and how different was Bob McGraw to such as they!

Here at last was the reason, unseen and unrecognized at first,
manifesting itself merely in the spontaneous and unconscious shattering
of her maidenly reserve, but distinctly visible now. It was not that
Bob McGraw had come to her out of the desert at a time when she needed
him most; it was not that he came in all the bravery and generous
sacrifice of youth, shedding his blood that she might not shed tears;
it was not the service he had rendered her that made her love him, for
San Pasqual was "long" on mere animal courage. It was the adoration
that gleamed in his eyes--an adoring stare, revealing respect behind
his love--that one quality without which love is a dead and withered
thing.

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.