CHAPTER ELEVEN
Flukey was too ill, as he stumbled along, to dread the outcome of their act of theft. He realized only that a beautiful lady was leading Flea to a place where her hunger could be satisfied, and, as he felt the warmth of Ann's fingers permeate his own famished body, a great courage urged him forward. He would never again steal at Lon's command, and Flea would have to dread Lem no more! Something infinitely sweet, like new-coming life, entered his soul. It was the first exquisite joy that had come to Flukey Cronk. He stopped and disengaged his hand, to press it to his side as a pain made him gasp for breath. Then of a sudden he sank to the polished floor, still clinging to Snatchet.
"Missus," he muttered, "I can't walk no more. Jest ye leave me here and git the grub for Flea."
Flea turned sharply. "I don't eat when ye're sick, Fluke. The Prince says as how ye can sleep in the barn, and mebbe—mebbe he'll let me work for the victuals Snatchet and Squeaky stole."
Flea added this hopefully.
"Children," said Ann in a smothered voice, "listen to me! You're both welcome to all you've had, and more. The little dog and pig were welcome too."
Tears rose under her lids, and she turned her head away, that the twins might not see them. Ann Shellington, like her brother, had never before seen human misery depicted in small lives. At the mention of his dog, Flukey opened his eyes and turned his gaze upward.
"Thank ye, Lady," said he, "thank ye for what ye saidabout Snatchet. Ain't he a pink peach of a dorg, Ma'm?"
Ann inclined her head gently, glancing dubiously over the yellow pup. She could not openly admit that Snatchet resembled anything beautiful she had ever seen, when the boy, his lips twitching with agony, held his pet up toward her.
"Ye can take him, Ma'm," groaned Flukey. "He only bites bad 'uns like Lem Crabbe."
Snatchet, feeling the importance of the moment, lifted his head and shot forth a slavering tongue. As it came in contact with her fingers, Miss Shellington drew back a little. She had been used to slender-limbed, soft-coated dogs; this small, shivering mongrel, touching her flesh with a tongue roughly beaded, sent a tremor of disgust over her. Flea stepped forward, took Snatchet from her brother, and tucked him away under the arm opposite the one Squeaky occupied.
"Ye'll go to the barn, Fluke," she said, "and ye'll go damn quick! The lady'll let ye, and Snatchet'll go with ye. Squeaky sleeps with me."
Ann coughed embarrassedly. "Children," she began, "we couldn't let the dog and pig sleep in the house; neither could we allow you to sleep in the barn. So, if you will let the coachman take your pets, I'll see that you, Boy, go into a warm bed, and you," Ann turned to Flea, "must have some supper and other clothes. Your brother is very ill, I believe, and I think we ought to have a doctor."
Flea pricked up her ears, and a sad smile crossed her lips. "Ye mean, Ma'm," said she, "that Flukey can sleep in a real bed and have doctor's liniments for his bones?"
Ann nodded. "Yes. Now then hurry!... Look at that poor little boy!"
Flukey was on his knees, leaning against the wall, his feverish fingers clutching his curls.
"Horace! Horace!" called Ann.
Shellington opened the dining-room door and went out hurriedly, leaving Everett Brimbecomb and Katherine Vandecar still surveying the disarranged table.
"It all seems strange to me, Katherine; I mean—this," said Everett, waving his hand. "I scarcely believed Horace when he said he had allowed it."
As he spoke, he approached the table and lifted the soiled cloth between his fingers.
"You can see for yourself," he said, "the marks of the pig's feet on the linen."
Katherine examined the spots. "But it really doesn't matter, does it?" she said. "The poor little animals were hungry, and Horace has such a big heart!" and she sighed.
Everett made an angry gesture. "But I object to Ann having anything to do with such—" he hesitated and finished, "such youngsters. There's no need of it."
"Oh, Everett—but those two children must be cared for! Horace will come back in a few minutes, and then we'll know all about it."
"In the meantime I'm hungry," grumbled Everett, "and if we're going to the theater—"
He had no time to finish his sentence before Horace, with a grave countenance, opened the door.
"I'm sorry, Katherine," he apologized, and then stopped; for he noticed Everett's face dark with anger. Shellington did not forget that his friends had come to dinner; but he had just witnessed a scene that had touched his heart, and he determined to make both of his guests understand it also.
I'M GOIN' TO TAKE HIS KIDS—AND I'LL MAKE OF 'EM WHAT I BE.I'M GOIN' TO TAKE HIS KIDS—AND I'LL MAKE OF 'EM WHAT I BE.
