We hear a gentle voice, "Mother, it is nearly one o'clock, the men have gone by from the public-house; you go to bed, dear, and I will finish the work." A feeble woman, with every nerve broken, rises from her machine, shakes her dress and lies down on her bed, but her daughter sits on and on.
Oh the sighs and groans and accents of sorrow that come upon our listening ears! Oh the weariness, the utter weariness of this land below the line! Midnight! and thousands of women are working! One o'clock, and thousands are still at it! Two o'clock, the widows are still at work! Thank God the children are asleep.

Three o'clock a.m., the machines cease to rattle, and in the land of crushed womanhood there is silence if not peace.

But who is to pay?
Shall we ultimately evolve a people that require no sleep, that cannot sleep if they would?
Is crushed womanhood to produce human automatic machines?
Or is civilisation generally to pay the penalty for all this grinding of human flesh and blood?
Let me tell the story of an old machinist! I have told part of it before, but the sequel must be told.

I had made the acquaintance and friendship of three old women in Bethnal Green who lived together, and collaborated in their work.

They made trousers for export trade; one machined, one finished, and one pressed, brave old women all! They all worked in the machinist's room, for this saved gas and coal, and prevented loss of time.