Now the smell of cooking reached him from the bunkhouse. Several men
were moving down toward the corrals. He passed on toward the house. A
moment or so later he stood on the veranda gazing out at the streaming
cattle as they moved toward the wide home pastures, under the practised
hands of the ranchmen. It was a sight to inspire any cattleman, and, for
a moment, the brooding eyes of the master of it all lit with a flash of
their former appreciation. But the change was fleeting. The blue depths
clouded again. The question once more flashed through his
brain--what--what was the use of it all?
None, none at all. Every dream had been swept from his waking thoughts.
Every enchanting emotion was completely dead. The woman who had inspired
the rose-tinted glasses through which he had gazed upon the future no
longer had power so to inspire him. By her own action she had taken
herself out of his life. She could never again become a part of it. He
would live on with her, under the same roof, a mockery of the life which
their marriage imposed upon them.
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