lliant lane of blanched
snow. The L trains crept along like huge fire-eyed serpents. The hum of
the ceaseless moving line of motor cars drifted upward faintly,
almost drowned in the rising clamor of the street. Broadway's gay and
thoughtless crowds surged to and fro, from that height merely a thick
stream of black figures, like contending columns of ants on the march.
And everywhere the monstrous electric signs flared up vivid in white and
red and green; and dimmed and paled, only to flash up again.

Ring out the Old! Ring in the New! Carley had poignantly felt the
sadness of the one, the promise of the other. As one by one the siren
factory whistles opened up with deep, hoarse bellow, the clamor of the
street and the ringing of the bells were lost in a volume of continuous
sound that swelled on high into a magnificent roar. It was the voice of
a city--of a nation. It was the voice of a people crying out the strife
and the agony of the year--pealing forth a prayer for the future.

Glenn had put his lips to her ear: "It's like the voice in my soul!"
Never would she forget the shock of that. And how she had stood
spellbound, enveloped in the mighty volume of sound no longer
discordant, but full of great, pregnant melody, until the white ball
burst upon the tower of the Times Building, showing the bright figures
1919.

The new year had not been many minutes old when Glenn Kilbourne had told
her he was going West to try to recover his health.

Carley roused out of her memories to take up the letter that had so
perplexed her. It bore the postmark, Flagstaff, Arizona. She reread it
with slow pondering thoughtfulness.

WEST FORK,

March 25.

DEAR CARLEY:

It does seem my neglect in writing you is unpardonable. I used to be
a pretty fair correspondent, but in that as in other things I have
changed.

One reason I have not answered sooner is because your letter was so
sweet and loving that it made me feel an ungrateful and unappreciative
wretch. Another is that this life I now lead does not induce writing. I
am outdoors all day, and when I get back to this cabin at night I am too
tired for anything but bed.

Your imperious questions I must answer--and that must, of course, is
a third reason why I have delayed my reply. First, you ask, "Don't you
love me any more as you used to?"... Frankly, I do not. I am sure my
old love for you, before I went to France, was selfish, thoughtless,
sentimental, and boyish. I am a m