The Washington herald., 1917-07-04
THE GIRL WHO WENT BACK.

| You know, one of the most appalling
tnlngs IN our everyday life to me Is
the waste of Young lives. remem-
Der back in New York at dinner
one night, | heard some man who
was connected with the city govern
ment telling Mother of the thousands
| of young girls who disappear complete
| ly every year-Eot hundreds, but thou
sands; all over the country. l spoke
| OF this, l thirk, in an article q few
weeks ago. when l received a letter
from boy asking for news of his
sister. And l have thought about ii
so much, wondering why they never
go back. 1t seems to me, no matter
what had happened to me. would
! so back to my Mother, feeling sure
| Of open arms and understanding. And
more than that, l would want to go
, world.
1t is tust as natural for girls and
boys when they reach fifteen or six
teen to want more freedom as it is
for the bird to stretch its wings
in new-tried flight. or the chicken to
get up courage enough to cross the
! road without its mother. l think
, mothers and fathers understand this,
but instead of encouraging and aid
ing their children so they choose a
childish and immature. A splendid
old man who is n director out here
with another company told me once
that, as a matter of course, he read
over Emerson's essay on "Self-reli-
ance' once a year.
1T makes me remember that no.
body is answerable for my mistakes
and follies but myself" he said. hap
PLY, and makes me remember that
nature provided me with a moral back
bone as well as a bodily one"
There was a young girl in a conf
pany / was with when l was young.
| can remember her well because then
had ever seen, and children are
natural hero-worshippers.
She was small. with exquisitely
formed features, and wide dark eyes,
low sweet voice. and the most
lovable manners. Yet one night about
seven. Mrs. s.. who was PLAYING
heavies, burst into our room and cried
out to Mother that Louise had taken
an overdose OF aconite.
Il don't know whether she meant
to or not" ] heard her tell Mother
as they went out. and l wondered
what she meant. She was very i'll all
night long, and after the play Mother
wrote a message on paper and told
me to take it down stairs to the Of
flee OF the hotel where We were stay
| ing, and ask them to send IL by wire
at once. 1t was to her mother up in
Minneapolis. telling her to come at
once.
l knew that Mother STAYED with her
| all through the night while the doc
tors worked trying to save her. and
| in her delirium she called constantly
! for her mother. ClinGing to mine just
| like child, and thinking she was her
very own mother. And towards noon
| the next day. while she lay white and
| still and weak, her mother came.
| Cittinp in tho hotel arlnr
watching for her. and 1 thought she
| would be a nice. tender-eyed, rather
stout little old lady. but instead she
was a slender. well-groomed. tailor
| made mother, yer: aristocratic, very
! much out of place in that little Mid
die West town. with travelling road
company. l went up and told her who
l was. and took her to Louise's room,
Then Mother and came out and shut
the door, when Louise held her arms
out and cried to her.
l don't think 1 ever quite understood
the story of that night until ! was
much older. Then Mother told me
that there had been a runaway match,
and when they were on a train bound
for California. the man she loved told
her he was already married, and there
was no turning back for her. She
had gone on the stage, and a letter
from home had come after she had
written. telling all, a letter that l
don't see how any mother could have
written. That gentle, aristocratic lit
tie woman had told her child never to
| come back, that she had disgraced her
name and family. and must follow the
path she had chosen.
Then had come gradual disillusion-
ment and loneliness. and at last the
overdose" of aconite. 1t did me
good even as a little girl. to see the
change that came over that mother.
how she learned loves humilhy. and
nnauy took her daughter baA with