"Tavia!" exclaimed Dorothy in alarm, for these rash sentiments had of late been strangely common with Tavia. "You do not know what you are talking about. Go with the tide—"
"Yes, I just mean take my chances with other girls. I had a letter from a girl in Rochester the other day. She had got work and she is no older than I am."
"At what?" asked Dorothy.
"On the stage. She is going to take part in some chorus work—"
"Tavia, dear!" cried Dorothy. "You must not get letters from such girls. On the stage! Why, that is the most dangerous work any girl could possibly get into."
"Now, Doro, I have not got the place, worse luck. And you must not take on so just because I happened to mention the matter. But you must realize there is a vast difference between poor girls like me, and those of your station in life!"
What had come over Tavia lately? Why did she so dwell upon the difference between Dorothy's means and her own? Was it a natural pride or a peculiar unrest—that unrest, perhaps, that so often leads others, who are older, stronger and wiser than Tavia Travers, into paths not the most elevating? And then they may urge the excuse that the world had been hard on them; that they could not find their place in life, when in reality they scorn to take the place offered them, and instead of trying for a better or higher mark they deliberately refuse the prospects held out, and turn backward—then they blame the world!
This condition is called "Social Unrest," and Tavia Travers, though young and inexperienced, was having a taste of its bitter moral poison.
"Promise me you will never write another letter to that girl," begged Dorothy, solemnly. "I know your father would not permit it Tavia, and I know such influence is dangerous."
"Why the idea! You should have read her letter, Doro. She says the killingest things—But mercy, I must go. I have to go to the Green before tea," and, with a reassuring kiss, Tavia darted off.