"Wensday four a. m.

"DEAR SIR this is to Inform you that i have gone to Separ on important
bisness where i expect to meet you on your arrival at same point. You

will confer a favor and oblidge undersigned by Informing Miss J. Buckner
of date (if soon) you fix for returning per stage to Separ as Miss J.

Buckner may prefer company for the trip being long and poor
accommodations.

Yours &c. L. McLEAN."
This seemed to point but one way; and (uncharitable though it sound) that

this girl, so close upon bereavement, should be able to give herself to a
lover was distasteful to me.

But, most extraordinary, Lin had gone away without a word to her, and she
was left as plainly in the dark as myself. After her first frank surprise

at learning of his departure, his name did not come again from her lips,
at any rate to me. Good Mrs. Pierce dropped a word one day as to her

opinion of men who deceive women into expecting something from them.
"Let us talk straight," said I. "Do you mean that Miss Buckner says that,

or that you say it?"
"Why, the poor thing says nothing!" exclaimed the lady. "It's like a man

to think she would. And I'll not say anything, either, for you're all
just the same, except when you're worse; and that Lin McLean is going to

know what I think of him next time we meet."
He did. On that occasion the kind old dame told him he was the best boy

in the country, and stood on her toes and kissed him. But meanwhile we
did not know why he had gone, and Jessamine (though he was never subtle

or cruel enough to plan such a thing) missed him, and thus in her
loneliness had the chance to learn how much he had been to her.

Though pressed to stay indefinitely beneath Mrs. Pierce's hospitable
roof, the girl, after lingering awhile, and going often to that nook in

the hill by Riverside, took her departure. She was restless, yet clung to
the neighborhood. It was with a wrench that she fixed her going when I

told her of my own journey back to the railroad. In Buffalo she walked to
the court-house and stood a moment as if bidding this site of one

life-memory farewell, and from the stage she watched and watched the
receding town and mountains. "It's awful to be leaving him!" she said.

"Excuse me for acting so in front of you." With the poignant emptiness
overcoming her in new guise, she blamed herself for not waiting in

Illinois until he had been sent to Joliet, for then, so near home, he
must have gone with her.

How could I tell her that Nate's death was the best end that could have
come to him? But I said: "You know you don't think it was your fault. You

know you would do the same again." She listened to me, but her eyes had
no interest in them. "He never knew pain," I pursued, "and he died doing

the thing he liked best in the world. He was happy and enjoying himself,
and you gave him that. It's bad only for you. Some would talk religion,

but I can't."
"Yes," she answered, "I can think of him so glad to be free. Thank you

for saying that about religion. Do you think it's wicked not to want it--
to hate it sometimes? I hope it's not. Thank you, truly."

During our journey she summoned her cheerfulness" target="_blank" title="n.高兴，愉快">cheerfulness, and all that she said
was wholesome. In the robust, coarse soundness of her fibre, the wounds

of grief would heal and leave no sickness--perhaps no higher
sensitiveness to human sufferings than her broad native kindness already

held. We touched upon religion again, and my views shocked her Kentucky
notions, for I told her Kentucky locked its religion in an iron cage

called Sunday, which made it very savage and fond of biting strangers.
Now and again I would run upon that vein of deep-seated prejudice that

was in her character like some fine wire. In short, our disagreements
brought us to terms more familiar than we had reached hitherto. But when

at last Separ came, where was I? There stood Mr. McLean waiting, and at
the suddenness of him she had no time to remember herself, but stepped

out of the stage with such a smile that the ardent cow-puncher flushed
and beamed.

"So I went away without telling you goodbye!" he began, not wisely. "Mrs.
Pierce has been circulating war talk about me, you bet!"

The maiden in Jessamine spoke instantly. "Indeed? There was no special
obligation for you to call on me, or her to notice if you didn't."

"Oh!" said Lin, crestfallen. "Yu' sure don't mean that?"
She looked at him, and was compelled to melt. "No, neighbor, I don't mean

it."
"Neighbor!" he exclaimed; and again, "Neighbor," much pleased. "Now it

would sound kind o' pleasant if you'd call me that for a steady thing."
"It would sound kind of odd, Mr. McLean, thank you."

"Blamed if I understand her," cried Lin. "Blamed if I do. But you're
going to understand me sure quick!" He rushed inside the station, spoke

sharply to the agent, and returned in the same tremor of elation that had
pushed him to forwardness with his girl, and with which he seemed near

bursting. "I've been here three days to meet you. There's a letter, and I
expect I know what's in it. Tubercle has got it here." He took it from

the less hasty agent and thrust it in Jessamine's hand. "You needn't to
fear. Please open it; it's good news this time, you bet!" He watched it

in her hand as the boy of eight watches the string of a Christmas parcel
he wishes his father would cut instead of so carefully untie. "Open it,"

he urged again. "Keeping me waiting this way!"
"What in the world does all this mean?" cried Jessamine, stopping short

at the first sentence.
"Read," said Lin.

"You've done this!" she exclaimed.
"Read, read!"

So she read, with big eyes. It was an official letter of the railroad,
written by the division superintendent at Edgeford. It hoped Miss Buckner

might feel like taking the position of agent at Separ. If she was willing
to consider this, would she stop over at Edgeford, on her way east, and

talk with the superintendent? In case the duties were more than she had
been accustomed to on the Louisville and Nashville, she could continue

east with the loss of only a day. The superintendent believed the salary
could be arranged satisfactorily. Enclosed please to find an order for a

free ride to Edgeford.
Jessamine turned her wondering eyes on Lin. "You did do this," she

repeated, but this time with extraordinary quietness.
"Yes," said he. "And I am plumb proud of it."

She gave a rich laugh of pleasure and amusement; a long laugh, and
stopped. "Did anybody ever!" she said.

"We can call each other neighbors now, yu' see," said the cow-puncher.
"Oh no! oh no!" Jessamine declared. "Though how am I ever to thank you?"

"By not argufying," Lin answered.
"Oh no, no! I can do no such thing. Don't you see I can't? I believe you

are crazy."
"I've been waiting to hear yu' say that," said the complacent McLean.

"I'm not argufying. We'll eat supper now. The east-bound is due in an
hour, and I expect you'll be wanting to go on it."

"And I expect I'll go, too," said the girl.
"I'll be plumb proud to have yu'," the cow-puncher assented.

"I'm going to get my ticket to Chicago right now," said Jessamine, again
laughing, sunny and defiant.

"You bet you are!" said the incorrigible McLean. He let her go into the
station serenely. "You can't get used to new ideas in a minute," he

remarked to me. "I've figured on all that, of course. But that's why," he
broke out, impetuously, "I quit you on Bear Creek so sudden. 'When she

goes back away home,' I'd been saying to myself every day, 'what'll you
do then, Lin McLean?' Well, I knew I'd go to Kentucky too. Just knew I'd

have to, yu' see, and it was inconvenient, turruble inconvenient--Billy
here and my ranch, and the beef round-up comin'--but how could I let her

go and forget me? Take up, maybe, with some Blue-grass son-of-a-gun back
there? And I hated the fix I was in till that morning, getting up, I was

joshin' the Virginia man that's after Miss Wood. I'd been sayin' no