Rube turned away with a chuckle. His practical little wife had been astonished out of her wits. And the fact amused him immensely. "It's a gal, Ma," said Seth. He too was smiling. "Gracious, boy, guess I've got two eyes in my head!" There was a long pause. Ma fingered the silken curls. Then she took one of the cold hands in hers and stroked it softly. "Where--where did you git her?" she asked at last. "The Injuns. I shot Big Wolf yesterday. They're on the war-path." "Ah." The bright-eyed woman looked up at this tall foster son of hers. "War-path--you shot Big Wolf?" cried Rube, now roused to unwonted speech. "Then we'd best git busy." "It's all right, father," Seth reassured him. "The troops are on the trail." There was another considerable pause while all eyes were turned on the child. At last Mrs. Sampson looked up. "Who is she?" she asked. Seth shook his head. "Don't know. Maybe she's yours--an' mine." "Don't you know wher' she come from?" Again Seth shook his head. "An'--an' what's her name?" "Can't say--leastways her initials are M. R. You see I got her from--there that's it. I got her from the Rosebuds. That's her name. Rosebud!" CHAPTER V A BIRTHDAY GIFT Rosebud struggled through five long months of illness after her arrival at White River Farm. It was only the untiring care of Rube and his wife, and Seth, that pulled her through. The wound at the base of the skull had affected her brain as well as body, and, until the last moment when she finally awoke to consciousness, her case seemed utterly without hope. But when at last her convalescence came it was marvelously rapid. It was not until the good old housewife began to question her patient that the full result of the cruel blow on her head was realized. Then it was found that she had no recollection of any past. She knew not who she was, her name, her age, even her nationality. She had a hazy idea of Indians, which, as she grew stronger, became more pronounced, until she declared that she must have lived among Indians all her life. It was this last that roused Seth to a sense of what he conceived to be his duty. And with that deliberateness which always characterized him, he set about it at once. From the beginning, after his first great burst of pitying sorrow for the little waif, when he had clasped her in his arms and almost fiercely claimed her for his own, his treasure trove, he had realized that she belonged to some other world than his own. This thought stayed with him. It slumbered during the child's long illness, but roused to active life when he discovered that she had no knowledge of herself. Therefore he set about inquiries. He must find out to whom she belonged and restore her to her people.