“Because something here’s been killed,” he replied, and put his hand to his heart.

“Your faith?  Your love of—­of everything?  Did the war kill it?”

“I’d gotten over that, maybe,” he said, drearily, with his somber eyes on space that seemed lettered for him.  “But she half murdered it—­and they did the rest.”

“They?  Whom do you mean, Rust?”

“Why, Carley, I mean the people I lost my leg for!” he replied, with terrible softness.

“The British?  The French?” she queried, in bewilderment.

“No!” he cried, and turned his face to the wall.

Carley dared not ask him more.  She was shocked.  How helplessly impotent all her earnest sympathy!  No longer could she feel an impersonal, however kindly, interest in this man.  His last ringing word had linked her also to his misfortune and his suffering.  Suddenly he turned away from the wall.  She saw him swallow laboriously.  How tragic that thin, shadowed face of agony!  Carley saw it differently.  But for the beautiful softness of light in his eyes, she would have been unable to endure gazing longer.

“Carley, I’m bitter,” he said, “but I’m not rancorous and callous, like some of the boys.  I know if you’d been my girl you’d have stuck to me.”

“Yes,” Carley whispered.

“That makes a difference,” he went on, with a sad smile.  “You see, we soldiers all had feelings.  And in one thing we all felt alike.  That was we were going to fight for our homes and our women.  I should say women first.  No matter what we read or heard about standing by our allies, fighting for liberty or civilization, the truth was we all felt the same, even if we never breathed it. . . .  Glenn fought for you.  I fought for Nell. . . .  We were not going to let the Huns treat you as they treated French and Belgian girls. . . .  And think!  Nell was engaged to me—­she loved me—­and, by God!  She married a slacker when I lay half dead on the battlefield!”

“She was not worth loving or fighting for,” said Carley, with agitation.

“Ah! now you’ve said something,” he declared.  “If I can only hold to that truth!  What does one girl amount to?  I do not count.  It is the sum that counts.  We love America—­our homes—­our women! . . .  Carley, I’ve had comfort and strength come to me through you.  Glenn will have his reward in your love.  Somehow I seem to share it, a little.  Poor Glenn!  He got his, too.  Why, Carley, that guy wouldn’t let you do what he could do for you.  He was cut to pieces—­”

“Please—­Rust—­don’t say any more.  I am unstrung,” she pleaded.

“Why not?  It’s due you to know how splendid Glenn was. . . .  I tell you, Carley, all the boys here love you for the way you’ve stuck to Glenn.  Some of them knew him, and I’ve told the rest.  We thought he’d never pull through.  But he has, and we know how you helped.  Going West to see him!  He didn’t write it to me, but I know. . . .  I’m wise.  I’m happy for him—­the lucky dog.  Next time you go West—­”