“God bless your dear, kind heart!” he murmured.  “I had thought nobody could possibly care—­that much.  So few people—­have any interest in the—­unhappiness of others.”  He essayed a twisted smile.  “I’m not usually this weak,” he continued, apologetically.  “I never knew until to-night that I could be such a lubberly big baby, but, then, I wasn’t set for this blow.  This afternoon, life executed an about face for me—­and the dogs got me started after I’d promised myself—­” He choked again on the last word.

She patted his shoulder in comradely fashion.

“Buck up, Don Mike!” she pleaded.  “Tears from such men as you are signs of strength, not weakness.  And remember—­life has a habit of obeying commanding men.  It may execute another about face for you.”

“I’ve lost everything that made life livable,” he protested.

“Ah!  No, no!  You must not say that.  Think of that cheerful warrior who, in defeat, remarked, ‘All is lost save honor.’” And she touched the pale-blue star-sprinkled ribbon on his left breast.

He smiled again, the twisted smile.

“That doesn’t amount to a row of pins in civil life.”  Something of that sense of bitter disillusionment, of blasted idealism, which is the immediate aftermath of war, had crept into his voice.  “The only thrill I ever got out of its possession was in the service.  My colonel was never content merely with returning my salute.  He always uncovered to me.  That ribbon will have little weight with your father, I fear, when I ask him to set aside the foreclosure, grant me a new mortgage, and give me a fighting chance to retain the thing I love.”  And his outflung arm indicated the silent, moonlit valley.

“Perhaps,” she replied, soberly.  “He is a businessman.  Nevertheless, it might not be a bad idea if you were to defer the crossing of your bridges until you come to them.”  She unlatched the gate and swung it open for him to pass through.

He hesitated.

“I didn’t intend to enter the house to-night,” he explained.  “I merely wanted to see Pablo and have a talk with him.  My sudden appearance on the scene might, perhaps, prove very embarrassing to your family.”

“I dare say.  But that cannot be helped.  Your right of entrance and occupancy cannot be questioned.  Until the period of redemption expires, I think nobody will dispute your authority as master here.”

“I had forgotten that phase of the situation.  Thank you.”  He passed through the gate and closed it for her.  Then he stepped to the side of the road, wet his handkerchief in a pool of clean rain-water, and mopped his eyes.  “I’ll have to abandon the luxury of tears,” he declared, grimly.  “They make one’s eyes burn.  By the way, I do not know your name.”

“I am Kay Parker.”

“‘Kay’ for what?”

“Kathleen.”

He nodded approvingly.

“You neglected to leave my dunnage at the mission; Miss Parker.”