She rode Calico, and beat me bad in a race.
Adios, Carley.

Won't you write me?
GLENN.
No sooner had Carley read the letter through to the end than she began it all over again, and on this second perusal she lingered over passages--only to reread them.

That suggestion of her face sculptured by shadows on the canyon walls seemed to thrill her very soul.
She leaped up from the reading to cry out something that was unutterable.

All the intervening weeks of shame and anguish and fury and strife and pathos, and the endless striving to forget, were as if by the magic of a letter made nothing but vain oblations.
"He loves me still!" she whispered, and pressed her breast with clenching hands, and laughed in wild exultance, and paced her room like a caged lioness.

It was as if she had just awakened to the assurance she was beloved.