which they have been seated all the morning brings with it a sense of returning appetite, and induces them to procure a more substantial meal. But even this is rarely the case; for they have an odd sinking at the chest, and if they eat a heavy meal and sit down directly after it, they get that weight behind their waistbands, they cannot breathe, and they feel altogether miserable. They do not feel like this, they think, after the good, strong tea--the clearest proof to them that they should look to it as a main resource during the midday rest. Probably tea is again hailed with delight during another break in the work-hours; and at the end of the day our weary one is so fearfully tired, although she has been sitting all day, that she feels as though her limbs would never carry her home. Come what may, she must ride. She puts herself into the first Underground Railway carriage that will take her to her destination, and, exchanging the carbonic acid gas of the workroom for the sulphurous gas of the underground tunnels, she arrives home spent and utterly tired out, longing to get to bed and rest her weary limbs and pillow the poor, fatigued head. In the morning, feeling refreshed after Nature's kind and grateful rest, she plucks up again and walks to the scene of her duties. But she has to be there by a certain time, and, somehow, she always manages to be just a little late in starting, so that at the last she has to hurry to arrive at the appointed hour. She looks at every clock she passes; she starts at some which tell her that it is later than she thought, feels relieved at others which are more merciful; and, putting on an extra spurt at the last, manages to arrive just to the minute. But what good can our girl get from a walk taken under such circumstances? It is ten times as fatiguing--the mind is harassed, the heart is beating wildly, and the breathing is short and hurried. The routine of the previous day is then repeated. There is the same shyness of air, the same imperfect meal, the same lassitude, the same finale.