citously upon her
charge with an admonitory finger raised in her direction.

"And as for Rosie,--she insists on being called Rosebud still, Mrs.
Sampson--after her tramp through all that dreadful snow and slush she must
be utterly done up," she said kindly.

"Done up, auntie? Tired?" the girl said, with a little scornful laugh.
"Don't you believe it. Why the fun's only just beginning, isn't it, Seth?
Do you know, auntie dear, the Indians are getting troublesome; they're
going out on the war-path. Aren't they, Seth? And we're just in time to
get scalped."

But Seth had no responsive smile for the girl's sally. His face was grave
enough as he turned to the horrified woman.

"Ma'am," he said, in that slow drawling fashion which gave so much gravity
and dignity to his speech, "I'll take it kindly if you won't gamble a heap
on this little gal's nonsense. I've known her some few years, an' I guess
she's nigh the worst savage in these parts--which, I guess, says a deal."

Seth's rebuke lost nothing of its sharpness by reason of the gentle manner
in which it was spoken. Rosebud felt its full force keenly. She flushed to
the roots of her hair and her eyes were bright with resentment. She pouted
her displeasure and, without a word, abruptly left the room.

Ma and Mrs. Rickards--the latter's composure quite restored by Seth's
reassurance--looked after her. Both smiled.

Seth remained grave. The girl's mischief had brought home to him the full
responsibility which devolved upon Rube and himself.

Truly it was the old Rosebud who had returned to White River Farm.

CHAPTER XXIII

LOVE'S PROGRESS

It was the night of Rosebud's arrival. Seth and Rube were just leaving the
barn. The long day's work was done. Seth had been out all the afternoon
riding. Although his ride was nominally in pursuit of health and strength,
he had by no means been idle. Now he was bodily weary, and at the door of
the barn he sat down on the corn-bin. Rube, pausing to prepare his pipe,
saw, by the flickering light of the stable lantern, that his companion's
face was ghastly pale.

"Feelin' kind o' mean?" he suggested with gruff sympathy.

"Meaner'n a yaller dawg."

There was anxiety in the older man's deep-set eyes as he noted the flicker
of a smile which accompanied the reply.

"There ain't nothin' fresh?" Rube pursued, as the other remained silent.

"Wal, no, 'cep' Rosebud's got back."

"How?"

Seth shrugged.

"Guess it means a