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.

"Naw," replied the old woman, "one on 'em has getten on to wortch a few days for t' sick (that is, in the place of some sick person).