I'M GOIN' TO TAKE HIS KIDS—AND I'LL MAKE OF 'EM WHAT I BE.
"The evening has turned out differently from what Ann and I expected," he explained. "The fact is that sister can't go to the theater, and I feel that I ought to stay with her. So, we'll order another dinner, and then,Everett, if you and Katherine don't—" His fingers had touched the bell as he was speaking; but Everett stopped him.
"If the boy is too ill to be taken to a hospital," he said coldly, "Ann might be persuaded to leave him with the servants."
"Yes, I suggested that," answered Horace; "but she refused. The boy has somehow won her heart, and the doctor will be here at any moment."
A servant appeared, and in a half-hour the table was spread with another dinner. Ann's coming to the dining-room did not raise the spirits of the party; for her eyes were red from weeping, and she refused to eat.
"I've never known before, Everett," she said, "that children could suffer as that little boy does."
"And you shouldn't know it now, Ann, if I had my way," objected Brimbecomb. "There's a strong line drawn between their kind and ours, and places have been provided for such people. I really want you to come with us tonight."
In sharp astonishment, Ann turned on him.
"Oh, I really couldn't, Everett!" she said, beginning to sob. "I shouldn't enjoy one moment of the time, while thinking of that poor child. You take Katherine, and say to Governor and Mrs. Vandecar that we couldn't come tonight. Tell them about it or not as you please. They are both good and kind, and will understand."
Her tears had ceased during the latter part of her speech; for the frown had deepened on Everett's brow, bringing determination to her own. Never before had she been forced to exercise her wish above his, and Brimbecomb was not prepared for it. Something new had been born in the large, sad eyes turned to his, something he did not comprehend, and he inwardly cursed the squatter children.
At eight o'clock Everett handed Katherine into the carriage and gloomily took his place beside her. They were late at the theater by several minutes, when he brushed aside the curtain and ushered Miss Vandecar into the Governor's box. Mrs. Vandecar was seated in the far corner, her attention directed upon the play. Vandecar rose quietly, and before resuming his seat waited until his niece had taken her place. Then they were silent until the curtain fell after the first act.
"Where are Horace and Ann?" asked Mrs. Vandecar of Everett. "Ann telephoned me at dinner-time that she would be here."
Everett inclined his head toward Katherine, and the girl explained the situation. When she had added pathos to the story by telling of Flukey's illness, Mrs. Vandecar broke in.
"I'm glad Ann stayed, dear girl! It's like her to nurse that sick child." She said no more; but turned away with misty eyes.
During the next act the Governor drew near her, and amid the shadows of the darkened box, took up the slender fingers and held them until the lights flashed upon the falling curtain. Both had gone back in memory to those dreadful days when tragedy had cast its somber shadows over them.
The doctor had predicted a serious illness for Flukey. Ann and Horace held an earnest conversation about it. Miss Shellington's maid had been instructed to relieve Flea of her boy's attire and clothe her in some of Ann's garments. Horace led his sister to the room where Flukey lay, and suggested that Flea be called.
A servant appeared at the touch of the bell.
"Tell the boy's sister to come here," said Horace.
When Flea knocked at the door a few minutes later, hebade her enter. Suppressing her pleasure and surprise at the girl's loveliness, Ann walked forward to meet her; but the little stranger backed timidly against the door and flashed a blushing glance at the man.
The mauve dressing-gown, reaching to the floor, displayed to advantage the girl's lithe figure, accentuating its long, graceful lines. The bodice, opened at the neck, exposed the slender white throat, around which the summer's sun had tanned a ruddy ring. Her hair had been parted in the center and twined in adorable curls about the young head.
The transformation drew an untactful ejaculation from Horace, and he stared intently at the sensitive face. Flea's gray eyes, after the first hasty glance at him, sought Flukey.
"Flukey ain't so awful sick, be he?" she questioned fearfully.
Ann passed an arm tenderly around her. "Yes, child, he is very ill. My brother and I want to speak to you about him."
"But he ain't goin' dead?"
Her tone brought Horace nearer. In spite of Flea's somberness, the bouyancy of her youth obliterated the memory of every other girl he knew. He was confounded by the thought that a short time before she had stood as a ragged boy before him. She had been transformed into womanhood by Ann's clothing.
Flea bent over Flukey and hid her face. Even when Horace had discovered the pig in the salad, her embarrassment had been of small moment to this. After an instant, she lifted her eyes from her muttering brother and allowed them to fall upon her Prince. There was an unmistakable smile upon his lips; nevertheless, a great fear possessed her. If Flukey were allowed to stay there because of his illness, she at least would be taken away;for she had never heard of a theft being entirely overlooked, and she believed that her imprisonment must be the penalty.
