But the lover was not back to-morrow. He was capable of anything, gossip remarked, and took up new themes. The sun rose and set, the two trains made their daily slight event and gathering; the water-tank, glaring bulkily in the sun beaconed unmolested; and the agent's natural sleep was unbroken by pistols, for the cow-boys did not happen to be in town. Separ lay a clot of torpor that I was glad to leave behind me for a while. But news is a strange, permeating substance, and it began to be sifted through the air that Tubercle was going to God's country. That is how they phrased it in cow-camp, meaning not the next world, but the Eastern States. “It's certainly a shame him leaving after we've got him so good and used to us,” said the Virginian. “We can't tell him good-bye,” said Honey Wiggin. “Separ'll be slow.” “We can give his successor a right hearty welcome,” the Virginian suggested. “That's you!” said Honey. “Schemin' mischief away ahead. You're the leadin' devil in this country, and just because yu' wear a faithful-looking face you're tryin' to fool a poor school-marm.” “Yes,” drawled the Southerner, “that's what I'm aiming to do.” So now they were curious about the successor, planning their hearty welcome for that official, and were encouraged in this by Mr. McLean. He reappeared in the neighborhood with a manner and conversation highly casual. “Bring your new wife?” they inquired. “No; she preferred Kentucky,” Lin said. “Bring the old one?” “No; she preferred Laramie.” “Kentucky's a right smart way to chase after a girl,” said the Virginian. “Sure!” said Mr. McLean. “I quit at Edgeford.” He met their few remarks so smoothly that they got no joy from him; and being asked had he seen the new agent, he answered yes, that Tubercle had gone Wednesday, and his successor did not seem to be much of a man. But to me Lin had nothing to say until noon camp was scattering from its lunch to work, when he passed close, and whispered, “You'll see her to-morrow if you go in with the outfit.” Then, looking round to make sure we were alone in the sage-brush, he drew from his pocket, cherishingly, a little shining pistol. “Hers,” said he, simply. I looked at him. “We've exchanged,” he said. He turned the token in his hand, caressing it as on that first night when Jessamine had taken his heart captive. “My idea,” he added, unable to lift his eyes from the treasure. “See this, too.” I looked, and there was the word “Neighbor” engraved on it. “Her idea,” said he. “A good one!” I murmured.