ho is both too
proud and too brave to show "the white feather" as she often expressed
the failing of giving away to emotion that might distress others.

"I do wish you could go along," said Dorothy.

"Well, I don't believe I would really like to go, Doro," Tavia
surprised her by saying. "I should probably get into all kinds of
scrapes with that Green Violet, and the scrapes would likely make it
unpleasant for you. Besides I have been thinking I ought to go to
work. I am old enough to do something--fifteen next month you
know--and I would just like to get right out into the world--go with
the tide."

"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