"Well, you are the strangest creature--but there, I said you were a little savage, and so did Mr. Seth." CHAPTER XXV IN WHICH THE UNDERCURRENT BELIES THE SUPERFICIAL CALM THE snow is gone, and the earth is passing through a process of airing. The sun licks up the moisture like some creature possessed of an unquenchable thirst. Wherever it is sufficiently dry the settlers are already at work seeding. Some are even breaking virgin soil, or turning over old ploughing. There is an atmosphere of leisurely industry about the plains. Even in these unsettled regions work goes forward with precision. The farmer's life is one of routine with which he permits nothing to interfere. He lives by the fruits of the earth which ripen in due season. If fortune favors him he reaps the harvest. Whatever his lot he must accept it. The elements rule his life. The Indians may or may not disorganize the process. The folk on White River Farm are in no way behind their neighbors. Seth's returning strength permits him to take his share in the work, and thus Rube finds his burden lightened. But only partially, for Seth has much else to do, or seems to have, for he has many comings and goings which take up time. Mrs. Rickards is still staying on at the farm. She thoroughly enjoys this new, simple life. Besides, in the brief fortnight which has elapsed since her coming, she has learnt something of the true worth, the wonderful kindliness and honesty of these frontier-folk. Even Seth, whom at first she was less certain about, she has learned to look upon with favor. His silent, direct fashion of going through his daily life has given her an inkling of qualities, which, if not altogether companionable, show a manliness she has not always been accustomed to. Her change of opinion found vent one night at bedtime. Rosebud listened to the worldly-wise woman's remarks with a glow of pleasure and pride. "Seth is a queer fellow, Rosie, so darkly reticent and all that," she said, with a thoughtful smile. "Do you know I sometimes think if I were in great danger--personal danger, you know--he's the sort of man I'd like to have about. He gives me the impression of a great reserve of strength. He is what one might--well, what you would call a 'man.'" Rosebud added her word without the least hesitation. "He's more than that, auntie; he's the bravest and best man in the world." "Just so, my dear; and in consequence you don't want to return to England," Mrs. Rickards said slyly. Rosebud encountered the glance which accompanied the words. She shook her head with a little despairing gesture. "But he loves me only as a sort of daughter." "Does he, my dear?" Mrs. Rickards' tone was quite incredulous; she was at home in matters of love and marriage.