But the fact is young women of modern
times are very different from my kind when I was a girl. You haven't acted
as though you pined for Glenn. You gad around almost the same as ever."
"What's a girl to do?" protested Carley.
"You are twenty-six years old, Carley," retorted Aunt Mary.
"Suppose I am. I'm as young--as I ever was."
"Well, let's not argue about modern girls and modern times. We never get
anywhere," returned her aunt, kindly. "But I can tell you something of what
Glenn Kilbourne means in that letter--if you want to hear it."
"I do--indeed."
"The war did something horrible to Glenn aside from wrecking his health.
Shell-shock, they said! I don't understand that. Out of his mind, they
said! But that never was true. Glenn was as sane as I am, and, my dear,
that's pretty sane, I'll have you remember. But he must have suffered some
terrible blight to his spirit--some blunting of his soul. For months after
he returned he walked as one in a trance. Then came a change. He grew
restless. Perhaps that change was for the better. At least it showed he'd
roused. Glenn saw you and your friends and the life you lead, and all the
present, with eyes from which the scales had dropped.
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