He loved Barbara with all his heart, but no longer with the feeling that the loss of her would put an end to all the possibilities of life.  Indeed he was coolly resolved in the event of her marrying somebody else to marry somebody else himself.  The thought of children and a home had grown very dear to him.  In short, he had assimilated a characteristic of the great unsettled West, where the ratio of the male of the species to the female is often as great as ten to one.

But if the year did not cure him of Barbara he would get her if he could.

To the main line was a day’s journey over a single-track road abounding in undeveloped way stations, at which an insatiable locomotive was forever stopping to drink.  At one of these stations a young man taller and broader even than Wilmot himself, and like him bearded and brown as autumn leaves, boarded the train laboriously and came down the aisle occasionally catching at the backs of seats for support.

A second look assured Wilmot that the stranger was not drunk, but sick or hurt, and he was wondering whether or not to offer him assistance, when the stranger suddenly stopped and smiled, steadied himself with one hand, and held out the other.

“I heard that you would be on this train,” he said simply, “so I managed to catch it, too.  May I sit with you?”

Wondering, Wilmot made room for the stranger and waited developments.  But as these were not at once forthcoming he felt that he must break a silence which seemed awkward to him.  And he turned his head and saw that the man had fainted.

A request for whiskey addressed to a car containing a dozen men accustomed to wrest metals from the earth was not in vain.  Wilmot chose the nearest of twelve outstretched flasks, and was obliged to refuse a thirteenth in the kindly hand of the conductor.

“Fed better?”

“Thanks, I’m all right.”

The twelve miners withdrew tactfully to their seats.

“Sure?”

“Sure.  Just let me sample that brand again.  Good.  Now if you don’t mind I’ll say what I came to say.”

“But aren’t you hurt—­isn’t there something to do?”

“I’ve been hurt.  I’m just weak.  Don’t think about it.  But you’re Mr. Wilmot Allen all right, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“It’s hard to be sure of a man you never knew and who’s grown a beard since you saw him last.”

“I assure you,” Wilmot smiled, “that I’m only waiting to reach a first-class barber-shop.”

“Perhaps you will change your mind.”

“Why should I?”

“You know a man named O’Hagan?”

Wilmot nodded.

“I had a talk with him up in the mountains yesterday.  He spoke truth for once.  You know a man in New York—­Blizzard?”

“He’s been a good friend to me.”

“Why?” asked the stranger.

“I don’t know.  I’ve asked myself that question a thousand times.”