The girl's answer came very short. She didn't like being laughed at. And she thought he was laughing at her now. "Some one's said something," Seth persisted. "You see Little Black Fox has hated me for six years. There is no more danger for me now than there was when I shot Big Wolf. With you it's kind o' different. You see--you're grown----" "I see." Rosebud's resentment had passed. She understood her companion's meaning. She had understood that she was "grown" before. Presently she went on. "I've learned a lot in the last few days," she said quietly, gazing a little wistfully out of the window. "But nobody has actually told me anything. You see," with a shadowy smile, "I notice things near at hand. I don't calculate ahead. I often talk to Little Black Fox. He is easy to read. Much easier than you are, Seth," she finished up, with a wise little nod. "An' you've figgered out my danger?" Seth surveyed the trim figure reposing with such unconscious grace upon the table. He could have feasted his eyes upon it, but returned to a contemplation of his note-paper. "Yes. Will you promise me, Seth--dear old Seth?" The man shook his head. The wheedling tone was hard to resist. "I can't do that," he said. "You see, Rosebud, ther's many things take me there which must be done. Guess I git around after you at times. That could be altered, eh?" "I don't think you're kind, Seth!" The girl pouted her disappointment, but there was some other feeling underlying her manner. The man looked up with infinite kindness in his eyes, but he gave no sign of any other feeling. "Little Rosebud," he said, "if ther's a creetur in this world I've a notion to be kind to, I guess she ain't more'n a mile from me now. But, as I said, ther's things that take me to the Reservation. Rube ken tell you. So----" The man broke off, and dipped his pen in the ink. Rosebud watched him, and, for once in her wilful life, forgot that she had been refused something, and consequently to be angry. She looked at the head bending over the paper as the man inscribed, "Dear sirs," and that something which had peeped out of her eyes earlier in their interview was again to be seen there. She reached out a hand as she slid from the table and smoothed the head of dark hair with it. "All right, Seth," she said gently. "We'll have no promises, but take care of yourself, because you are my own old--'Daddy.'" At the door she turned. "You can write your letter now," she said, with a light laugh. The next moment she was gone. CHAPTER XI THE LETTER WRITTEN But Seth's trials were not yet over. The two interviews just passed had given Ma Sampson sufficient time to complete her household duties. And now she entered her parlor, the pride of her home. She came in quite unaware of Seth's presence there. But when she observed him at the table with his writing materials spread out before him, she paused. "Oh," she exclaimed, "I didn't know you were writin', Seth!"