Little Lost Sister.

by Virginia Brooks.

PROLOGUE

They came up suddenly over a bit of rising ground, the mill-owner and his friend the writer and student of modern industries, and stood in full view of the factory. The air was sweet with scent of apple-blossoms. A song sparrow trilled in the poplar tree.

"What do you think of our factory?" asked the man of business and of success, turning his keen, aggressive face towards his companion.

The other, the dreamer, waited for moments without speaking, carefully weighing the word, then he answered,

"Horrible."

"My dear fellow!" The owner's voice showed that he was really grieved.

"Why horrible?"

"Your mill is a crime against Nature. Look how it violates that landscape. Look how it stands there gaunt and tawdry against these fresh green meadows edged round with billowy white clouds that herald summer.

And you are proud of it. Could you not have found some arid waste for this factory? Can't you see how Nature cries out against this outrage?

Can't you see that she has dedicated this country to seed-time and harvest,--these verdant fields, deep woods and brooding streams?"

"The Millville people wanted our factory. They paid us a subsidy to bring it here."

"Blind, too!" The dreamer looked backward at the town. "They tell me that the founders there called their village Farmington. Have you ever reflected what a change you are working in the lives of these people by subst.i.tuting industrialism for agriculture? Have you thought of the moral transformations such a subst.i.tution must work among them?"

"We are not responsible for their morals," the mill-owner answered, impatiently. "We have spared nothing to make our factory up to date. The mill meets all the demands of modern hygiene and sanitation. We do that for them."

His friend was silent for a time.

"Your employes here are chiefly women, very young women," he said at last.

"Yes, we have two hundred girls," replied the mill-owner.

"What is your highest wage for a girl?"

"Eight dollars a week."

Again the younger man was silent. Then he took his friend's arm within his own.

"These girls are the mothers of tomorrow. To an extent the destinies of our race depend upon them. Your factory places upon you tremendous responsibilities."

"We are growing to realize our responsibilities more and more," said the man of business and of success gravely. "Perhaps we do not realize them keenly enough. It is the fault of the times."

"Yes, it is the fault of the times. Life, honor, virtue itself trampled down in the rush for the dollar."

"I believe that a change is coming, though slowly. I believe that the day will come when we owners of mills will regard it as a disgraceful thing for our corporations to declare a dividend while notoriously underpaying our employes."

"Yes, and perhaps the day is coming, too, when the employer who maintains conditions in his mills that subtly undermine the virtue of his women workers will be regarded as a public enemy."

"No doubt, but that time is a long way ahead!"

"We must look to the future," said his friend. "We must work for the future, too!"

CHAPTER I

AT THE b.u.t.tON MILL

Elsie Welcome was the one girl in the big machine room of the Millville b.u.t.ton factory who did not rise when the bell sounded for the short afternoon recess. She swung on her revolving stool away from her machine and looked eagerly, thirstingly towards the windows where the other girls were crowding for breath of the fresh June air, but she did not stir to follow them. A resolution stronger than her own keen need of the recreation moments was singling out this young girl from among her two hundred companions, laughing and talking together.

"I will speak to Mr. Kemble now--now," she promised herself, watching for the foreman to enter the machine room, according to his daily custom at this hour. Elsie nerved herself to a task difficult to perform, even after her three years of work in the factory, even though she was one of the most skilful workers here.

She drew up her charmingly modeled little figure tensely, and held her small head high, her pure, beautiful features aglow with delicate color, her slender, shapely hands clasping and unclasping each other.

The foreman came into the room. Elsie rose from her place and went to meet him, pushing back the pretty tendrils of her hair.

"Mr. Kemble," she said, "I should like to speak to you a moment."

Hiram Kemble was a tall, thin young man, deeply conscious of his own importance and responsibilities. He had risen by a.s.siduous devotion to the details of b.u.t.ton making from office boy to his present exalted state. His mind had become a mere filing cabinet for information concerning the b.u.t.ton business.

He stood regarding the girl before him, feeling the attraction of her beauty and resenting it. He did not dislike her; he did not understand her, and it was his nature to distrust what he did not understand.

"Well," he said, with professional brusqueness, "what is it?"

"I wanted to ask you to--to--" Elsie hesitated, then went on with courage, "to raise my wages."

He looked at her in amazement, displeased. "How much are you getting now?"

"Only eight dollars a week."

"Only!" Hiram Kemble was satirical. "That's as much as the others are getting."

"I know it. But it's not enough. Our expenses are heavy. My mother has begun to--to--" Elsie choked. "My mother is compelled to take in washing.

She's not strong enough for such heavy work."

"Your sister has a good job."

"She earns only nine dollars."

"Your father--"

Tears sprang to Elsie's eyes, but she would not let them fall. "He's not earning anything."

"I know." Kemble spoke accusingly. "He is drinking."