Anson and Bert, blackened with dust and perspiration and weary to the point of listlessness, sat with elbows on knees, talking in low, slow tones on the never-failing topic, crops and profits. Their voices chimed with the sound of the wagon. "There's the light," broke out Ans, rousing himself and the team; "Flaxen's got supper all ready for us. She's a regular little Trojan, that girl is. They ain't many girls o' fourteen that 'u'd stay there contented all day alone an' keep all the whole business in apple-pie order. She'll get her pay some day." "We'll try to pay her; but say, ol' man, ain't it about time to open up our plans to her?" "Wal, yes; it is. You kind o' start the thing to-night, an' we'll have it over with." As they drove up, Flaxen came to the door. "Hello, boys! What makes ye so late?" "Finishin' up a field, babe. All done." She clapped her hands and danced up and down. "Goody! all done at last. Well, yank them horses out o' their harnesses an' come to biscuits. They're jest sizzlin' hot." "All right. We'll be there in about two jerks of a lamb's tail in fly-time. Bert, grab a tug; I'm hungry as a wolf." It was about the first of September and the nights were getting cool, and the steaming supper seemed like a feast to the chilled and stiffened men coming in a little later and sitting down with the sound of the girl's cheery voice in their ears. The tea was hot; so were the biscuits. The pyramid of hot mashed potato had a lump of half-melted butter in the hollow top, and there were canned peaches and canned salmon. "Yes: we're about finished up harvestin'," said Bert, as they settled themselves at the table, "an' it's about time to talk about gittin' you off to school." "Don't worry about that. It ain't no great job, I reckon. I can git ready in about seventeen jiffies, stop-watch time." "Not if you are goin' away off to some city in the East--" "Yes: but I ain't, y' see." "Oh, yes, you are. Bert an' I've be'n talkin' it all over f'r the last three weeks. We're goin' to send you back to St. Peter to the seminary." "I guess not, pap. I'd like to know what you think you're a-doin' sendin' me 'way back there. Boomtown's good enough fer me." "There, there, Flaxie; don't git mad. Y' see, we think they ain't anythin' good enough for you. Nothin' too good for a girl that stays to home an' cooks f'r two old cusses--" "You ain't cusses! You're jest as good as you can be; but I ain't a-goin'--there!" "Why not?" "'Cause I ain't; that's why." "Why, don't y' wan' to go back there where the people have nice houses, an' where they's a good--" "Well, I don't know enough; that's why. I ain't goin' back to no seminary to be laughed at 'cause I don't know beans." "But you do," laughed Bert, with an attempt to lighten the gloom--"you know canned beans." "They'd laff at me, I know, an' call me a little Norsk." She was ready to cry.