"But, my gracious, Howard, what must we do, ignore it all?"
"I give it up."
"You are young to take so gloomy a view."
"Oh, I don't view it at all," said Howard. "I shoulder my way through it."
An elderly woman, handsomely dressed, came up and held out her hand to the preacher, who arose, bowed over it and declared his pleasure at meeting her. Then he introduced her to Howard, a woman noted for her work in the slums. A part of her labor was to talk morality to the girls in department stores, to make them pious and virtuous on three dollars a week. She kept a house of refuge which she visited once a day, to talk to the women who had been gathered in from the streets and the dens rented to vice by the rich. Her register showed that within the past ten years thousands of women had been reclaimed. But the register did not show how many had gone back to loud music and shame, preferring the glare of infamy, tired out with the simmer of the tea-kettle and the shadows of the kitchen. The preacher had visited her place and had complimented her upon the work she was doing.
"Oh, what has become of Margaret, the blonde girl?"
The matron shook her head. "She became dissatisfied and left us."
"And the one called Fanny. Where is she?"
"Oh, she was too pretty and went away."
"And Julia?"