Mothers of Men by William Henry Warner — Read

During the long ride across the city, old Minna kept up a steady chatter. Her one idea was to comfort the girl. There was no thought of her own necessity for seeking a new position. There were plenty of places for cooks and housekeepers, but this frail little creature, who sat beside her with the black veil drawn down over her face to hide the tears, what could she do?

Presently they got off the tram, and Minna leading the way, hurried up a narrow street, filled with children and gossiping women. They turned in at a doorway next to a delicatessen shop. On the steps, a little girl of about eight, with very tightly braided hair, was hushing a fat baby to sleep. The child moved aside for them to pass, and they made their way up the long, dark stair. The air was heavy with the smell of cooking, mixed with that of hot soapsuds.