"Well, now, you leave it all to me. I'll state the case to her in a way that'll catch her--see if I don't. She ain't no common girl." It was growing dark as they went in, and the girl's face could not be seen. "Well, Bert, are y' ready to help churn?" "Yes, I guess so, if Ans'll milk." "Oh, he'll milk; he jest loves to milk ol' Brindle when the flies are thick." "Oh, you bet," said Ans, to make her laugh. "Now, Flaxen," coughed Gearheart in beginning, "we've been discussin' your case, an' we've come to the conclusion that you ought to have the togs specified in the indictment" (this to take away the gravity of what was to follow); "but we're kind o' up a tree about just what we'd better do. The case is this. We've got to buy a horse to fill out our team, an' that's a-goin' to take about all we can rake an' scrape." "We may have to git our groceries on tick. Now, if you could only pull through till after--" Anson broke in. "It's purty tough, Flaxie, an' pap's awful sorry; but if you could jest pull through--" It was a great blow to poor little Flaxen, and she broke down and cried unrestrainedly. "I--I--don't see why I can't have things like the rest o' the girls." It was her first reproach, and it cut to the heart. Anson swore under his breath, and was stepping forward to say something when Gearheart restrained him. "But, y' see, Flaxie, we ain't askin' you to give up the dress, only to wait on us for a month or so, till we thrash." "That's it, babe," said Anson, going over to where she sat, with her arms lying on the table and her face hidden upon them. "We could spend dollars then where we couldn't cents now." "And they won't be any more thingumyjigs at the church, anyhow, an' the wheat's blightin' on the knolls, besides." But the first keen disappointment over, she was her brave self once more. "Well, all right, boys," she said, her trembling voice curiously at variance with her words; "I'll get along somehow, but I tell you I'll have something scrumptious to pay for this--see if I don't." She was smiling again faintly, "It'll cost more'n one ten dollars for my togs, as you call 'em. Now, pap, you go an' milk that cow! An', Bert, you glue yerself to that churn-dasher, an' don't you stop to breathe or swear till it's done." "That's the girl to have--that's our own Flaxie! She knows how hard things come on a farm," cheered Anson. "I bet I do," she said, wiping away the last trace of her tears and smiling at her palpable hit. And then began the thump of the dasher, and out in the dusk Anson was whistling as he milked.