She stooped a little and lovingly touched Flukey's shoulder, looking first at Ann, then at Horace. Straightening up, she burst out:
"Mister, if ye're goin' to have me pinched for stealin', do it quick before my brother knows about it, and—I'd ruther go to prison in Fluke's pants—please!"
Still the master of the house did not speak. Flea was filled with suspicion, and thought she divined the cause of his quietness and smile. He was ridiculing her dress, perhaps making sport of the way her curls were arranged. She thrust one hand upward and tumbled the mass of hair into disorder.
"Yer woman put these togs onto me," she said, "and I feel like an old guy—dressed up this way!"
Anger forced tears into her eyes, and her two small brown hands clenched under the hanging lace at her wrists. Her words and the spontaneous action deepened the expression on the face of the silent man, and she cried out again:
"Ye needn't be making fun of me, Mister! I can't help how I look."
But a feverish exclamation from the sick boy so increased her anxiety for him that her own troubles were overwhelmed. She was rendered unmindful that Ann had softly called her name; nor did she realize that Shellington had spoken quietly to her.
She flung out her hands in eloquent appeal.
"Oh, I thank ye for covering my brother up so warm! He didn't need no sheets nor piller-slips; but his bones did need the blankets—sure. I say as how he'd thank ye, too, if he weren't offen his head."
Horace gently took the girl's hands in his, and Flea lowered her sun-browned face.
"I know he would, child," he said in moved tones. "He's more than welcome to all we can do—and you are to stay here, too, little girl."
Horace had done what Ann had been unable to do. The words had soothed the squatter girl, and the savage young heart was softened. The long, dreary country marches were over; the cold nights and bare fields were things of the past. For Flukey, there were tender hands that would ease his pain; for her, a home unmenaced by Lem. She had looked her last upon horrors that had bound her to a life she hated.
Shellington spoke to her.
"Look at me, child!" said he. "I want to tell you what the doctor said."
She lifted an anxious gaze filled with the emotion of a woman's soul. It was her dawning womanhood that Horace saw, and toward it his manhood was unconsciously drawn.
Ann spoke quietly:
"The doctor says that your brother will be ill many weeks, and we have decided to keep him here with us, if you consent to our arrangements."
"Ye mean," gasped Flea, snatching her hands from Horace, "ye mean that Flukey can lay in that there bed till he gets all well and all the misery has gone out of his bones?"
Ann's answer meant much to Flea. The girl had realized the import of the speech; but, that she might better understand the words, she had sent them questioningly back in her vernacular for further confirmation.
"If you are willing to stay with us," Horace was saying, "and will help us take care of him—"
He could not have offered anything else that would so have touched her. How she had longed to do something for Flukey those last hours in the graveyard! But Flea wanted no mistake. Did the gentleman understand how terribly poor they were?
"We ain't got no money, and we only own Squeaky and Snatchet."
Shellington smiled at the interruption.
"You will still own your dog and pig, child, if you ever wish to go away. My sister and I are anxious to have your brother grow strong and well. He has rheumatic fever, which is sometimes very stubborn, and if we don't work hard—"
He paused, tempted to pass one arm about the girl as his sister had done; but the womanliness of her forbade.
"Ye think Flukey mightn' get well?" Flea breathed.
Ann turned anxious eyes upon the boy, who was muttering incoherently.
"Poor little child! May Jesus help him!" she whispered.
Flea rose to her feet.
"Jesus! Jesus!" she repeated solemnly. "Granny Cronk used to talk about him. He's the Man what's a sleepin' in the grave with the kid with the same name as that bright-eyed duffer who don't like Fluke nor me."
Ann, mystified, glanced at Horace.
Flukey turned slowly, opened his eyes, and murmured;
"'Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, look upon a little—'"
He sighed painfully as the last words trailed from his lips. Flea ended his quotation, saying:
"'A little child.' But, Flukey, Jesus is dead and buried."
"No, no, He isn't, child!" cried Ann sharply. "He'll never die. He will always help little children."
"Ain't He a restin' in the dead man's yard out there?"
demanded Flea, lifting her robe as she moved toward Ann.
"No! indeed, no! He is everywhere, with the dead and the living, with men and women, and also with little children."
"Where be He?" Flea asked.
"In Heaven," replied Ann, leaning over Flukey. "And He's able even to raise the dead."
Flea grasped her arm.
