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.
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