The whole west side of the canyon had been cleared and cultivated and plowed.  But she gazed no farther.  She did not want to see the spot where she had given Glenn his ring and had parted from him.  She rode on.  If she could pass West Fork she believed her courage would rise to the completion of this ordeal.  Places were what she feared.  Places that she had loved while blindly believing she hated!  There the narrow gap of green and blue split the looming red wall.  She was looking into West Fork.  Up there stood the cabin.  How fierce a pang rent her breast!  She faltered at the crossing of the branch stream, and almost surrendered.  The water murmured, the leaves rustled, the bees hummed, the birds sang—­all with some sad sweetness that seemed of the past.

Then the trail leading up West Fork was like a barrier.  She saw horse tracks in it.  Next she descried boot tracks the shape of which was so well-remembered that it shook her heart.  There were fresh tracks in the sand, pointing in the direction of the Lodge.  Ah! that was where Glenn lived now.  Carley strained at her will to keep it fighting her memory.  The glory and the dream were gone!

A touch of spur urged her mustang into a gallop.  The splashing ford of the creek—­the still, eddying pool beyond—­the green orchards—­the white lacy waterfall—­and Lolomi Lodge!

Nothing had altered.  But Carley seemed returning after many years.  Slowly she dismounted—­slowly she climbed the porch steps.  Was there no one at home?  Yet the vacant doorway, the silence—­something attested to the knowledge of Carley’s presence.  Then suddenly Mrs. Hutter fluttered out with Flo behind her.

“You dear girl—­I’m so glad!” cried Mrs. Hutter, her voice trembling.

“I’m glad to see you, too,” said Carley, bending to receive Mrs. Hutter’s embrace.  Carley saw dim eyes—­the stress of agitation, but no surprise.

“Oh, Carley!” burst out the Western girl, with voice rich and full, yet tremulous.

“Flo, I’ve come to wish you happiness,” replied Carley, very low.

Was it the same Flo?  This seemed more of a woman—­strange now—­white and strained—­beautiful, eager, questioning.  A cry of gladness burst from her.  Carley felt herself enveloped in strong close clasp—­and then a warm, quick kiss of joy, It shocked her, yet somehow thrilled.  Sure was the welcome here.  Sure was the strained situation, also, but the voice rang too glad a note for Carley.  It touched her deeply, yet she could not understand.  She had not measured the depth of Western friendship.

“Have you—­seen Glenn?” queried Flo, breathlessly.

“Oh no, indeed not,” replied Carley, slowly gaining composure.  The nervous agitation of these women had stilled her own.  “I just rode up the trail.  Where is he?”

“He was here—­a moment ago,” panted Flo.  “Oh, Carley, we sure are locoed. . . .  Why, we only heard an hour ago—­that you were at Deep Lake. . . .  Charley rode in.  He told us. . . .  I thought my heart would break.  Poor Glenn!  When he heard it. . . .  But never mind me.  Jump your horse and run to West Fork!”