She hadn’t imagined that Diana would go on holiday as well, but when Diana told her she was going, she felt a little thrill. Mr. Marsden was sure to give her charge of at least two looms, perhaps a third. She didn’t want Diana to think she was rejoicing in her absence, but she was not skilled at feigning feelings she did not own. “I’ll miss you,” she said.

Diana laughed at her. “Oh, you’ll be glad enough to see me gone,” she said. “There’ll be three looms for you to tend, a nice fat raise to your wages for these several weeks.” Lyddie blushed. “You needn’t feel bad. Enjoy the money. I think you’ll find you’ve earned every penny. It’s hot as Hades up here in July.”

“But where will you be going?” Lyddie asked, trying to shift attention from herself. She quickly repented, remembering too late that Diana had no family waiting to see her.

“It’s all right,” Diana said in reply to Lyddie’s pained look. “I was orphaned young. I’m used to it. I suppose this mill is as much home as I can claim. I started here as a doffer when I was ten. So I’ve fifteen years here. But only a scant handful of Julys.”

Lyddie wanted to ask, then, if she had no home to go to, where she was headed, but it wasn’t rightly her business, and Diana didn’t offer the information except to say when the noise of the machines insured that no one could overhear, “There’ll be a mass meeting at Woburn on Independence Day.” When Lyddie looked puzzled, she went on, “Of the movement. The ten-hour movement. Miss Bagley will speak, as well as some of the men.” When Lyddie still said nothing, she continued, “There’ll be a picnic lunch, a real Fourth of July celebration. How about it? I promise no one will make you sign your name to anything.”

Lyddie pressed her lips together and shook her head. “No,” she said. “I expect I’ll be busy.”

July was hot, as Diana had so inelegantly predicted. Reluctantly, Lyddie spent a dollar on a light summer work dress as her spring calico proved unbearable. Her other expenditure was at the lending library, where she borrowed Oliver Twist. This time she would read it on her own. It didn’t occur to her that she was teaching herself as she laboriously chopped apart the words that had rolled like rainwater off Betsy’s tongue. She was so hungry to hear the story again that, exhausted as she was after her thirteen hours in the weaving room, she lay sweating across her bed mouthing in whispers the sounds of Mr. Dickens’s narrative.