She was of the frank and innocent type. Everybody she regarded as her friend. She was enthusiastic about her art. That her ambition would be realized she did not doubt for an instant. It was ten months later when I met her again. Her face wore a tell-tale look. The daintiness of bearing and innocent features were missing. Her shyness was gone. She was bold, and immeasureably aged. A heavy coat of powder and rouge besmeared her face, but only served to make the dark circles beneath her eyes stand forth with more prominence. The simple, childish gown I had admired was replaced by a showy, flashy creation. In one glance I read the answer, the secret of her changed existence. When her eyes met mine, for a second in their dull depths I could see an expression of the old innocence. Probably it was the thought she entertained for that short space in the connecting of me with her old and pure existence. When she spoke I could not be mistaken. Try as she did to appear the girl of old, it was useless. The pace had told and left its trace only too strongly written on every line of her face. After the usual greeting I asked her to take dinner with me. She assented. In the cafe I asked her what had happened. How she had fallen. For a minute she sat gazing at me and her eyes filled with tears. "Do I look that way? Can every one I meet read what I am?" she asked tearfully. I tried to evade her questioning, but she pressed for an answer. Then I told her that I was afraid her secret was only too plainly written. "Why don't you give it up and go home?" I asked her. She thought a minute and then answered that she couldn't. "I'm not as bad as lots of the others," she said desperately. "I don't hope and long any more to become a great actress. "I found there were so many more girls who were more accomplished than me. I couldn't get anything but a chorus part. I became discouraged and went out for good times. I had them, I guess." When I asked her to go home and try to begin over again her anger was aroused. The company she had kept had left its mark on her. "Say, now, don't hand me any of that religious talk," was her angry answer. "It's nothing to you why I don't go home. I've had good times and I am going to have more of them." I talked to her for a few minutes, but soon found argument to be useless. We ate our dinner quietly and without further words. When I parted with her it seemed as though it were for the last time. I knew the end that was near at hand--the specter that was waiting for her. It was three weeks later when I saw her again. There was a different setting for the scene than at our two other meetings. The scene was laid in a cell room at the Harrison street police station. On an iron cot lay a young girl. She was in a maudlin condition from drugs. Her clothes were dirty and torn. Her face was discolored and bloated. It was the same girl--the little innocent show girl of a year before.