"People are born in different
stations. I respect your little Western friend, Glenn, but could I wash and
sweep, milk cows and chop wood, and all that sort of thing?"
"I suppose you couldn't," he admitted, with a blunt little laugh.
"Would you want me to?" she asked.
"Well, that's hard to say," he replied, knitting his brows. "I hardly know.
I think it depends on you. . . . But if you did do such work wouldn't you
be happier?"
"Happier! Why Glenn, I'd be miserable! ... But listen. It wasn't my
beautiful and useless hand I wanted you to see. It was my engagement ring."
"Oh!--Well?" he went on, slowly.
"I've never had it off since you left New York," she said, softly. "You
gave it to me four years ago. Do you remember? It was on my twenty-second
birthday. You said it would take two months' salary to pay the bill."
"It sure did," he retorted, with a hint of humor.
"Glenn, during the war it was not so--so very hard to wear this ring as an
engagement ring should be worn," said Carley, growing more earnest. "But
after the war--especially after your departure West it was terribly hard to
be true to the significance of this betrothal ring. There was a let-down in
all women.
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