But the light of his eyes! Carley had seen it in Glenn's, in Rust's--a strange, questioning, far-off light, infinitely aloof and unutterably sad.

Then there came a lift of her heart that released a pang.

She whispered with dread, with a tremor, with an instinct of calamity.
"How about--Rust ?" "He's dead." The winter came, with its bleak sea winds and cold rains and blizzards of snow.

Carley did not go South.

She read and brooded, and gradually avoided all save those true friends who tolerated her.
She went to the theater a good deal, showing preference for the drama of strife, and she did not go anywhere for amusement.