The girl glanced round. Ma's face was still in a condition of florid perplexity. Rube was quietly whittling a match with his tobacco knife. Rosebud's eyes were very soft as she looked from one to the other. "And I'm to go away from--here?" she said at last, and her lips were trembling. "Guess when a 'stray' comes along we mostly git it back home." Seth found a lot to interest him in the blank wall of the barn outside the window. "But it seems I'm a stray without a home. My father and mother must be dead." "Ther's aunts an' things--an' the dollars." The girl also surveyed the wall of the barn. "Yes, I forgot the--dollars." Suddenly she turned away. Just for a moment she seemed in some doubt of her own purpose. Then she walked over to Ma and put her arms about her neck and kissed her. Then she passed round to Rube and did the same. Finally she opened the door, and stood for a second looking at Seth's slim back. "Farewell, friends. The heiress must prepare for her departure." There was something harsh and hysterical about the laugh which accompanied her mocking farewell, but she was gone the next instant, and the door slammed behind her. Ma stepped up to her boy, and forgetful of his wounded shoulder rested her hand upon it. Seth flinched and drew away; and the old woman was all sympathy at once. "I'm real sorry, boy, I kind o' forgot." "It's nothin', Ma; it jest hurts some." CHAPTER XVIII SETH'S DUTY ACCOMPLISHED "It's a great country. It astonishes me at every turn, madam; but it's too stirring for me. One gets used to things, I know, but this," with a wave of the arm in the direction of the Reservations, "these hair-raising Indians! Bless me, and you live so close to them!" The crisp-faced, gray-headed little lawyer smiled in a sharp, angular manner in Ma Sampson's direction. The farmwife, arrayed in her best mission-going clothes, was ensconced in her husband's large parlor chair, which was sizes too big for her, and smiled back at him through her glasses. Mr. Charles Irvine, the junior partner of the firm of solicitors, Rodgers, Son, and Irvine, of London, had made his final statement with regard to Rosebud, and had now given himself up to leisure. There had been no difficulty. Seth's letter had stated all the facts of which he had command. It had been handed on to these solicitors. And what he had told them had been sufficient to bring one of the partners out to investigate. Nor had it taken this practical student of human nature long to realize the honesty of these folk, just as it had needed but one glance of comparison between Rosebud and the portrait of Marjorie Raynor, taken a few weeks before her disappearance, and which he had brought with him, to do the rest. The likeness was magical. The girl had scarcely changed at all, and it was difficult to believe that six years had elapsed since the taking of that portrait. After a long discussion with Seth the lawyer made his final statement to the assembled family.