"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--"