“Oh, sweetheart!” she cried, and her arms went around his neck, while Sam Singer softly closed the door and stood guard outside. At the sound of her voice Mr. Hennage opened his eyes, but since he was not one of the presuming kind he quickly closed them again and feigned unconsciousness until he felt Donna's soft hand resting on his cold forehead. “You oughtn't to a-come here, Donnie” he said, making a brave show to speak easily despite his terrible wounds. “There ain't--no fun in this--visit--for nobody--but me--” He turned wearily to hide his face from her, and looked thoughtfully out the window, across the level reaches of the Mojave desert, to where the sun hung low over the Tehachapis. In the fading light the little dust-devils were beginning to caper and obscure the landscape, much as the dark shadows were already trooping athwart the horizon of Mr. Hennage's wasted life. The night--the eternal night--was coming on apace, and it came to Mr. Hennage that he, too, would depart with the sunset, and he had no regrets. “Don't cry” he said gently. “I ain't worth it. Just hold--my hand. I want you--near--when I can't see you--no more--an' it's gettin' dark--already. You're so much--like your mother--an' she--she trusted me. I was born with--a hard--face--an' nobody ever--trusted me--but you an'--your mother--an' I--wanted to be trusted--all my worthless life--I wanted it--” He sighed and held out his hands to them. Thereafter for an hour he did not speak. He was thinking of many things now, and the time was short. Presently he opened his eyes and looked out the window again. “It's--dark” he whispered. “The sun ain't set, has it?” “It's just setting” Donna answered him. He nodded slightly, and a flush of embarrassment lit up his pale features. For the first and last time in life, Harley P. Hennage was going to appear presumptuous. “If it's--a boy” he whispered, “would you--you wouldn't mind--would you--callin' him--Harley? Just--his middle name, Donnie--an' he could--sign it--Robert H.--McGraw.” Donna's hot tears fell fast on his face as she leaned over and kissed the death-damp from his brow. “Oh-thank you” he gasped. “Bob--take off my--shoes--I don't--want--to--die--with--my boots--on. New--gaiters--too--give 'em--to Sam--Singer. Good--Injun--that.” The sun had set behind the Tehachapis now, and twilight was stealing over San Pasqual. It was time for Mr. Hennage to be on his way. He clung to the hands of his friends convulsively, and whatever thoughts came to him in that supreme moment were for the first time reflected in his face. Indeed, one tiny hint of the desolation in his big heart--the agony of a lifetime of misunderstanding and repression, trickled across his hard face; then something seemed to strike him very funny, for the infrequent, trustful, childish smile flickered across his face, the three gold teeth flashed for an instant ere the worst man in San Pasqual slipped off into the shadows.