She knew him now--the man he was. She saw the priceless pearl of character he possessed. Bob McGraw was a wild, reckless, unthinking, impulsive fellow, perhaps, but for all that he was the sort of man at whose feet women, both good and bad, have laid their hearts since the world began. He was kind. Harley P. Hennage was right. Bob McGraw was a Desert Rat. But a Desert Rat lives close to the great heart of Mother Nature, and his own heart is clean. The dawn-light came filtering across the desert and lit up the room where she sat. She turned to the bed and saw that Bob McGraw was watching her again, and on his face was that little, cheerful, mocking, inscrutable smile. Again Donna found herself powerless to resist the appeal in the man's eyes. She was crying a little as she slipped to her knees beside the bed and laid her cheek against his. “I can't help it” she whispered. “I seem to have loved you always, and oh, Bob, dear, you'll be very, very good to me, won't you? You must be brave and try to get well, for both our sakes. We need each other so.” Bob McGraw did not answer readily. He was too busy thanking God for the great gift of perfect understanding. Moreover, he had a perforated lung and a heart whose duties had suddenly been increased a thousand-fold, if it was to hold inviolate this sacred joy of possession which thrilled him now. He was alert and conscious, despite the shock of his wound, and the reserve strength in his six feet of splendid manhood was coming to his aid. When he could trust himself to speak, he said: “You're a very wonderful woman.” “But you were laughing at me--a little.” “Not at you, at Fate--the great, big, bugaboo Fate.” “Why?” “Because I--can afford to. My luck's--turned.” “You dear, big, red-headed philosopher.” “And you--didn't you save my hat?” “No, dear. Don't worry over such a trifle as a hat. I'll give you a--” “But this was--a--good hat” he complained. “I paid twenty dollars--” “Never mind your old hat. Don't talk. I'm selfish. I want to listen to you, but for all that, you must be quiet.” He sighed. Forget all about that big, wide sombrero--genuine beaver--that cost him twenty dollars only a week ago? His horse, his saddle, his hat, his spurs, his gun--he was particular about these possessions, for in his way Mr. McGraw was something of a frontier dandy. His calm contempt of life and death amused Donna when she compared it with his boyish concern for his dashing equipment. Hats, indeed! Worrying over a lost hat while a guest at the Hat Ranch! If Bob McGraw could only have understood Donna Corblay's contempt for hats he would never have mentioned the matter twice. She gauged the size of his red head with the practiced eye of one who has sold many hats. “Seven and a quarter” she mused fondly. “Wouldn't he look splendid in that big new Stetson that blew in the day before yesterday! You great big man-baby. I'll save that one for you.”