Then again, when Anson wrote asking "What has become of that Kendall you wrote so much about?" she replied that he was there, and began writing of him again in a careless sort of way, with the craft of woman already manifest in the change of front. Spring came again, and that ever-recurring miracle, the good green grass, sprang forth from its covering of ice and snow, up from its hiding-place in the dark, cold sod. Again the two men set to work ferociously at the seeding. Up early in the wide, sweet dawn, toiling through the day behind harrow and seeder, coming in at noon to a poor and badly cooked meal, hurrying back to the field and working till night, coming in at sundown so tired that one leg could hardly be dragged by the other--this was their daily life. One day, as they were eating their supper of sour bread and canned beans, Gearheart irritatedly broke out: "Ans, why don't you git married? It 'u'd simplify matters a good 'eal if you should. 'Old Russ' is no good." "What's the matter with your gittin' married?" replied Anson, imperturbably pinching off the cooked part of the loaf, skilfully leaving the doughy part. "I ain't on the marry; that's all." "Neither am I." "Well, you ought to be." "Don't see it." "Well, now, let me show it. We can't go on this way. I'm gittin' so poor you can count my ribs through my shirt. Jest think 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."