"Then, if He's everywhere, as ye've jest said, can't ye—"
Flukey opened his eyes.
"If ye know that Man Jesus, well enough," he broke forth, trying to take her hand in his, "if ye ever sees Him to speak to Him, will ye say that, if He'll let my bones get well, and keep my little Flea from Lem, I'll do all He says for me to? Tell Him—tell—tell Him, Ma'm, that my bones be—almost a bustin'."
"Can He help Fluke any if ye ask Him?" Flea questioned.
Ann nodded; but Flea, not satisfied, asked the question directly of Horace.
"I believe so," he hesitated; "yes, I do believe that He can and will help your brother."
"Will ye ask Him?" Flea pleaded. "Will ye both ask Him?"
Ann answered yes quickly; and Flea was satisfied with the nod Horace gave her before he wheeled about to the window.
When Flukey was resting under the physician's medicine, Horace and Ann listened to the tale of the squatter children's lives, told by Flea. It was then that Shellington promised her that Squeaky should find a future home on their farm among other animals of the kind, and that he would make it his task to see that the little pig had plenty to eat, plenty of sunshine, and a home suchas few little pigs had. Snatchet, too, Horace promised, should be housed in a warm kennel with the greyhounds and blooded pups.
When Flea leaned over Flukey to say goodnight to him, she breathed:
"This be the promised land, all right, Fluke! Ain't we lucky kids to be here?"
CHAPTER TWELVE
With infinite tenderness, Ann led Flea into the pretty blue bedroom. The girl drew back with an exclamation.
"It's too nice for a squatter! But I'm glad you put Fluke in that red place, 'cause it looks so warm and feels warm. But me—"
Ann interrupted hastily.
"You remember my brother saying that you were going to stay here with us until your brother was well?"
Flea assented.
"Then, as long as you are with us, you will be our guest just as though you were my sister. Would you like to be my sister?"
Flea dropped her gaze before the earnest eyes.
"Yep!" she choked. "But I'm a squatter, Missus, and squatters don't count for nothin'. But Fluke—"
"Poor child! She can't think of anyone but her brother," Miss Shellington murmured to herself.
But Flea caught the words.
"He's so good—oh, so awful good—and he ain't never had no chance with Pappy Lon. If he gets well, we'll work together, and we won't steal nothin' ever no more."
"I feel positive you won't," assured Ann. "You remember, I told you tonight how very good God is to all His children, and you are a child of His, and you know that the Bible says that you must never take anything that doesn't belong to you."
"Nope, I ain't never seen no Bible," faltered Flea.
"Then I'm going to give you one, and you can learn to read it. Wouldn't you be happy if your brother should get well, and you knew that your prayers had done it?"
"It wouldn't be me, Ma'm; 'twould be you and your brother."
Ann considered how she should best begin to open the young mind to truth.
"Child, would you like me to tell you a story?" she asked presently.
"Yep," replied Flea eagerly. "Is it about fairies, or ghosts, or goblins what live near lakes?"
"No; it's about Jesus, who died to save the world."
Then gently and simply Ann told the story of the Passion to the wondering girl, and shortly after left her to sleep.
Miss Shellington went to her brother's study, and he met her with a quizzical smile.
"You've woven a net about yourself, Sis, haven't you?" said he.
"And about you, too, Dear," Ann retorted. "But, Horace, I shouldn't have thought of keeping them, if you hadn't consented."
She looked so troubled, her brow puckered up in thought, that he smiled again.
"Of course, you wouldn't—I know that. But I'm not in the least sorry. We've money enough to do a kindness once in awhile. And as long as you don't work yourself to death over them I sha'n't complain."
They were silent for a little while. Then presently Ann spoke musingly:
"Horace, do those children remind you of someone?"
"I don't know that they do. I'm not a fellow who notices resemblances. Why?"
"I can't tell. Only, when they stood there tonight bythe table, looking so forlorn, there was something familiar about them."
"Your dear, tender heart imagined it," Horace declared.
"Possibly. Still, the feeling has been with me ever since. Horace, I've always wanted to do some real work, and don't you think this—"
"Hark!" Horace interrupted. "Wasn't that the bell?"
"Yes, it's Everett, I hope," said Ann, rising, "I thought perhaps he would run in. Yes, I hear his voice! Shall I bring him in here for a few moments?"
"Yes."
When Everett came in, Horace noted that he had lost the frown. Brimbecomb good naturedly demanded if Ann intended to start a kindergarten. He recounted how Mr. and Mrs. Vandecar had received their excuses, and then said:
"Ann, Mrs. Vandecar thought you so charitably inclined. She seemed quite exercised over the story. But you don't intend to keep them here after tomorrow morning, do you?"
