“Hutter and I will go into cattle raising some day,” went on Glenn.  “And that Deep Lake place is what I want for myself.”

“What work are you doing for Hutter?” asked Carley.

“Anything from building fence to cutting timber,” laughed Glenn.  “I’ve not yet the experience to be a foreman like Lee Stanton.  Besides, I have a little business all my own.  I put all my money in that.”

“You mean here—­this—­this farm?”

“Yes.  And the stock I’m raisin’.  You see I have to feed corn.  And believe me, Carley, those cornfields represent some job.”

“I can well believe that,” replied Carley.  “You—­you looked it.”

“Oh, the hard work is over.  All I have to do now it to plant and keep the weeds out.”

“Glenn, do sheep eat corn?”

“I plant corn to feed my hogs.”

“Hogs?” she echoed, vaguely.

“Yes, hogs,” he said, with quiet gravity.  “The first day you visited my cabin I told you I raised hogs, and I fried my own ham for your dinner.”

“Is that what you—­put your money in?”

“Yes.  And Hutter says I’ve done well.”

“Hogs!” ejaculated Carley, aghast.

“My dear, are you growin’ dull of comprehension?” retorted Glenn.  “H-o-g-s.”  He spelled the word out.  “I’m in the hog-raising business, and pretty blamed well pleased over my success so far.”

Carley caught herself in time to quell outwardly a shock of amaze and revulsion.  She laughed, and exclaimed against her stupidity.  The look of Glenn was no less astounding than the content of his words.  He was actually proud of his work.  Moreover, he showed not the least sign that he had any idea such information might be startlingly obnoxious to his fiancee.

“Glenn!  It’s so—­so queer,” she ejaculated.  “That you—­Glenn Kilbourne-should ever go in for—­for hogs! . . .  It’s unbelievable.  How’d you ever—­ever happen to do it?”

“By Heaven! you’re hard on me!” he burst out, in sudden dark, fierce passion.  “How’d I ever happen to do it? . . .  What was there left for me?  I gave my soul and heart and body to the government—­to fight for my country.  I came home a wreck.  What did my government do for me?  What did my employers do for me?  What did the people I fought for do for me? . . .  Nothing—­so help me God—­nothing! . . .  I got a ribbon and a bouquet—­a little applause for an hour—­and then the sight of me sickened my countrymen.  I was broken and used.  I was absolutely forgotten. . . .  But my body, my life, my soul meant all to me.  My future was ruined, but I wanted to live.  I had killed men who never harmed me—­I was not fit to die. . . .  I tried to live.  So I fought out my battle alone.  Alone! . . .  No one understood.  No one cared.  I came West to keep from dying of consumption in sight of the indifferent mob for whom I had sacrificed myself.  I chose to die on my feet away off alone somewhere. . . .  But I got well.  And what made me well—­and saved my soul—­was the first work that offered.  Raising and tending hogs!”