shone in the heavens. Far distant seemed the home of
her childhood, the friends she had scorned and forsaken, the city of
complaining and striving millions. If only some miracle might illumine
the minds of her friends, as she felt that hers was to be illumined here
in the solitude. But she well realized that not all problems could be
solved by a call out of the West. Any open and lonely land that might
have saved Glenn Kilbourne would have sufficed for her. It was the
spirit of the thing and not the letter. It was work of any kind and not
only that of ranch life. Not only the raising of hogs!

Carley directed stumbling steps toward the light of her tent. Her eyes
had not been used to such black shadow along the ground. She had, too,
squeamish feminine fears of hydrophobia skunks, and nameless animals
or reptiles that were imagined denizens of the darkness. She gained her
tent and entered. The Mexican, Gino, as he called himself, had lighted
her lamp and fire. Carley was chilled through, and the tent felt so warm
and cozy that she could scarcely believe it. She fastened the screen
door, laced the flaps across it, except at the top, and then gave
herself up to the lulling and comforting heat.

There were plans to perfect; innumerable things to remember; a car and
accessories, horses, saddles, outfits to buy. Carley knew she should sit
down at her table and write and figure, but she could not do it then.

For a long time she sat over the little stove, toasting her knees and
hands, adding some chips now and then to the red coals. And her mind
seemed a kaleidoscope of changing visions, thoughts, feelings. At last
she undressed and blew out the lamp and went to bed.

Instantly a thick blackness seemed to enfold her and silence as of a
dead world settled down upon her. Drowsy as she was, she could not close
her eyes nor refrain from listening. Darkness and silence were tangible
things. She felt them. And they seemed suddenly potent with magic charm
to still the tumult of her, to soothe and rest, to create thoughts
she had never thought before. Rest was more than selfish indulgence.
Loneliness was necessary to gain consciousness of the soul. Already far
back in the past seemed Carley's other life.

By and by the dead stillness awoke to faint sounds not before
perceptible to her--a low, mournful sough of the wind in the cedars,
then the faint far-distant note of a coyote, sad as the night and
infinitely wild.

Days pass