"Well, you see, Everett," Ann explained, "Horace and I have talked for a long time about doing some real charity work; so now we're going to try an experiment."
"These boys—"
Ann interrupted. "One of them is a girl."
Horace saw the change on Brimbecomb's face and said hurriedly:
"The girl had on her brother's clothes, that's all."
"Strange proceedings all the way through, though," snapped Everett.
He was showing himself in a new light, and Horace noted that the young lawyer's face bore sarcasm and unpleasant cynicism. He wondered that his gentle, obedient sister had gathered courage to stand against her lover's wishes; for Everett had expressed a decided objection to Ann's working for the squatter children. Suddenly he felt a twinge of dislike for the man before him, and his respect for Ann deepened. How many girls, he reasoned, would have the courage and desire thus to take in two suffering children? He rose quickly and left the room.
Everett took up the argument again with Miss Shellington:
"Ann, you're going very much against my wishes if you keep those children here."
"I'm sorry, Dear," she said simply; "but you know—"
"I know that you won't do anything of which I disapprove, Ann."
"You're mistaken, Everett," Ann contradicted slowly. "I could not allow even you to mark out my duty. And something makes me so anxious to help them! I don't want to go against your wishes; but—I must do as my conscience dictates."
"Surely you don't mean, Ann, that if you were my wife you would force—"
"Please don't, Everett! No, of course not; but this is Horace's home and mine, and, if we desire to share it with someone less fortunate than we are, you shouldn't object."
Everett took up no more time in vain argument; but registered a vow that he would make it warm for the beggars who had thrust themselves upon the Shellingtons. He would search for an opportunity! Impatient and unsettled, he left Ann. She, too, was unhappy; for it had been the first time her duty had ever clashed with her love. The shock of the collision hurt.
The next morning Flea crept into her brother's room and stood looking down at him. He opened his eyes languidly, smiled, and groaned.
"Ain't yer bones any better this mornin'?" asked Flea in an awed whisper.
"Yep; but my heart hurts me. The pains round it be worse than the misery in my knees, 'cause I can't breathe."
Flea bent lower.
"Did the pretty lady tell ye anythin' last night?"
"Nope; did she tell you anythin'?"
"Yep, all about the Jesus. Get her to tell you, Fluke. It's better than fairy stories. I can't remember all of it; but she says He jest loved everybody so well that He let 'em nail Him on a cross, and died there. But He got up again, and that's how He came to be up there."
Flea pointed upward.
"Did Miss—Miss Shellington tell ye that?"
"Yep, Fluke." She hesitated and whispered again, "Do ye believe it, Fluke?"
"Course I do, if she says it! Don't ye think what she says is so?"
"I don't believe all that," replied Flea. "I tried last night, and couldn't. You used to laugh at me when I said as how there was ghosts."
"Mebbe she don't believe in ghosts," sighed Flukey.
"It's almost the same. She believes in Jesus."
"He's all I believe in, too." Flukey closed his eyes wearily.
"Fluke," whispered Flea presently, "ye ought to see that room I slep' in! It were finer'n this one."
"This be the promised land, all right, what Scraggy speaked about," said Flukey. "There ain't no more places like it in this here world."
"I believe that, too," answered Flea, "and if we hadn'tbeen hungry we'd never have stealed, and we wouldn't have found Mr. and Miss Shellington. Yet she says it's wicked to steal."
"So it be, Flea, and ye know it. All ye're tryin' to do now is not to believe about that Jesus. I bet somethin'll come that'll make ye believe it."
"Mebbe," mumbled Flea darkly; "but 's long 's 'tain't Pappy Lon or Lem, I don't care."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
During the next two weeks, while Flukey was fighting with death, and the great Shellington mansion was as silent as a tomb, Scraggy Peterson was tramping back to the squatter country. When she reached Ithaca, she was almost too ill to start up the Lehigh Valley tracks toward her hut. The black cat clung to her tattered jacket, his wizard-eyes shining green, as Screech Owl passed under the gas-lamps. It was almost ten o'clock at night when she unlatched her shanty door and kindled a fire. The larder was bare, save for some crusts of hard bread. These the woman soaked in hot water and shared with the cat. Then, in a state of great exhaustion, she picked up Black Pussy, blew out the candle, and, for the first time in many days, slept in her own hut.
