She began to have a glimmering of what a woman might be.
That night she wrote swiftly and feverishly, page after page, to Glenn, only to destroy what she had written.

She could not keep her heart out of her words, nor a hint of what was becoming a sleepless and eternal regret.

She wrote until a late hour, and at last composed a letter she knew did not ring true, so stilted and restrained was it in all passages save those concerning news of Glenn's comrade and of her own friends.
"I'll never--never write him again," she averred with stiff lips, and next moment could have laughed in mockery at the bitter truth.

If she had ever had any courage, Glenn's letter had destroyed it.

But had it not been a kind of selfish, false courage, roused to hide her hurt, to save her own future?
Courage should have a thought of others.