loved--him. But oh, my home--this--dear land--"

He choked, and, in that moment, she forgot that this man was a stranger
to her. She only knew that he had been stricken, that he was helpless,
that he lacked the greatest boon of the desolate--a breast upon which
he might weep. Gently she lifted the black head and drew it down on
her shoulder; her arm went round his neck and patted his cheek, and his
full heart was emptied.

There was so much of the little boy about him!




VIII

The fierce gust of emotion which swept Don Mike Farrel was of brief
duration. He was too sane, too courageous to permit his grief to
overwhelm him completely; he had the usual masculine horror of an
exhibition of weakness, and although the girl's sweet sympathy and
genuine womanly tenderness had caught him unawares, he was,
nevertheless, not insensible of the incongruity of a grown man weeping
like a child on the shoulder of a young woman--and a strange young
woman at that. With a supreme effort of will, he regained control of
himself as swiftly as he had lost it, and began fumbling for a
handkerchief.

"Here," she murmured; "use mine." She reached up and, with her dainty
wisp of handkerchief, wiped his wet cheeks exactly as if he had been a
child.