I’m not sure why they always ignore me. I come here, every day, to get water for my home. We live almost two miles away, just a short stretch off of the road. As always, I trudge down the bridge’s small slope to the paved bank of the river. And, as always, the same men and woman are there, washing linens, and performing other necessary chores.

They’re servants. As I fill my jugs, I often listen to what they have to say. Two of them (I have never learned their names), the ones who always wear red skirts, work for one of the factory owners. They complain a great deal, but seem content in their service. After all, it is no great thing to wash sheets and clothing while others toil away in the dirty factories in town.

The two other women work for a factory owner as well, although they are notably less content. Lately, one of the boss’s foremen has taken to following them down here to the bank. He berates them for their slow work, and often hits them when he feels they are moving too slow. I have often thought that their work would go much faster if he spent less time assaulting them, and more time with his own hands in the water.

But, I keep my thoughts to myself. I am the only one here who is not dependent on the new factories for my livelihood. My husband and I live on a farm. I would feel terrible if one of the women were put out on the street because I had said something untoward. And besides, with the town growing at such an incredible rate to accommodate those same factories, my little farm may soon be little more than a hovel, hiding amongst the great machines of production.

As I begin to lift my water-laden cargo, the argument between the woman in brown and the foreman escalates. He shouts at her, and then kicks her! I turn away quickly, trying to pretend that I have not noticed the argument.

Even as I do so, I hear his boots click on the ancient cobblestones, and then brush through the tall grass as he grunts back up the hill.

After waiting long enough to ensure that I will not encounter that terrible man, I turn and begin walking towards the hill, as well. But, before I can step over the first of my obstacles, the lady in brown speaks my name. I nearly drop the water I had collected; she’s never even acknowledged my presence before!

"I know you listen to us", she says, placing her hand on my dress, near the ankle, "and you’ve done nothing wrong. Most times, we’re simply too tired to talk to you."

"And the other times?" I ask, trying not to sound too surprised.

"We’re not supposed to. Get more work done when you’re quiet."

"That’s terrible!" I cried.

She shrugged, and then rubbed her side where the man had kicked her. "It’s the price we pay for the benefits of industry."

"But isn’t there something you can do?" I asked, now truly curious.

"No. Nothing now. But, someday maybe we’ll be in charge, eh? How long can they treat us like this before someone gets so dissatisfied that they rebel and take all the splendor of industry as their own?"

I stood still, unsure of how to answer her question.

She continued. "Mark my words, the machines will get bigger, the conditions will get worse, and the people will become angry. Not too many generations from now, we’ll see just what these factories have given us…be it prosperity or strife."

She turned away from me, then, and began to trudge back up the hill. "Wait!" I called to her. "What is your name?"

"Engels. Deirdre Engels. But I must go: my sister-in-law is about to have a baby. I need to finish my work so I can look after her tonight."

We waved our goodbyes, and I, too began my trip home. "What will the future bring?" I asked myself.

"Prosperity or Strife?" As I walked further, I came to the conclusion that history would find its course, and it would be our children, our children’s children who would be left to decide.  Satisfied, I walked home to my farm, a farm that now seemed hopelessly obsolete.