"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?"

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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 point of this is that I am asking you to go see Rust, and cheer

him up, and do what you can for the poor devil. It's a good deal to

ask of you, I know, especially as Rust saw your picture many a time and

knows you were my girl. But you needn't tell him that you--we couldn't

make a go of it.




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