“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 educated lady would think of a man who talked with an African accent.  ‘It’s repotted you have a Southern rival yourself,’ says he, joshin’ back.  So I said I guessed the rival would find life uneasy.  ‘He does,’ says he.  ’Any man with his voice broke in two halves, and one down in his stomach and one up