On the shore below Lem Crabbe's scow was drawn up near the Cronk hut. The squatter and scowman were conversing in the dim light of a lantern that swung from Lem's hook.
"Did ye make any hauls while ye was gone, Lem?" asked Lon.
"Nope, only sold the lumber. I ain't trying nothin' alone."
"It was cussed mean I couldn't go along with ye," Lon said; "but I had to stay to hum. Did ye know that Mammy were dead?"
"Nope!"
"Yep, and buried, too! She fretted over the brats,and kep' a sayin' they was dead in the lake. But I know they jest runned off some'ers."
"I know it, too," Lem grunted savagely. "The gal didn't have no likin' for me."
"I jest see Scraggy come hum," ventured Lon. "She's been gone for a long while. She were a comin' down the tracks."
Lem muttered a savage oath, and faced the scow preparatory to entering. Looking back over his shoulder, he asked:
"Be ye comin' in, Lon?"
"Nope; I'm goin' to bed. Say, Lem, while ye was away, ye didn't get ear of no good place to make a haul soon, did ye?"
"Yep; I tied up to Tarrytown goin' down. There be heaps of rich folks there. Middy Burnes what runs the tug says as how there be a feller there richer than the devil.... Hell! I've forgot his name!"
Lem halted on the gangplank and thought for a moment.
"Nope, I ain't; I jest thought of it!... Shellington! That's him, and he's a fine house, and many's the room filled with—"
Lon broke in upon Lem with a growl:
"Then we'll separate him from some of his jewjaws. I bet we has a little of his pile afore another month goes by!"
"That's what I bet, too," muttered Lem. "Night, Lon."
"Night," repeated Lon, walking away.
Lem placed the lantern on the table and sat down to think. Ever since the day Screech Owl had told him of the boy he had wounded so many years before his mind had worked constantly with the thought that he must findthe home where his son was. Scraggy was the only human being to tell him. She must tell him! He would make her, if he had to choke the woman to death to get her secret! He remembered how she had mocked at him when she had told him that strange bit of news. Realizing that Scraggy's malady made her difficult to coerce, he decided to try cajolery at once.
Lent rose and took a bit of bread from the cupboard shelf. He slipped it into a bag, caught up the lantern with his hook, and left the scow. He halted in front of Scraggy's dark hut and pounded on the door. The cat, scrambling to the floor inside, was Lem's answer. He knocked again.
"Scraggy! Scraggy!" he called. "It be Lemmy! Open the door!"
Through her deep sleep came the voice Screech Owl had loved, and still loved. She sat up in bed, trembling violently, pushing back with a pathetic gesture the gray hair from her eyes. She had been dreaming of Lem—dreaming that she had heard his voice. But black pussy couldn't have dreamed also. He was perched in the small window, lashing his great tail from side to side. She slid from the bed, stretched out a bony hand, and clutched the cat.
"Did ye hear him, too, black pussy?"
"Scraggy!" called Lem again, "Open the door! I brought you something to eat."
It was the thought of the time when he had loved her so, and not of the food he had brought, that forced Scraggy to the door. She flung it open, and the scowman entered.
"I thought ye might be hungry, Scraggy; so I brought ye this bread," said Lem, lifting the hook and sending a ray from the lantern upon the woman. "Can I set down?"
Could he, this king among men to her, could he sit down in her hut? He could have had her heart's blood had he asked it! Had she not crowned him that day, when he had stood awkwardly by, as she tendered him a dark-haired baby boy? Scraggy's happiness knew no bounds. She forgot her fatigue and set forth a chair for Lem.
"Be ye glad to see me, Scraggy?" asked he presently, crossing his legs and watching her as she lighted some candles.
"More'n glad," she replied simply. "But what did ya come for, Lemmy?"
Lem remained silent for some seconds; then said:
"Do ye want to come back to the scow, Scraggy?"
"Ye mean to live?"
Lem shoved out his hairy chin.
"Yep, to live," said he.
"Did ye come to ask me back, Lemmy?"
"Yep, or I wouldn't have been here. I've been thinkin' our fambly oughter be together."
"Fambly!" echoed Screech Owl wonderingly.
"Yep, Scraggy. We'll get the boy again, and all of us'll live on the scow."
His swarthy face went yellow in the candlelight, and the huge goiter under his chin evidenced by its movements the emotion through which he was passing. Scraggy had sunk to the floor. Now she crawled nearer him, staring at his face with wonder-widened eyes.
"Do ye mean, Lemmy, that ye love yer pretty boy brat well enough to want him on the scow, and that he can eat all he wants?"
