At night they separated, each going to her own room.

The machinist was a widow, and her machine had been bought out of her husband's club and insurance money when he died twenty-one years before.

I had often seen it, heard its rattle, and witnessed its whims.
She once told me that it required a new shuttle, and I offered to pay for one; but she said, "I cannot part with it; it will last my time, for I want a new shuttle too!" Six months after she was found dead in her bed by her partners when they came to resume work.
Her words had come true! The old machine stood silent under the little window; its old shuttle no longer whirred and rattled with uncertain movements.

It was motionless and cold.

On a little bed the poor old brave woman lay cold and motionless too! for the shuttle of her life had stopped, never to move again.
The heroic partnership of the old women was broken, never in this world to be resumed, and so two old hearts sorrowed and two troubled minds wondered how they would be able to live without her.
I knew her well; it was my privilege to give her some happiness and some change from grime and gloom, to take her away sometimes from the wayward shuttle and rattling machine.