The week, for the woman, had been a hard week. The day, for her, had
been a hard day. When she boarded the car to go to her home she was
very tired and she was not quite the picture of perfect woman health
that she had been that other Saturday--the time of falling leaves.

For some unaccountable reason there was one vacant seat left in the
car and she dropped into it with a little inward sigh of relief. With
weary, unseeing, eyes she stared out of the window at the throng of
people hurrying along through the mud and slush of the streets. Her
tired brain refused to think. Her very soul was faint with loneliness
and the knowledge that she was gaining of life.

The car stopped again and a party of girls of the high school age,
evidently just from the Saturday matinee, crowded in. Clinging to the
straps and the backs of seats, clutching each other with little gusts
and ripples of laughter, they filled the aisle of the crowded car with
a fresh and joyous life that touched the tired woman like a breath of
spring. In all this work stale, stupidly weary, world there is nothing
so refreshing as the wholesome laugh of a happy, care free, young
girl. The woman whose heart was heavy with knowledge of life would
have liked to take them in her arms. She felt a sense of gratitude as
though she were indebted to them just for their being. And would
these, too--the woman thought--would these, too, be forced by the
custom of the age--by necessity--to go into the world that would not
recognize their womanhood--that would put a price upon the priceless
things of their womanhood--that would teach them hard lessons of life
and, with a too early knowledge, crush out the sweet girlish
naturalness, even as a thoughtless foot crushes a tender flower while
still it is in the bud?