Anson was the more talkative of the two next morning, however.

“Come, come, brace up, babe!  Anybody ’u’d think we’d lost all the rest of our family, when we’re only doin’ the square thing by our daughter.  That’s all.  Why, you’ll be as happy as a canary in less’n two weeks.  Young folks is about the same everywhere, an’ you’ll git acquainted in less’n two jiffies.”

They were on the road to Boomtown to put Flaxen on the train.  It was about the tenth of September, early in the cold, crisp air of a perfect morning.  In the south there was a vast phantom lake, with duplicate cities here and there along the winding shores, which stretched from east to west.  The grain-stacks stood around so thickly that they seemed like walls of a great, low-built town, the mirage bringing into vision countless hundreds of them commonly below the horizon.

The smoke of steam threshing-machines mounted into the still air here and there, and hung long in a slowly drifting cloud above the land.  The prairie-lark, the last of the singing birds, whistled softly and infrequently from the dry grass.  The gulls were streaming south from the lakes.

They were driving her to Boomtown to avoid the inquisitive eyes of the good people of Belleplain.  “I may break down an’ blubber,” said Anson to Bert; “an’ if I do, I don’t want them cussed idiots standin’ around laughin’ ­it’s better to go on the C., B. and Q., anyhow.”

Notwithstanding his struggle to keep talk going, Anson was unsuccessful from the very moment that Belleplain faded to an unsubstantial group of shadows and disappeared from the level plain into the air, just as Boomtown correspondingly wavered into sight ahead.  Silence so profound was a restraint on them all, and poor Flaxen with wide eyes looked wistfully on the plain that stretched away into unknown regions.  She was thinking of her poor mother, whom she dimly remembered in the horror of that first winter.  Naturally of a gay, buoyant disposition, she had not dwelt much upon her future or her past; but now that the familiar plain seemed slipping from her sight entirely, she was conscious of its beauty, and, rapt with the associated emotions which came crowding upon her, she felt as though she were leaving the tried and true for the unknown and uncertain.

“Boys,” she said finally, “do you s’pose I’ve got any folks?”

“I shouldn’t wonder if y’ had, babe, somewhere back in the ol’ country.”

“They couldn’t talk with me if I could find ’em, could they?”

“I reckon not, ’less you study so hard that you can learn their lingo,” said Ans, seeing another opportunity to add a reason for going to school.

“Well, boys, that’s what I’m goin’ to do, an’ by an’ by we’ll go over there an’ see if we can’t find ’em, won’t we?”

“That’s the talk; now you’re gittin’ down to business,” rejoined Ans.

“I s’pose St. Peter is a good ’eal bigger’n Boomtown,” she said sighfully, as they neared the “emporium of the sleepy James.”

“A little,” said the astute Gearheart.

The clanging of the engines and the noise of shouting gave her a sinking sensation in the chest, and she clung to Anson’s arm as they drove past the engine.  She was deafened by the hiss of the escaping steam of the monster standing motionless, headed toward the east, ready to leap on its sounding way.

On the platform they found Miss Holt and a number of other friends waiting.  There was a great deal of clanging and whanging and scuffling, it seemed to the poor, overwrought girl.  Miss Holt took her in charge at once and tried to keep her cheerful.  When they had checked her trunk and the train was about ready to start, Ans looked uneasy and fidgeted about.  Bert looked on, silent and dark.  Flaxen, with her new long dress and new hat, looked quite the woman, and Miss Holt greeted her as such; indeed, she kept so close to her that Anson looked in vain for a chance to say something more which was on his mind.  Finally, as the train was about going, he said hesitatingly: 

“Elga, jest a minute.”  She stared for a moment, then came up to him.

“I didn’t want to call y’ Flaxen afore her,” he explained; “but you ­ain’t ­kissed us good-bye.”  He ended hesitatingly.

The tears were already streaming down her cheeks, and this was too much.  She flung her arms about his neck and sobbed on his bosom with the abandon of girlish grief.

“I don’t wan’ to go ’t all, pap.”

“Oh, yes, y’ do, Elga; yes; y’ do!  Don’t mind us; we’ll be all right.  I’ll have Bert writin’ a full half the time.  There, kiss me good-bye an’ git on ­Bert here, too.”

She kissed him twice through his bristling moustache, and going to Bert offered her lips, and then came back to Anson and threw herself against his broad, strong breast.  She had no one to love but these two.  It seemed as if she were leaving everything in the world.  Anson took her on his firm arm and helped her on the car, and followed her till she was seated beside Miss Holt.

“Don’t cry, babe; you’ll make ol’ pap feel turrible.  He’ll break right down here afore all these people, an’ blubber, if y’ don’t cheer up.  Why, you’ll soon be as happy as a fly in soup.  Good-bye, good-bye!”

The train started, and Anson, brushing his eyes with his great brown hand, swung himself off and stood looking at her.  As the train passed him she rushed to the rear end of the car, and remained there looking back at the little station till the sympathetic Miss Holt gently led her back to her seat.  Then she flattened her round cheek against the pane and tried to see the boys.  When the last house of the town passed by her window she sank back in her seat and sobbed silently.

“I feel as if I’d be’n attendin’ my own funeral,” said Anson, after they had got into their wagon and the train had gone out of sight in the haze of the prairie.

“Well, it’s pretty tough on that child to go off that way.  To her the world is all a great mystery.  When you an’ I go to heaven it won’t be any greater change for us than this change for Flaxen ­every face strange, every spot new.”

“Wal, she ain’t far away but we can look out for her.  She ain’t poor n’r fatherless as long as we live, hey?”

And then silence fell on them.  As they were jogging homeward they saw the gray gulls rise from the sod and go home to the lake for the night.  They heard the crickets’ evening chorus broaden and deepen to an endless and monotonous symphony, while behind fantastic, thin, and rainless clouds the sun sank in unspeakable glory of colour.  The air, perfectly still, was cool almost to frostiness, and, far above, the fair stars broke from the lilac and gold of the sun-flushed sky.  Lights in the farm-houses began to appear.

Once or twice Anson said:  “She’s about at Summit now.  I hope she’s chirked up.”

They met threshing-crews going noisily home to supper.  Once they met an “outfit,” engine, tank, separator, all moving along like a train of cars, while every few minutes the red light from the furnace gleamed on the man who was stuffing the straw into the furnace-door, bringing out his face so plainly that they knew him.  As the night grew deeper, an occasional owl flapped across the fields in search of mice.

“We’re bound to miss her like thunder, Bert; no two ways about that.  Can’t help but miss her on the cookin’, hey?”

Bert nodded without looking up.  As they came in sight of home at last, and saw the house silhouetted against the faintly yellow sky, Ans said with a sigh: 

“No light an’ no singin’ there to-night.”