They kept this up for
years until the mother succumbed. They were on the way from Nevada to Los
Angeles when she died. The daughter, then not eighteen, went on to Los
Angeles, where she buried her mother, and endeavored to continue teaching
as she had been doing. She was young, unsophisticated, sad, and in want in
a strange town. She applied for advice to a man highly honored and
recommended by his fellow-citizens. The man played the brute. The girl
fled--anywhere. Had she been less brave, she would have fled from herself.
She came to San Francisco and took a position as nurse-girl; children, she
thought, could not play her false, and she might outlive it. The hope was
cruel. She was living near my home, had seen my sign probably, and in the
extremity of her distress came to me. There is a good woman who keeps a
lodging-house, and who delights in doing me favors. I left the poor child
in her hands, and she is now fully recovered. As a physician I can do no
more for her, and yet melancholy has almost made a wreck of her. Nothing I
say has any effect; all she answers is, 'It isn't worth while.' I
understand her perfectly, but I wished to infuse into her some of her old
spirit of independence. This morning I asked her if she intended to let
herself drift on in this way.
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