of the garden. It was very late. Donna wondered who could be visiting
the Hat Ranch at such an hour, for No. 25, which was due in San Pasqual
at midnight, had just gone thundering by. She crept to the window and
looked out.

Beside the flower-covered mound at the end of the garden a man was
kneeling, with the moonlight casting his grotesque shadow on the
blossoms. Presently he stood up, and Donna saw that he had detached one
of Dan Pennycook's big red roses and was reverently hiding it away in
his breast pocket. Standing hidden in the darkness of her room, Donna
could see Harley P.'s face distinctly as he came down the moonlit
patio. The terrible mouth was quivering pitifully, tears bedimmed the
little, deep-set, piggy eyes to such an extent that Harley P. groped
before him with one great, freckled, hairy hand outstretched. He passed
her open window.

"My love! My love!" she heard him mutter, and then the slow stealthy
footsteps passed around the corner of the house and died away in the
distance. Harley P. Hennage had said his farewell to happiness. He was
an outcast now, a soul accursed, fleeing from the soul-crushing
loneliness and desolation of San Pasqual.

When two weeks had passed, the nurse so thoughtfully provided by the
gambler that Donna Corblay might not be obligated even to the slight
extent of companionship and comfort during that trying period to the
women of San Pasqual, returned to Bakersfield. In the interim Donna had
been offered, and had accepted, the position at the railroad hotel and
eating-house so long held by her mother. It was a good position. The
salary was sixty dollars a month. With this princely stipend and the
revenue from the Hat Ranch, and feeling perfectly safe under the