Then the bishop talked with exceeding care, nor did he ask uncomfortable things, or moralize visibly.  Thus he came to hear how it had fared with Lin his friend, and Lin forgot altogether about its being a parson he was delivering the fulness of his heart to.  “And come to think,” he concluded, “it weren’t home I had went to back East, layin’ round them big cities, where a man can’t help but feel strange all the week.  No, sir!  Yu’ can blow in a thousand dollars like I did in New York, and it’ll not give yu’ any more home feelin’ than what cattle has put in a stock-yard.  Nor it wouldn’t have in Boston neither.  Now this country here” (he waved his hand towards the endless sage-brush), “seein’ it onced more, I know where my home is, and I wouldn’t live nowheres else.  Only I ain’t got no father watching for me to come up Wind River.”

The cow-puncher stated this merely as a fact, and without any note of self-pity.  But the bishops face grew very tender, and he looked away from Lin.  Knowing his man—­for had he not seen many of this kind in his desert diocese?—­he forbore to make any text from that last sentence the cow-puncher had spoken.  Lin talked cheerfully on about what he should now do.  The round-up must be somewhere near Du Noir Creek.  He would join it this season, but next he should work over to the Powder River country.  More business was over there, and better chances for a man to take up some land and have a ranch of his own.  As they got out at Fort Washakie, the bishop handed him a small book, in which he had turned several leaves down, carefully avoiding any page that related of miracles.

“You need not read it through, you know,” he said, smiling; “just read where I have marked, and see if you don’t find some more facts.  Goodbye—­ and always come and see me.”

The next morning he watched Lin riding slowly out of the post towards Wind River, leading a single pack-horse.  By-and-by the little moving dot went over the ridge.  And as the bishop walked back into the parade-ground, thinking over the possibilities in that untrained manly soul, he shook his head sorrowfully.

THE WINNING OF THE BISCUIT-SHOOTER

It was quite clear to me that Mr. McLean could not know the news.  Meeting him to-day had been unforeseen—­unforeseen and so pleasant that the thing had never come into my head until just now, after both of us had talked and dined our fill, and were torpid with satisfaction.

I had found Lin here at Riverside in the morning.  At my horse’s approach to the cabin, it was he and not the postmaster who had come precipitately out of the door.

“I’m turruble pleased to see yu’,” he had said, immediately.

“What’s happened?” said I, in some concern at his appearance.

And he piteously explained:  “Why, I’ve been here all alone since yesterday!”

This was indeed all; and my hasty impressions of shooting and a corpse gave way to mirth over the child and his innocent grievance that he had blurted out before I could get off my horse.