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!”

Elsie Welcome was the one girl in the big machine room of the Millville button 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 assiduous devotion to the details of button making from office boy to his present exalted state. His mind had become a mere filing cabinet for information concerning the button 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.”

Elsie showed a flash of spirit: “That’s not my fault!”

“Just so. But you can’t hold the Millville Button Company responsible for your father’s misbehavior.”

“Is there any chance for me to get more pay?” There was a note of despair in her question.

“Not the least chance in the world. You are getting our maximum wage for women. I couldn’t raise your pay if I wanted to without being specially authorized to do so by our board of directors.”

“And I can never earn—never get any more here?”

“No.”

The minute hand of the electric clock pushed forward. Again a bell sounded. Two hundred American girls who had had a few moments’ respite came trooping wearily back to their places at the machines.

At the clang of the bell Kemble walked up the room. Elsie went back to her place drooping; she wore a beaten air as if he had struck her visibly.

The girls on either hand spoke to her as they slipped into their places, but she did not hear them. Hours of swift work followed. The machines whirred and the deft hands of the girls flew. These button workers had nearly all been recruited from the district around Millville. With rare exceptions they were descendants of the hardy Americans who had founded the town while it was still called Farmington. The founders had passed away. The outside world had pressed around the village until its people longed to play a more active role in the world. It had seemed a great day when the button factory came, and the town name was changed to Millville.

Now these daughters of the strong elder race were factory workers. The world had been made better by an output of thousands of shiny new buttons when at last the six o’clock whistle blew on this bright June day.

Elsie Welcome got up from her machine and picked up her hat listlessly. She walked to a window and looked out. Suddenly animation came into her face. A young man waved a handkerchief from an automobile which spun by on the gray turnpike below the mill. Elsie waved her handkerchief in return.

Kemble, watching the girl from across the room, saw the episode. He hurried across to her, with the air of pouncing on a victim.

“We’ll have none of that here, Miss Welcome,” he said. “If you have to flirt, don’t flirt on the company’s premises.”

She turned upon him indignantly. “I am not flirting! That gentleman is a friend of mine.”

Kemble sneered. “Oh, he is a friend, is he? Where does a factory girl like you meet men who ride in automobiles?”

Elsie flushed scarlet; she bit her quivering lips.

“Ashamed to tell where you met him, are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m responsible to my employers for the character of the girls I employ here.”

Elsie looked her contempt of him. She laughed a little low scornful laugh which made Kemble thoroughly angry.

“Look here, my girl,” he said. “You don’t know when you’re well off. You are too independent.” His tone of anger roused her temper, but she held herself in leash and answered with cold politeness:

“Mr. Kemble, when I feel myself getting independent, the first thing I shall do will be to get away from the Millville button factory.”

Kemble was ready to retreat now. The interview was getting beyond his expectation. Elsie was one of the company’s fastest workers. He could not afford to have her throw up her place. He did not want to lose her.

“Oh, but you like the factory, Miss Welcome,” he said in a suddenly pacific tone.

“Like—the—factory! I hate it,” returned the girl, all her pent-up wrongs finding expression. “I hate the mill and everything