Carley knew that Rust’s hurt was more than loss of a leg, and she decided to talk earnestly to him and try to win him to hope and effort. He had come to have a sort of reverence for her. So, biding her time, she at length found opportunity to approach his bed while his comrades were asleep or out of hearing. He endeavored to laugh her off, and then tried subterfuge, and lastly he cast off his mask and let her see his naked soul. “Carley, I don’t want your money or that of your kind friends—whoever they are—you say will help me to get into business,” he said. “God knows I thank you and it warms me inside to find _some one_ who appreciates what I’ve given. But I don’t want charity.... And I guess I’m pretty sick of the game. I’m sorry the Boches didn’t do the job right.” “Rust, that is morbid talk,” replied Carley. “You’re ill and you just can’t see any hope. You must cheer up—fight _yourself;_ and look at the brighter side. It’s a horrible pity you must be a cripple, but Rust, indeed life can be worth living if you make it so.” “How could there be a brighter side when a man’s only half a man—” he queried, bitterly. “You can be just as much a man as ever,” persisted Carley, trying to smile when she wanted to cry. “Could you care for a man with only one leg?” he asked, deliberately. “What a question! Why, of course I could!” “Well, maybe you are different. Glenn always swore even if he was killed no slacker or no rich guy left at home could ever get you. Maybe you haven’t any idea how much it means to us fellows to know there _are_ true and faithful girls. But I’ll tell you, Carley, we fellows who went across got to see things strange when we came home. The good old U. S. needs a lot of faithful girls just now, believe me.” “Indeed that’s true,” replied Carley. “It’s a hard time for everybody, and particularly you boys who have lost so—so much.” “I lost _all_, except my life—and I wish to God I’d lost that,” he replied, gloomily. “Oh, don’t talk so!” implored Carley in distress. “Forgive me, Rust, if I hurt you. But I must tell you—that—that Glenn wrote me—you’d lost your girl. Oh, I’m sorry! It is dreadful for you now. But if you got well—and went to work—and took up life where you left it—why soon your pain would grow easier. And you’d find some happiness yet.” “Never for me in this world.” “But why, Rust, _why?_ You’re no—no—Oh! I mean you have intelligence and courage. Why isn’t there anything left for you?” “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.