During that first year’s practice, a few weeks after this regrettable experience which had cast such a shadow over me, I saw deep into the tragedy of the life of a young girl who came to me for succour. She was only nineteen; she refused to give me her name or address, but haltingly told me her story, and expressed her fears. It was some weeks before I could either dispel or confirm her fears, during which time my hold on her was precarious; but she came again and again, both of us hoping against hope as long as we could. On the day when I had to acknowledge to myself and her that what she feared was true, I seemed to grow years older. Though I had now been graduated in medicine a year, my worldly wisdom was very limited, and here was a desperate girl looking to me for help--a pretty, round-faced, red-cheeked child, unsophisticated, undeveloped. She resolutely refused to tell me the name of the young man concerned, saying if he were willing she would not marry him. She did not mind what she suffered if only her parents did not find out. Her mother would die if she learned the truth. When she found I could not help her in the way she had hoped, she was in dire distress. I tried to persuade her to send her mother to me and together we would plan something, but she would not consent; if I could help her to go away and keep the secret from everyone there, she would go and have her child honourably; if not, she would go to someone who would help her in the other way. I felt I must save her from that crime at all costs, and my earnest convictions must have impressed her, too; for she then begged me to think out some way by which it could be arranged.