Was she not still as stubborn as of old, still as
proud and impatient of restraint where her sense of freedom and
independence of action were in question, still as self-willed? And was
it true, what Carmencita had said--was she giving herself to others
and refusing herself to the only one who had the right to claim her,
the royal right of love?
But how did she know he still needed her, wanted her? When she had
returned to her own city after long absence she had told of her
present place of residence to but few of her old friends. Her own
sorrow, her own sudden facing of the inevitable and unescapable, had
brought her sharply to a realization of how little she was doing with
the time that was hers, and she had been honest and sincere when she
had come to Mother McNeil's and asked to be shown the side of life she
had hitherto known but little--the sordid, sinful, struggling side in
which children especially had so small a chance. In these years of
absence he had made no sign. Even if it were true, what Carmencita had
said, that he--that is, a man named Van Something--was looking for
her, until he found her she could not tell him where she was.
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