freshness, and with the unsullied jewel of personal reputation which
all the wealth of kings can never buy back again, once lost. See to it
that you preserve that modesty and womanliness without which the
prettiest girl in the world is no better than a bit of scentless lawn
in a milliner's window, as compared to the white rose in the garden,
around which the honey bees gather. See to it that you lock up the
unsullied splendor of the jewel of your reputation as carefully as you
do your diamonds, and carry the key within your heart of hearts.




II.

"STAY WHERE YOU ARE."

I received a letter the other day in which the writer said: "Amber, I
want to come to the city and earn my living. What chance have I?" And
I felt like posting back an immediate answer and saying: "Stay where
you are." I didn't do it, though, for I knew it would be useless. The
child is bound to come, and come she will. And she will drift into a
third-rate Chicago boarding-house, than which if there is anything
meaner--let us pray! And if she is pretty she will have to carry
herself like snow on high hills to avoid contamination. If she is
confiding and innocent the fate of that highly persecuted heroine of
old-fashioned romance, Clarissa Harlowe, is before her. If she is
homely the doors of opportunity are firmly closed against her. If she
is smart she will perhaps succeed in earning enough money to pay her
board bill and have sufficient left over to indulge in the maddening
extravagance of an occasional paper of pins or a ball of tape! What