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“Charley,” he said.

Van Brunt’s eyes unclosed.

“The baby—here.” A faint motion of his hand indicated a place on the couch. Hank set the child there, and he remained motionless as a small image, only the wondering, distressed blue eyes going from one face to another. Hilda crouched in an inconspicuous heap at the side of the bed, unnoticed; Burch’s little hand reached down and grasped the shoulder of her dress.

Van Brunt’s dark head on the pillow moved a bit from side to side. Uncle Hank bent over to try to ease his position. She saw the look which flashed up into the old man’s face as her father said:

“I’ve made an awful mess of it.”

Uncle Hank shook his head.

“I’ve made beggars of these children.”

Hilda hadn’t been sure, till he said “these children” that he knew she was beside him.

“No, no, boy.” Uncle Hank’s eyes entreated, reassured. “You was new to the ranching business. We all make our mistakes.”

“Ah!” breathed the dying man, “I’ve made nothing else.”

He closed his eyes and was silent for a minute. Then he opened them once more with that tearing groan.