government that I fought for left me to starve, or to die of my maladies
like a dog, for all it cared.

I could not live on your money, Carley. My people are poor, as you know. So
there was nothing for me to do but to borrow a little money from my friends
and to come West. I'm glad I had the courage to come. What this West is
I'll never try to tell you, because, loving the luxury and excitement and
glitter of the city as you do, you'd think I was crazy.

Getting on here, in my condition, was as hard as trench life. But now,
Carley--something has come to me out of the West. That, too, I am unable to
put into words. Maybe I can give you an inkling of it. I'm strong enough to
chop wood all day. No man or woman passes my cabin in a month. But I am
never lonely. I love these vast red canyon walls towering above me. And the
silence is so sweet. Think of the hellish din that filled my ears. Even
now--sometimes, the brook here changes its babbling murmur to the roar of
war. I never understood anything of the meaning of nature until I lived
under these looming stone walls and whispering pines.

So, Carley, try to understand me, or at least be kind. You know they came
very near writing, "Gone west!" after my name, and considering that, this
"Out West" signifies for me a very fortunate difference. A tremendous
difference! For the present I'll let well enough alone.

Adios. Write soon. Love from

GLEN


Carley's second reaction to the letter was a sudden upflashing desire to