Carley felt the scene ease a clutching hand within her breast.  Here was loneliness and solitude vastly different from that of Oak Creek Canyon, yet it held the same intangible power to soothe.  The swish of the surf, the moan of the wind in the evergreens, were voices that called to her.  How many more miles of lonely land than peopled cities!  Then the sea—­how vast!  And over that the illimitable and infinite sky, and beyond, the endless realms of space.  It helped her somehow to see and hear and feel the eternal presence of nature.  In communion with nature the significance of life might be realized.  She remembered Glenn quoting:  “The world is too much with us. . . .  Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.”  What were our powers?  What did God intend men to do with hands and bodies and gifts and souls?  She gazed back over the bleak land and then out across the broad sea.  Only a millionth part of the surface of the unsubmerged earth knew the populous abodes of man.  And the lonely sea, inhospitable to stable homes of men, was thrice the area of the land.  Were men intended, then, to congregate in few places, to squabble and to bicker and breed the discontents that led to injustice, hatred, and war?  What a mystery it all was!  But Nature was neither false nor little, however cruel she might be.

Once again Carley fell under the fury of her ordeal.  Wavering now, restless and sleepless, given to violent starts and slow spells of apathy, she was wearing to defeat.

That spring day, one year from the day she had left New York for Arizona, she wished to spend alone.  But her thoughts grew unbearable.  She summed up the endless year.  Could she live another like it?  Something must break within her.

She went out.  The air was warm and balmy, carrying that subtle current which caused the mild madness of spring fever.  In the Park the greening of the grass, the opening of buds, the singing of birds, the gladness of children, the light on the water, the warm sun—­all seemed to reproach her.  Carley fled from the Park to the home of Beatrice Lovell; and there, unhappily, she encountered those of her acquaintance with whom she had least patience.  They forced her to think too keenly of herself.  They appeared carefree while she was miserable.

Over teacups there were waging gossip and argument and criticism.  When Carley entered with Beatrice there was a sudden hush and then a murmur.

“Hello, Carley!  Now say it to our faces,” called out Geralda Conners, a fair, handsome young woman of thirty, exquisitely gowned in the latest mode, and whose brilliantly tinted complexion was not the natural one of health.

“Say what, Geralda?” asked Carley.  “I certainly would not say anything behind your backs that I wouldn’t repeat here.”

“Eleanor has been telling us how you simply burned us up.”

“We did have an argument.  And I’m not sure I said all I wanted to.”