Carley realized how right and true it might be for her to throw herself away upon an inferior man, even a fool or a knave, if she loved him with that great and natural love of woman; likewise it dawned upon her how false and wrong and sinful it would be to marry the greatest or the richest or the noblest man unless she had that supreme love to give him, and knew it was reciprocated.

“What am I going to do with my life?” she asked, bitterly and aghast.  “I have been—­I am a waster.  I’ve lived for nothing but pleasurable sensation.  I’m utterly useless.  I do absolutely no good on earth.”

Thus she saw how Harrington’s words rang true—­how they had precipitated a crisis for which her unconscious brooding had long made preparation.

“Why not give up ideals and be like the rest of my kind?” she soliloquized.

That was one of the things which seemed wrong with modern life.  She thrust the thought from her with passionate scorn.  If poor, broken, ruined Glenn Kilbourne could cling to an ideal and fight for it, could not she, who had all the world esteemed worth while, be woman enough to do the same?  The direction of her thought seemed to have changed.  She had been ready for rebellion.  Three months of the old life had shown her that for her it was empty, vain, farcical, without one redeeming feature.  The naked truth was brutal, but it cut clean to wholesome consciousness.  Such so-called social life as she had plunged into deliberately to forget her unhappiness had failed her utterly.  If she had been shallow and frivolous it might have done otherwise.  Stripped of all guise, her actions must have been construed by a penetrating and impartial judge as a mere parading of her decorated person before a number of males with the purpose of ultimate selection.

“I’ve got to find some work,” she muttered, soberly.

At the moment she heard the postman’s whistle outside; and a little later the servant brought up her mail.  The first letter, large, soiled, thick, bore the postmark Flagstaff, and her address in Glenn Kilbourne’s writing.

Carley stared at it.  Her heart gave a great leap.  Her hand shook.  She sat down suddenly as if the strength of her legs was inadequate to uphold her.

“Glenn has—­written me!” she whispered, in slow, halting realization.  “For what?  Oh, why?”

The other letters fell off her lap, to lie unnoticed.  This big thick envelope fascinated her.  It was one of the stamped envelopes she had seen in his cabin.  It contained a letter that had been written on his rude table, before the open fire, in the light of the doorway, in that little log-cabin under the spreading pines of West Ford Canyon.  Dared she read it?  The shock to her heart passed; and with mounting swell, seemingly too full for her breast, it began to beat and throb a wild gladness through all her being.  She tore the envelope apart and read: 

DEAR CARLEY: