aimed, "I didn't know you were writin', Seth!"

The man's patience seemed inexhaustible, for he smiled and shook his
head.

"No, Ma," he said with truth.

The little old woman came round the table and occupied her husband's
chair. If Seth were not writing, then she might as well avail herself of
the opportunity which she had long wanted. She had no children of her own,
and lavished all her motherly instincts upon this man. She was fond of
Rosebud, but the girl occupied quite a secondary place in her heart. It is
doubtful if any mother could have loved a son more than she loved Seth.

She had a basket of sewing with her which she set upon the table. Then she
took from it a bundle of socks and stockings and began to overhaul them
with a view to darning. Seth watched the slight figure bending over its
work, and the bright eyes peering through the black-rimmed glasses which
hooked over her ears. His look was one of deep affection. Surely Nature
had made a mistake in not making them mother and son. Still, she had done
the next best thing in invoking Fate's aid in bringing them together. Mrs.
Sampson looked no older than the day on which Rosebud had been brought to
the house. As Seth had once told her, she would never grow old. She would
just go on as she was, and, when the time came, she would pass away
peacefully and quietly, not a day older than she had been when he first
knew her.

But Seth, understanding so much as he did of the life on that prairie
farm, and the overshadowing threat which was always with them, had yet
lost sight of the significance of the extreme grayness of this woman's
hair. Still her bright energy and uncomplaining nature might well have
lulled all fears, and diverted attention from the one feature which
betrayed her ceaseless anxiety.

"I kind o' tho't sech work was for young fingers, Ma," Seth observed,
indicating the stockings.

"Ah, Seth, boy, I hated to darn when I was young an' flighty."

The man smiled. His accusations had been made to ears that would not
hear. He knew this woman's generous heart.

"I reckon Rosebud'll take to it later on," he said quietly.

"When she's married."

"Ye-es."

Seth watched the needle pass through and through the wool on its rippling
way. And his thoughts were of a speculative nature.

"She's a grown woman now," said Mrs. Sampson, after a while.

"That's so."

"An' she'll be thinkin' of 'beaus,' or I'm no prophet."

"Time enough, Ma."

"Time?