Nevil suddenly sat up and there was a desperate look in his eyes. But he controlled himself, and, with an effort, spoke indifferently. "Nothing. I want another pipe." "Ah." Seth fumbled through his pockets, talking the while. "The pictur' was took when he was most a boy. His hair was thick an' he hadn't no moustache nor nothin', which kind o' makes things hard. As I was sayin', I'm goin' to show it around some, an' maybe some one 'll rec'nize the feller. That's why I got yarnin' to you. Mebbe you ken locate him." As he said the last word he drew a photograph from his pocket and thrust it into Nevil's hand. The wood-cutter took it with a great assumption of indifference, and found himself looking down on a result of early photographic art. It was the picture of a very young man with an overshot mouth and a thin, narrow face. But, as Seth had said, he wore no moustache, and his hair was still thick. Nevil looked long at that picture, and once or twice he licked his lips as though they were very dry. All the time Seth's steady eyes were upon his face, and the shadow of a smile was still about his lips. At last Nevil looked up and Seth's eyes held his. For a moment the two men sat thus. Then the wood-cutter handed back the photograph and shifted his gaze. "I've never seen the original of that about these parts," he said a little hoarsely. "I didn't figger you had," Seth replied, rising and proceeding to tighten up the cinches of his saddle preparatory to departing. "The lawyer feller gave me that. Y' see it's an old pictur'. 'Tain't as fancy as they do 'em now. Mebbe I'll find him later on." He had swung into his saddle. Nevil had also risen as though to proceed with his work. "It might be a good thing for him, since Rosebud is so well disposed," Nevil laughed; he had almost recovered himself. "That's so," observed Seth. "Or a mighty bad thing. Y' can't never tell how dollars 'll fix a man. Dollars has a heap to answer for." And with this vague remark the plainsman rode slowly away. CHAPTER XX SETH PAYS As the weeks crept by and the torrid heat toned down to the delightful temperature of the Indian summer, news began to reach White River Farm from England. After the first excitement of her arrival had worn off, Rosebud settled down to a regular correspondence. Even her return to the scenes of her childhood in no way aided her memory. It was all new to her. As her letters often said, though she knew she was grown up, yet, as far as memory served her, she was still only six years old. Servants who had nursed her as a baby, who had cared for her as a child of ten, aunts who had lavished childish presents upon her, cousins who had played with her, they were all strangers, every one.