a blissful disregard for truth. Ma
took her cue and listened to the wonderful fabrication the girl piled up
for her astonished ears, and more particularly Seth's. Apparently the one
thing that had not entered into her madcap considerations was Seth's
illness.

Just as her story came to an end, and the sound of wheels outside warned
them of the arrival of the wagon, Rosebud turned upon Seth with something
of her old wilful impetuosity.

"And now, Seth," she said, her eyes dancing with audacity and mischief,
"you're a sick man and all that, so there's every excuse for you, but you
haven't said you're glad to see me."

Seth smiled thoughtfully as he gazed on the fair, trim-figured woman
challenging him. He noted with a man's pleasure the perfectly fitting
tailor-made traveling costume, the beautifully arranged hair, the
delightful Parisian hat. He looked into the animated face, the only thing
about her that seemed to be as of old. Though he saw that her outward
appearance was changed, even improved, he knew that that was all. It was
the same Rosebud, the same old spirit, honest, fearless, warm-hearted,
loving, that looked out of her wondrous eyes, and he felt his pulses stir
and something like a lump rose in his throat as he answered her.

"Wal, little gal, I guess you don't need me to tell you. Pleased! that
don't cut no meanin'. Yet I'm kind o' sorry too. Y' see ther's
things----"

Ma interrupted him.

"He's right, Rosebud dear, it's a bad time."

The girl's reply came with a laugh full of careless mischief and
confidence.

"Poor auntie!" Then she became suddenly serious. "They're outside," she
went on. "Let us go and bring her in."

A moment later Ma found herself greeting Rosebud's second cousin and
chaperone. Mrs. Rickards was an elderly lady, stout, florid, and
fashionably dressed, who had never been further afield in her life than
the Europe of society.

Her greeting was an effort. She was struggling to conceal a natural anger
and resentment against the inconvenience of their journey from Beacon
Crossing, and the final undignified catastrophe of the wagon sticking fast
in the slush and mud on the trail, and against Rosebud in particular,
under a polite attempt at cordiality. She would probably have succeeded in
recovering her natural good-humored composure but for the girl herself,
who, in the midst of the good creature's expostulations, put the final
touch to her mischief. Mrs. Rickards had turned soli