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 familiar to everybody, and she has her reward. Only three thousand working girls, yes, but that means three thousand human hearts capable of being filled to over-flowing. What more does any artist want?

And now I come to an incident which moves me more, perhaps, than any single thing that has ever fallen with my experience. I pledge myself to the general truthfulness of the fundamental part of the story I am about to tell, though for good and sufficient reasons I do not vouch for the details, or indicate in any way the scene of the incident I describe.

We are in a large munition factory within the broad circle of what may be described as the London area. It is somewhat later than twelve o'clock at night. The vast shops are humming and pulsing and throbbing with machinery; several thousands of girls, fresh from their midnight dinner, are working with good cheer; "the labourers are bringing their trolleys up "the street," and the setters