Now and
then the weekly visitor comes to the door of a house where he has
regularly called. He lifts the latch, and finds the door locked. He
looks in at the window. The house is empty, and the people are gone-
-the Lord knows where. Who can tell what tales of sorrow will have
their rise in the pressure of a time like this--tales that will
never be written, and that no statistics will reveal.
Trinity Ward swarms with factory operatives; and, after our chat
with blind John, the chairmaker, and his ancient crony the grinder
from Nile Street, we set off again to see something more of them.
Fitful showers came down through the day, and we had to shelter now
and then. In one cottage, where we stopped a few minutes, the old
woman told us that, in addition to their own family, they had three
young women living with them--the orphan daughters of her husband's
brother. They had been out of work thirty-four weeks, and their
uncle--a very poor man--had been obliged to take them into his
house, "till sich times as they could afford to pay for lodgin's
somewheer else." My companion asked whether they were all out of
work still.
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