ned.

His stock of goods was seized, and the house was saved only through the
firmness of Anson.

Flaxen shut her lips and said nothing, and he could not read her
silence. One day she came to him with a letter.

"Read that!" she exclaimed scornfully. He saw that it was dated from
Eau Claire, Wisconsin:

DEAR DARLING WIFE: I'm all right here with father. It was all
Gregory's fault--he was always betting on something. I'm coming
back as soon as the old man can raise the money to pay Fitch.
Don't worry about me. They can't take the house, anyway. You
might rent the house, sell the furniture on the sly, and come
back here. The old man will give me another show. I don't owe
more than a thousand dollars, anyway. Write soon. Your loving

WILL.

She did not need to say what she thought of the advice the little
villain gave.

Anson went quietly on with his work, making a living for himself and
Flaxen and baby. It never occurred to either of them that any other
arrangement was necessary. Kendall wrote once or twice a month for
awhile, saying each time, "I'll come back and settle up," and asking
her to come to him; but she did not reply, and never referred to him
outside her home, and when others inquired after him she replied
evasively:

"He's in Wisconsin somewhere; I don't know where."

"Is he coming back?"

"I don't know."

She often spoke of Bert, and complained of his silence. Once she said:

"I guess he's forgot us, pap."

"I guess not. More likely he's thinkin' we've fergot him. He'll turn up
some bright mornin' with a pocketful o' rocks. He ain't no spring
chicken, Bert ain't." ("All the same, I wish't he'd write," Anson said
to himself.)

* * * * *

The sad death of Kendall came to them without much disturbing force. He
had been out of their lives so long that when Anson came in with the
paper and letter telling of the accident, and with his instinctive
delicacy left her alone to read the news, Flaxen was awed and saddened,
but had little sense of personal pain and loss.

"Young Kendall," the newspaper went on under its scare-heads, "was on a
visit to La Crosse, and while skating with a party on the bayou, where
the La Crosse River empties into the Father of Waters, skated into an
air-hole. The two young ladies with him were rescued, but the fated man
was swept under the ice. He was the son," etc.

When Anson came back Flaxen