"That's so. Down at the Red Willow bluff." The old man nodded. "Yes," assented Seth. Then, "Wal?" "After that, guess ther's mostly slack time till harvest. I thought, mebbe, we could jest haul that lumber from Beacon Crossing. And cut the logs. Parker give me the 'permit.' Seems to me we might do wuss." "For the stockade?" suggested Seth. "Yes." "I've thought of that, too." The two men looked into each other's eyes. And the old man nodded. "Guess the gals wouldn't want to know," he said, rising and preparing to depart. "No--I don't think they would." The hardy old pioneer towered mightily as he moved toward the door. In spite of his years he displayed none of the uneasiness which his words might have suggested. Nothing that frontier life could show him would be new. At least, nothing that he could imagine. But then his imagination was limited. Facts were facts with him; he could not gild them. Seth was practical, too; but he also had imagination, which made him the cleverer man of the two in the frontiersman's craft. At the door Rube looked round. "Guess you was goin' to write some?" He passed out with a deep gurgle, as though the fact of Seth's writing was something to afford amusement. Seth turned to the paper and dipped his pen in the ink. Then he wiped it clean on his coat sleeve and dipped it again. After that he headed his paper with much precision. Then he paused, for he heard a light footstep cross the passage between the parlor and the kitchen. He sighed in relief as it started up-stairs. But his relief was short-lived. He knew that it was Rosebud. He heard her stop. Then he heard her descend again. The next moment she appeared in the doorway. "What, Seth writing?" she exclaimed, her laughing eyes trying to look seriously surprised. "I knew you were here by the smell of the smoke." "Guess it was Rube's." Seth's face relaxed for a moment, then it returned to its usual gravity. "Then it must have been that pipe you gave him the other night," she returned quick as thought. Seth shook his head. "Here it is," he said, and drew a pipe from his pocket. "He 'lowed he hadn't no nigger blood in him." "Too strong?" "Wal--he said he had scruples." Rosebud laughed, and came and perched herself on the edge of Seth's table. He leant back in his chair and smiled up at her. Resignation was his only refuge. Besides-- "So you're writing, Seth," the girl said, and her eyes had become really serious. They were deep, deep now, the violet of them was almost black in the evening light. "I wonder----" Seth shook his head. "Nobody yet," he said. "You mean I'm to go away?" Rosebud smiled, but made no attempt to move. "Guess I ain't in no hurry." "Well, I'm glad of that. And you're not grumpy with me either, are you? No?" as Seth shook his head. "That's all right, then, because I want to talk to you." "That's how I figgered."