"Seth's a man," said Ma with some pride. "Seth's real honest, an'--an', far be it for me to say it, he's consequent a foolhead. What's dollars when folks love? Pshaw! me an' Rube didn't think o' no dollars." "Guess we hadn't no dollars to think of, Ma," murmured Rube in a ponderous aside. "Wal? An' if we had?" Ma smiled defiantly at her "old man." "Wal, mebbe we'd 'a' tho't of 'em." The farmwife turned away in pretended disgust. "And you don't think anything will come of it?" suggested Mrs. Rickards, taking the opportunity of returning to the matter under discussion. Ma's eyes twinkled. "Ther' ain't no sayin'," she said. "Mebbe it's best left to Rosie." She glanced again at her sick husband. "Y' see, men mostly has notions, an' some are ter'ble slow. But they're all li'ble to act jest so, ef the woman's the right sort. Guess it ain't no use in old folks figgerin' out fer young folks. The only figgerin' that counts is what they do fer themselves." "I believe you're right," responded Mrs. Rickards, wondering where the farmwife had acquired her fund of worldly wisdom. Ma's gentle shrewdness overshadowed any knowledge she had acquired living the ordinary social life that had been hers in England. Ma's worldly wisdom, however, was all on the surface. She knew Seth, and she knew Rosebud. She had watched their lives with loving eyes, prompted by a great depth of sympathy. And all she had seen had taught her that both were capable of managing their own affairs, and, for the rest, her optimism induced the belief that all would come right in the end. And it was out of this belief she reassured her new-made friend. Meanwhile the little blind god was carrying on his campaign with all the cunning and crushing strategy for which he is justly renowned. There is no power such as his in all the world. What he sets out to do he accomplishes with a blissful disregard for circumstances. Where obstacles refuse to melt at his advance, he adopts the less comfortable, but none the less effective, manner of breaking through them. And perhaps he saw the necessity of some such course in the case of Seth and Rosebud. Anyway, he was not beaten yet. The last of the refugees had left the farm. Seth had been assisting in the departure of the various families. It was a sad day's work, and no one realized the pathos of it more than the silent plainsman. He had given his little all to the general welfare, but he had been incapable of saving the homes that had been built up with so much self-denial, so much thrift. All he could do was to wish the departing folk Godspeed with an accompaniment of cheery words, which, perhaps, may have helped to lighten the burden of some of them. The burden he knew was a heavy one in all cases, but heavier in some than others, for Death had claimed his toll, and at such a time the tax fell doubly heavy.