“Good luck to yu', Sidney!” said Lin, speaking to him for the first time since Cheyenne. “I feel a heap better since I've saw yu' married.” He paid no attention to the biscuit-shooter, or the horrible language that she threw after him. Jode also felt “a heap better.” Legitimate science had triumphed. To-day, most of Cheyenne believes with Jode that it was all a coincidence. South Carolina had bet on her principles, and won from Lin the few dollars that I had lent the puncher. “And what will you do now?” I said to Lin. “Join the beef round-up. Balaam's payin' forty dollars. I guess that'll keep a single man.” A JOURNEY IN SEARCH OF CHRISTMAS The Governor descended the steps of the Capitol slowly and with pauses, lifting a list frequently to his eye. He had intermittently pencilled it between stages of the forenoon's public business, and his gait grew absent as he recurred now to his jottings in their accumulation, with a slight pain at their number, and the definite fear that they would be more in seasons to come. They were the names of his friends' children to whom his excellent heart moved him to give Christmas presents. He had put off this regenerating evil until the latest day, as was his custom, and now he was setting forth to do the whole thing at a blow, entirely planless among the guns and rocking-horses that would presently surround him. As he reached the highway he heard himself familiarly addressed from a distance, and, turning, saw four sons of the alkali jogging into town from the plain. One who had shouted to him galloped out from the others, rounded the Capitol's enclosure, and, approaching with radiant countenance leaned to reach the hand of the Governor, and once again greeted him with a hilarious “Hello, Doc!” Governor Barker, M.D., seeing Mr. McLean unexpectedly after several years, hailed the horseman with frank and lively pleasure, and, inquiring who might be the other riders behind, was told that they were Shorty, Chalkeye, and Dollar Bill, come for Christmas. “And dandies to hit town with,” Mr. McLean added. “Red-hot.” “I am acquainted with them,” assented his Excellency. “We've been ridin' trail for twelve weeks,” the cow-puncher continued, “makin' our beds down anywheres, and eatin' the same old chuck every day. So we've shook fried beef and heifer's delight, and we're goin' to feed high.” Then Mr. McLean overflowed with talk and pungent confidences, for the holidays already rioted in his spirit, and his tongue was loosed over their coming rites. “We've soured on scenery,” he finished, in his drastic idiom. “We're sick of moonlight and cow-dung, and we're heeled for a big time.” “Call on me,” remarked the Governor, cheerily, “when you're ready for bromides and sulphates.” “I ain't box-headed no more,” protested Mr. McLean; “I've got maturity, Doc, since I seen yu' at the rain-making, and I'm a heap older than them hospital days when I bust my leg on yu'. Three or four glasses and quit. That's my rule.”