"That's what I mean," grunted Lem.
"And that ye mean me to tell him what ye says, Lemmy, and that ye want me to bring him back?"
"Yep."
Scraggy had drawn closer and closer to Lem, her sad face wrinkling into deeper lines. With each uttered word Lem had seen that he had conquered her. Suddenly he dropped his heavy left hand down on the gray head and kept it there.
For the first time in many weary years Scraggy Peterson was kneeling before her man. Now he wanted her! He had asked her to come again to that precious haven of rest, and to bring the child! Scraggy forgot that the babe she had passed through the barge window was grown to be a man, forgot that he might not want to come back to the scow with her and his father.
Lem drew her close between his heavy knees and touched her withered chin with his fingers.
"Where be the brat, Scraggy?" he wheedled.
Screech Owl lifted her head and drew back frightened. Something warned her that she must not tell him where his son lived.
"I'll get him for ye," she said doggedly.
"Where be he?" demanded the scowman.
"I ain't tellin' ye where he be now, Lem." Scraggy's tone was sulky.
"Why?"
"'Cause I'll go and get him. I'll bring him to the scow lessen—lessen—"
"Lessen what?" cried Lem darkly.
"Lessen a month," replied Scraggy, "and ye'll kiss the brat, and he'll call ye 'Daddy,' and he'll love ye like I do, Lemmy dear."
Lem was rigid, as the woman smoothed down his shaggy gray hair and patted his hard face. Suddenly he started to his feet.
"Ye say, Scraggy, that ye'll bring the boy lessen a month?"
"Yep, lessen a month. And, Lemmy, he be a beautiful baby! Ye'll love him, will ye, Lemmy?"
"Yep. And now ye take yer cat, Screechy, and get back to bed, and when ye get the boy bring him to the scow." He hesitated a moment; then said, "Ye don't know, do ye, where Flea and Flukey run to?"
Scraggy's face dropped.
"Be they gone?" she stammered, rising.
"Yep, for a long time; and Granny Cronk be dead."
"Then ye didn't get Flea, Lem?"
"Nope. And I don't want the brat, Scraggy; I only want the boy." He spoke with meaning, and when he stood on the hut steps he turned back to finish, "Ye'll bring him, will ye, Owl?"
"Yep, Lemmy love, lessen a month."
Scraggy greedily watched the shadowy form move away in the light of the lantern. "Pussy, Pussy," she muttered, as she closed the door, "black Pussy, come a beddy; yer ole mammy be that happy that her heart's a bustin'."
When Screech Owl, although the happiest woman in the squatter settlement, fell asleep with the cat in her arms, her pillow was wet with tears.
Through long days of anxious waiting for Flukey's recovery, Flea struggled with the Bible lessons Ann set for her each day. Yet she could not grasp the meaning of faith. She prayed nightly; but uttered her words mechanically, for the Savior in the blue sky seemed beyond her conception. In spite of Miss Shellington's tender pleading, in spite of the fact that Flukey believed stanchly all that Ann had told them, Flea suffered in her disbelief. Many times she sought consolation in Flukey's faith.
"Ye see, Flea, can't ye," he said, one morning, "that when Sister Ann says a thing it's so? Can't ye see it, Flea?"
"Nope, I can't. I don't know how God looks. I can't understand how Jesus ruz after he'd been dead three days."
"He did that 'cause He were one-half God," explained Flukey, and then, brightening, added, "Sister Ann telled me that if He hadn't been a sufferin' and a sufferin', and hadn't loved everybody well enough, God wouldn't have let Him ruz. 'Twa'n't by anything He did after He were dead that brought Him standin' up again."
"Then who did it?" queried Flea.
"God did—jest as how He said 'way back there when there wasn't any world, 'World, come out!' and the world came. He said, 'Jesus, stand up!' and Jesus stood up. That's as easy as rollin' off a log, Flea."
She had heard Ann explain it, too; but it seemed easier when Flukey interpreted it.
"If I could see and speak to Him once," she mourned, "I could make Sister Ann glad by tellin' her that I knowed He'd answer me."
"Ask Him to let ye see Himself," advised Flukey, "He'll do it, I bet! Will ye, Flea?"
"Nope! I'd be 'fraid if He came and stood near me. I'm 'fraid even now when I think of Him; but 'cause I can't believe 'tain't no reason why you can't, Fluke."
She turned her head toward the door and listened.
"Brother Horace ain't like Sister Ann," she whispered.
"Nobody ain't like her, Flea. She's the best ever!"
