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-class 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 shaggy 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.