Bert saw that Anson was still ignorant of the real state of affairs, but thought he would say nothing for the present.
"Yes: that's the best thing we can do. We'll send her right back, an' take our chances on the crops. We can git enough to live on an' keep her at school, I guess."
They sat silent for a long time, while the wind tore round the shed, Bert spearing at the stick, and Anson watching the hens as they vainly tried to navigate in the wind. Finally Anson spoke:
"The fact is, Bert, this ain't no place f'r a woman, anyway—such a woman as Flaxen's gittin' to be. They ain't nothin' goin' on, nothin' to see 'r hear. You can't expect a girl to be contented with this country after she's seen any other. No trees; no flowers; jest a lot o' little shanties full o' flies."
"I knew all that, Ans, a year ago. I knew she'd never come back here, but I jest said it's the thing to do—give her a chance, if we don't have a cent; now let's go back to the house an' tell her she needn't stay here if she don't want to."
"Wha' d' ye s'pose was in that letter?"
"Couldn't say. Some girl's description of a pic-nic er somethin'." Bert was not yet ready to tell what he knew. When they returned to the house the girl was still invisible, in her room. Mrs. Green was busy clearing up the dinner-dishes.
"I don't know's I ever see such a wind back to Michigan. Seems as if it 'u'd blow the hair off y'r head."
"Oh, this ain't nothin'. This is a gentle zephyr. Wait till y' see a wind."
"Wal, I hope to goodness I won't never see a wind. Zephyrs is all I can mortally stand."