hink how comfortable
it would make things! No more awful coffee; no more canned baked beans;
no more cussed, infernal, everlastin', leathery flapjacks; no more
soggy bread--confound it!" Here he seized the round inner part of the
loaf, from which the crust had been flaked, and flung it through the
open door far down toward the garden.

"Bert! that's the last bit of bread we've got in the house."

"What's the odds? We couldn't eat it."

"We could 'a' baked it over."

"We _could_ eat dog, but we don't," replied Bert gloomily. His temper
was getting frightful of late.

"We'll be all right when Flaxen comes back," said Ans, laughing.

"Say, now, you've said that a thousand times this winter. You know well
enough Flaxen's out o' this. We ain't countin' on her," blurted
Gearheart, just in the mood to say disagreeable things.

"Wha' d' y' mean? Ain't she comin' back in June?"

"Probably; but she won't stay."

"No: that's so. She'll have to go back in September; but that's three
months, an' we may sell out by that time if we have a good crop.
Anyway, we'll live high fer a spell. We ought to have a letter from her
to-night, hadn't we?"

"I'm goin' down to see, if you'll wash the dishes."

"All right. Take a horse."

"No: the horses are tired. I'll foot it."

"Wal, ain't you too?"

"Want anythin' from the store?"

"Yes: git a hunk o' bacon an' some canned corn, tomatoes, an' some
canned salmon; if y' think we can stand the pressure, bring home a can
o' peaches."

And so Gearheart started off for town in the dusk, afoot, in order to
spare the horse, as though he had not himself walked all day long in
the soft, muddy ground. The wind was soft and moist, and the light of
the stars coming out in the east fell upon Ins upturned eyes with
unspeakable majesty. Yet he saw them but dimly. He was dreaming of a
face which was often in his mind now--a face not unlike Flaxen's, only
older, more glorified, more womanly. He was asking himself some
searching questions to-night as his tired limbs dragged themselves over
the grassy road.

What was he toiling for, anyway? What mattered all this terrible
tramping to and fro--was it an end or only a means? Would there ever
come anything like satisfaction of desire? Life for him had been a
silent, gloomy, and almost purposeless struggle. He had not looked
forward to anything very definite, though vaguely he had hoped for
something better.

As his eyes fell upon the twinkling,