"I remember your flapjacks that always split open in the middle, an' no amount o' heat could cook 'em inside," Bert replied.
Then they grew sober again when Bert said with a pensive cadence: "Well, I tell you, those were days of hard work; but many's the time I've looked back at 'em these last three years, wishin' they'd never ended an' that we'd never got scattered."
"We won't be again, will we, pap?"
"Not if I can help it," Anson replied.
"But how are you, Bert? Rich?"
Bert put his hand into his pocket and laid a handful of small coins on the table.
"That's the size o' my pile—four dollars," he said, smiling faintly; "the whole o' my three years' work."
"Well, never mind, ol' man. I've got a chance fer yeh. Still an ol' bach?"
"Still an old bach." He looked at Flaxen, irresistibly drawn to her face. She dropped her eyes; she could not have told why.
And so "Wood & Gearheart" was painted on the sides of the drays, and they all continued to live in the little yellow cottage, enjoying life much more than the men, at least, had ever dared to hope; and little Elsie grew to be a "great girl," and a nuisance with her desire to "yide" with "g'an'pap."