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.

McDaniel, the county sheriff, entered.

“Where’s Kendall?” he asked without ceremony.

“I don’t know; went away yesterday.”

The sheriff looked at his companion.  “Skipped between two days.”

“What’s up?” asked Anson, while Elga stared and baby reached slyly for the sugar-bowl.

“Nothing,” the sheriff said in a tone which meant everything.  “Come out here,” he said to Anson.  Anson went out with him, and he told him that Kendall had purchased goods on credit and gambled the money away, and was ruined.

His stock of goods was seized, and the house was saved only through the firmness of Anson.

Flaxen shut her lips and said nothing, and he could not read her silence.  One day she came to him with a letter.

“Read that!” she exclaimed scornfully.  He saw that it was dated from Eau Claire, Wisconsin: 

DEAR DARLING WIFE:  I’m all right here with father.  It was all Gregory’s fault ­he was always betting on something.  I’m coming back as soon as the old man can raise the money to pay Fitch.  Don’t worry about me.  They can’t take the house, anyway.  You might rent the house, sell the furniture on the sly, and come back here.  The old man will give me another show.  I don’t owe more than a thousand dollars, anyway.  Write soon.  Your loving

    WILL.

She did not need to say what she thought of the advice the little villain gave.

Anson went quietly on with his work, making a living for himself and Flaxen and baby.  It never occurred to either of them that any other arrangement was necessary.  Kendall wrote once or twice a month for awhile, saying each time, “I’ll come back and settle up,” and asking her to come to him; but she did not reply, and never referred to him outside her home, and when others inquired after him she replied evasively: 

“He’s in Wisconsin somewhere; I don’t know where.”

“Is he coming back?”

“I don’t know.”

She often spoke of Bert, and complained of his silence.  Once she said: 

“I guess he’s forgot us, pap.”

“I guess not.  More likely he’s thinkin’ we’ve fergot him.  He’ll turn up some bright mornin’ with a pocketful o’ rocks.  He ain’t no spring chicken, Bert ain’t.” ("All the same, I wish’t he’d write,” Anson said to himself.)

The sad death of Kendall came to them without much disturbing force.  He had been out of their lives so long that when Anson came in with the paper and letter telling of the accident, and with his instinctive delicacy left her alone to read the news, Flaxen was awed and saddened, but had little sense of personal pain and loss.

“Young Kendall,” the newspaper went on under its scare-heads, “was on a visit to La Crosse, and while skating with a party on the bayou, where the La Crosse River empties into the Father of Waters, skated into an air-hole.  The two young ladies with him were rescued, but the fated man was swept under the ice.  He was the son,” etc.

When Anson came back Flaxen sat with the letter in her hand and the paper on her lap.  She was meditating deeply, but what was in her mind Anson never knew.  She had grown more and more reticent of late.  She sighed, rose, and resumed her evening tasks.