Part 15 (1/2)

”You ain't goin' away while I'm sick?” she asked, following him with her eyes, unnaturally large.

”I won't never go 'way again if you don't want me to,” he replied.

”Oh, I'm so glad!” she sighed restfully.

He was turning to go when she wailed reproachfully, ”Pap, you didn't kiss baby!”

Anson turned and came back. ”She's sleepin', an' I thought it wasn't right to kiss a girl without she said so.”

This made Flaxen smile, and Anson went out with a lighter heart than he had had for two years. Kendall met him outside and said confidentially:

”I don't s'pose it was just the thing for me to do; but--confound it! I never could stand a sick-room, anyway. I couldn't do any good, anyway--just been in the way. She'll get over her mad in a few days.

Think so?”

But she did not. Her singular and sudden dislike of him continued, and though she pa.s.sively submitted to his being in the room, she would not speak a word to him nor look at him as long as she could avoid it; and when he approached the baby or took it in his arms a jealous frown came on her face.

As for Anson, he grew to hate the sound of that little chuckle of Kendall's; the part in the man's hair and the hang of his cut-away coat made him angry. The trim legs, a little bowed, the big cuffs hiding the small, cold hands, and the peculiar set of his faultless collar, grew daily more insupportable.

”Say, looky here, Kendall,” said he in desperation one day, ”I wish you didn't like me quite so well. We don't hitch first rate--at least, I don't. Seems to me you're neglectin' your business too much.”

He was going to tell him to keep away, but he relented as he looked down at the harmless little man, with his thin, boyish face.

”Oh, my business is all right. Gregory looks after it mostly, anyhow.

But, I say, if you wanted to go into the dray business, there's a first-cla.s.s opening now. Clark wants to sell.”

It ended in Anson seeing Clark and buying out his line of drays, turning in his claim toward the payment--a transaction which made Flaxen laugh for joy, for she had not felt certain before that he would remain in St. Peter. She was getting about the house now, looking very wifely in her long, warm wraps, her slow motions contrasting strongly with the old restless, springing steps Anson remembered so well.

Night after night, as he sat beside the fire and held baby, listening to the changed voice of his girl and watching the grave, new expressions of her face, the tooth of time took hold upon him powerfully, and he would feel his s.h.a.ggy head and think, ”I'll soon be gray, soon be gray!” while the little one cooed, and sprang, and pulled at his beard, which had grown long again and had white hairs in it.

Kendall spent most of his time at the store, or downtown somewhere, and so all of those long, delicious winter evenings were Flaxen's and Anson's. And his enjoyment of them was pathetic. The cheerful little sitting-room, the open grate, the gracious, ever-growing womanliness of Elga, the pressure of soft little limbs; and the babble of a liquid baby language, were like the charm of an unexpected Indian-summer day between two gray November storms.

CHAPTER XIV.

KENDALL STEPS OUT.

One night Kendall did not come home, but as he had been talking of going to St. Paul they were not disturbed about it--in fact, they both took but very mild interest in his coming or going. In the morning, while they were at breakfast, there came a knock at the door.

”Come in,” shouted Anson in the Western way, not rising.

McDaniel, the county sheriff, entered.

”Where's Kendall?” he asked without ceremony.

”I don't know; went away yesterday.”