drug-store and inquire, "Lin, wher're yu' goin'?"
But Lin never answered any more. He merely came to the soda-water

fountain with the whiskey. The passing of days brought a choked season of
fine sand and hard blazing sky. Heat rose up from the ground and hung

heavily over man and beast. Many insects sat out in the sun rattling with
joy; the little tearing river grew clear from the swollen mud, and shrank

to a succession of standing pools; and the fat, squatting cactus bloomed
everywhere into butter-colored flowers big as tulips in the sand. There

were artesian wells in Mesa, and the water did not taste very good; but
if you drank from the standing pools where the river had been, you

repaired to the drug-store almost immediately. A troop of wandering
players came dotting along the railroad, and, reaching Mesa, played a

brass-band up and down the street, and announced the powerful drama of
"East Lynne." Then Mr. McLean thought of the Lynn marshes that lie

between there and Chelsea, and of the sea that must look so cool. He
forgot them while following the painful fortunes of the Lady Isabel; but,

going to bed in the back part of the drug-store, he remembered how he
used to beat everybody swimming in the salt water.

"I'm goin'," he said. Then he got up, and, striking the light, he
inspected his bank account. "I'm sure goin'," he repeated, blowing the

light out, "and I can buy the fatted calf myself, you bet!" for he had
often thought of the bishop's story. "You bet!" he remarked once more in

a muffled voice, and was asleep in a minute. The apothecary was sorry to
have him go, and Honey was deeply grieved.

"I'd pull out with yer," he said, "only I can do business round Yuma and
westward with the pinto."

For three farewell days Lin and Honey roved together in all sorts of
places, where they were welcome, and once more Lin rode a horse and was

in his native element. Then he travelled to Deming, and so through Denver
to Omaha, where he was told that his trunk had been sold for some months.

Besides a suit of clothes for town wear, it had contained a buffalo coat
for his brother--something scarce to see in these days.

"Frank'll have to get along without it," he observed, philosophically,
and took the next eastbound train.

If you journey in a Pullman from Mesa to Omaha without a waistcoat, and
with a silk handkerchief knotted over the collar of your flannel shirt

instead of a tie, wearing, besides, tall, high-heeled boots, a soft, gray
hat with a splendid brim, a few people will notice you, but not the

majority. New Mexico and Colorado are used to these things. As Iowa, with
its immense rolling grain, encompasses you, people will stare a little

more, for you're getting near the East, where cow-punchers are not
understood. But in those days the line of cleavage came sharp-drawn at

Chicago. West of there was still tolerably west, but east of there was
east indeed, and the Atlantic Ocean was the next important

stopping-place. In Lin's new train, good gloves, patent-leathers, and
silence prevailed throughout the sleeping-car, which was for Boston

without change. Had not home memories begun impetuously to flood his
mind, he would have felt himself conspicuous. Town clothes and

conventions had their due value with him. But just now the boy's single-
hearted thoughts were far from any surroundings, and he was murmuring to

himself, "To-morrow! tomorrow night!"
There were ladies in that blue plush car for Boston who looked at Lin for

thirty miles at a stretch; and by the time Albany was reached the next
day one or two of them commented that he was the most attractive-looking

man they had ever seen! Whereas, beyond his tallness, and wide-open,
jocular eyes, eyes that seemed those of a not highly conscientious wild

animal, there was nothing remarkable about young Lin except stage effect.
The conductor had been annoyed to have such a passenger; but the

cow-puncher troubled no one, and was extremely silent. So evidently was
he a piece of the true frontier that curious and hopeful

fellow-passengers, after watching him with diversion, more than once took
a seat next to him. He met their chatty inquiries with monosyllables so

few and so unprofitable in their quiet politeness that the passengers
soon gave him up. At Springfield he sent a telegram to his brother at the

great dry-goods establishment that employed him.
The train began its homestretch after Worcester, and whirled and swung by

hills and ponds he began to watch for, and through stations with old
wayside names. These flashed on Lin's eye as he sat with his hat off and

his forehead against the window, looking: Wellesley. Then, not long
after, Riverside. That was the Charles River, and did the picnic woods

used to be above the bridge or below? West Newton; Newtonville; Newton.
"Faneuil's next," he said aloud in the car, as the long-forgotten

home-knowledge shone forth in his recollection. The traveller seated near
said, "Beg pardon?" but, turning, wondered at the all-unconscious Lin,

with his forehead pressed against the glass. The blue water flashed into
sight, and soon after they were running in the darkness between high

walls; but the cow-puncher never moved, though nothing could be seen.
When the porter announced "Boston," he started up and followed like a

sheep in the general exodus. Down on the platform he moved along with the
slow crowd till some one touched him, and, wheeling round, he seized both

his brother's hands and swore a good oath of joy.
There they stood--the long, brown fellow with the silk handkerchief

knotted over his flannel shirt, greeting tremendously the spruce
civilian, who had a rope-colored mustache and bore a fainthearted

resemblance to him. The story was plain on its face to the passers-by;
and one of the ladies who had come in the car with Lin turned twice, and

smiled gently to herself.
But Frank McLean's heart did not warm. He felt that what he had been

afraid of was true; and he saw he was being made conspicuous. He saw men
and women stare in the station, and he saw them staring as he and his

Western brother went through the streets. Lin strode along, sniffing the
air of Boston, looking at all things, and making it a stretch for his

sleek companion to keep step with him. Frank thought of the refined
friends he should have to introduce his brother to; for he had risen with

his salary, and now belonged to a small club where the paying-tellers of
banks played cards every night, and the head clerk at the Parker House

was president. Perhaps he should not have to reveal the cow-puncher to
these shining ones. Perhaps the cow-puncher would not stay very long. Of

course he was glad to see him again, and he would take him to dine at
some obscure place this first evening. But this was not Lin's plan. Frank

must dine with him, at the Parker House. Frank demurred, saying it was he
that should be host.

"And," he added, "they charge up high for wines at Parker's." Then for
the twentieth time he shifted a sidelong eye over his brother's clothes.

"You're goin' to take your grub with me," said Lin. "That's all right,
I guess. And there ain't any 'no' about it. Things is not the same like

as if father was livin'--(his voice softened)--and here to see me come
home. Now I'm good for several dinners with wines charged up high, I

expect, nor it ain't nobody in this world, barrin' just Lin McLean, that
I've any need to ask for anything. 'Mr. McLean,' says I to Lin, 'can yu'

spare me some cash?' 'Why, to be sure, you bet!' And we'll start off with
steamed Duxbury clams." The cow-puncher slapped his pocket, where the

coin made a muffled chinking. Then he said, gruffly, "I suppose
Swampscott's there yet?"

"Yes," said Frank. "It's a dead little town, is Swampscott."
"I guess I'll take a look at the old house tomorrow," Lin pursued.

"Oh, that's been pulled down since-- I forget the year they improved that
block."

Lin regarded in silence his brother, who was speaking so jauntily of the
first and last home they had ever had.

"Seventy-nine is when it was," continued Frank. "So you can save the
trouble of travelling away down to Swampscott."

"I guess I'll go to the graveyard, anyway," said the cow-puncher in his
offish voice, and looking fixedly in front of him.

They came into Washington Street, and again the elder McLean uneasily
surveyed the younger's appearance.

But the momentary chill had melted from the heart of the genial Lin.
"After to-morrow," said he, laying a hand on his brother's shoulder, "yu'

can start any lead yu' please, and I guess I can stay with yu' pretty
close, Frank."