She could not speak, as she knelt at his side, to see him thus return. She could only place her hand upon her cheek and give herself up to his gaze--give all she was, and all her love, and a yearning too vast to be expressed. The smile from his eyes went creeping down his face as the dawn-glow creeps down a mountain. Perhaps in a dream he had come upon the truth, or perhaps from the light of her soul. For he said with a faint, wan smile upon his lips: "I don't believe it, Beth. You meant to write 'love' in your letter." The tears sprang out of her eyes. "I did! I did! I did!" she sobbed in joy too great to be contained. "I've always loved you, _always_!" Despite his wound, his weakness--all--she thrust an arm beneath his neck and pillowed her cheek on his breast. He wanted no further explanation, and she had no words to spend. One of his arms was remarkably efficient. It circled her promptly and drew her up till he kissed her on the lips. Then he presently said: "How much time have we wasted?" "Oh, _days_!" she said, warmly blushing. "Ever since that night on the desert." He shook a smiling negative. "Wrong. We've wasted all our lives." He kissed her again, then sank into slumber with the dusk. CHAPTER XLVII A TRIBUTE TO THE DESERT Love is a healer without a rival in the world. Van proved it--Van and Beth, of course, together, with Gettysburg, Dave, and Napoleon to help, and Algy to furnish the sauce. All were present, including Glen and Mrs. Dick, on the summer day of celebration when at last Van came down to dinner. At sight of the wan, wasted figure, Algy, in his characteristic way, fought down his heathen emotions. "What's mallah you, Van?" he demanded, his face oddly twitching as he spoke. "Makee evlybody _sick_! That velly superstich! Nobody's got time cly for you come home--makee my dinner spoil!" He bolted for the kitchen, swearing in loving Chinese. But with that day passed, Van soon snatched back his own. His strength returned like a thing that was capable of gladness, lodging where it belonged. His spirit had never been dimmed. Bostwick, who had been detained by the sheriff, faithfully waiting till Van should "get back on his feet," was almost relieved when his day for departure finally dawned. He was dressed, at Van's express desire, in the convict suit which he had worn on the day of his arrival. Van was on hand when at last the stage, with Bostwick and Christler for passengers, was ready to pull up the street. "Searle," he said, "for a man of your stripe you are really to be envied. You're going to about the only place I know where it's even remotely possible to be good and not be lonesome." Searle went. Lawrence, perhaps more fortunate, had managed to escape. He had fled away to Mexico, taking the bulk of his plunder.