In a moment we were in a French village.

We walked through a great factory of some sort, where men and women and little children were toiling in heat and dirt and a fog of dust; and they were clothed in rags, and drooped at their work, for they were worn and half starved, and weak and drowsy.

Satan said: "It is some more Moral Sense.

The proprietors are rich, and very holy; but the wage they pay to these poor brothers and sisters of theirs is only enough to keep them from dropping dead with hunger.

The work-hours are fourteen per day, winter and summer--from six in the morning till eight at night--little children and all.