e 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:

I'm surely glad for a good excuse to write you.

Once in a blue moon I get a letter, and today Hutter brought me one
from a soldier pard of mine who was with me in the Argonne. His name is
Virgil Rust--queer name, don't you think?--and he's from Wisconsin. Just
a rough-diamond sort of chap, but fairly well educated. He and I were
in some pretty hot places, and it was he who pulled me out of a shell
crater. I'd "gone west" sure then if it hadn't been for Rust.

Well, he did all sorts of big things during the war. Was down several
times with wounds. He liked to fight and he was a holy terror. We all
thought he'd get medals and promotion. But he didn't get either. These
much-desired things did not always go where they were best deserved.

Rust is now lying in a hospital in Bedford Park. His letter is pretty
blue. All he says about why he's there is that he's knocked out. But he
wrote a heap about his girl. It seems he was in love with a girl in his
home town--a pretty, big-eyed lass whose picture I've seen--and while
he was overseas she married one of the chaps who got out of fighting.
Evidently Rust is deeply hurt. He wrote: "I'd not care so... if she'd
thrown me down to marry an old man or a boy who couldn't have gone to
war." You see, Carley, service men feel queer about that sort of thing.
It's something we got over there, and none of us will ever outlive it.
Now, the