Atwood was a warhorse of Democracy. Johnny persuaded him to set the
wheels moving for some foreign appointment. He would go away--away.
Perhaps in years to come Rosine would think how true, how faithful
his love had been, and would drop a tear--maybe in the cream she
would be skimming for Pink Dawson's breakfast.

The wheels of politics revolved; and Johnny was appointed consul to
Coralio. Just before leaving he dropped in at Hemstetter's to say
good-bye. There was a queer, pinkish look about Rosine's eyes; and
had the two been alone, the United States might have had to cast
about for another consul. But Pink Dawson was there, of course,
talking about his 400-acre orchard, and the three-mile alfalfa tract,
and the 200-acre pasture. So Johnny shook hands with Rosine as
coolly as if he were only going to run up to Montgomery for a couple
of days. They had the royal manner when they chose, those Atwoods.

"If you happen to strike anything in the way of a good investment
down there, Johnny," said Pink Dawson, "just let me know, will you?
I reckon I could lay my hands on a few extra thousands 'most any time
for a profitable deal."

"Certainly, Pink," said Johnny, pleasantly. "If I strike anything of
that sort I'll let you in with pleasure."

So Johnny went down to Mobile and took a fruit steamer for the coast
of Anchuria.

When the new consul arrived in Coralio the strangeness of the scenes
diverted him much. He was only twenty-two; and the grief of youth
was not worn like a garment as it is by older men. It has its