"Yep, so she is. But I wish as how—" She paused, and a burning blush spread over her face. "I wish as how Brother Horace had Sister Ann's way of talking to me. I could—"
"Brother Horace ain't nothin' to do with yer believin', Flea."
"Yep, he has, and when he says as how he believes like Miss Shellington, then I'll believe, too. See?"
Then Flea fell into a stubborn silence.
One afternoon in December, Ann and Horace sat conversing in the library.
"I don't see how Mrs. Vandecar can refuse to help you get that child into school, Ann."
"I don't believe she will; but Everett thinks she ought."
"Everett's getting some queer notions lately," Horace said reluctantly.
Ann's heart ached dully—the happiness she had had in her lover had diminished of late. Constantly unpleasant words passed between them on subjects of so little importance that Ann wondered, when she was alone, why they should have been said at all. Several times Brimbecomb had refused to further his acquaintance with the twins.
"I only wish he would like those poor children," said she. "I care so little what our other friends think!"
Shellington pondered a moment. He reflected on Flea's beseeching face as she pleaded for Flukey, and he decided that the censure of all his acquaintances could not take his protection from her.
"No, I don't care for the opinion of any of them," he replied deliberately. "I want only your happiness, Sis, and—theirs."
"Wouldn't it be nice if we could find respectable names for them?" Ann said presently. "One can't harmonize them with 'Flea' and 'Flukey.'"
After a silence of a few moments, Horace spoke:
"What do you think about calling them Floyd and Fledra, Ann?"
"Oh, but would we dare do that, Horace?"
"Why not? It wouldn't harm the Vandecars, and the children might be better for it. We could impress upon them what an honor it would be."
"But the Vandecars' own little lost children had those names."
"That's true, too; but I haven't the least idea that either one of them will take offense, if you explain that we think it will help the youngsters."
"Shall I speak with Mrs. Vandecar about it this afternoon?" asked Ann.
"Yes, just sound her, and see what she says."
"I might as well go to her right away, then, Horace. You talk with the little girl about going to school while I'm gone. You can do so much more with her than I can."
"All right," said Horace, "and I feel very sure that we won't have any trouble with her."
After seeing his sister depart, he returned to the library and, before settling himself in a chair, sent a summons to Flea.
When the girl appeared, Horace rose and cast smiling eyes of approval over her.
"That's a mighty pretty dress you have on," said he. "Was it Sister's idea to put that lacy, frilly stuff on it?"
Flea crimsoned at his praise, as she nodded affirmation.
"Sit here in this chair," invited Shellington. "I want to have a little chat with you this afternoon."
Unconsciously Flea put herself into an attitude of graceful attention and gazed at him worshipfully. At that moment Horace felt how very much he desired that she grow into a good woman.
"How do you think your brother is today?" he questioned kindly.
"He's awful sick," replied Flea.
"I fear, too, that he will be very ill for a long time. He was filled with the fever when he came here. Now, my sister and I have been talking it over—"
Flea rose half-hesitantly.
"And ye wants me to take him some'ers else?" she questioned.
Horace motioned again for her to be seated.
"Sit down, child," said he; "you're quite wrong in your hasty guess. No, of course, you're not to go away. But my sister and I desire that while you are here you should study, and that you should come in contact with other girls of your own age. We want you to go to school."
"Study—study what?"
"Why, learn to read and write, and—"
"Ye mean I have to leave Flukey, and—and you?"
She had risen and had come close to him, her eyes filled with burning tears. Horace felt his throat tighten: for any emotion in this girl affected him strangely.
"Oh, no! You won't go away from home—at least, not at night; only for a few hours in the daytime. I'm awfully anxious that you should learn, Flea."
She came even closer as she said:
"I'll do anything you want me to—'cause ye be the best ole duffer in New York State!" Then she whirled and fled from the room.
Ann Shellington rang the Vandecar doorbell, and a few minutes later was ushered upstairs. Mrs. Vandecar was in a negligée gown, and Katherine was brushing the invalid's hair.
"Pardon me, Ann dear," said Mrs. Vandecar, "for receiving you in this way; but I'm ill today."
"I'm so sorry! It's I who ought to ask pardon for coming. But I knew that no one could aid me except you in the particular thing I am interested in."
"I shall be glad to help you, if I can, Ann.... There, Katherine, just roll my hair up. Thank you, Girly."
Ann had seated herself, and now spoke of her errand:
"You've heard of our little charges who came so strangely to us not long ago?"
Mrs. Vandecar nodded.
"Horace and I wish to do something for them. It seems as if they had been sent to us by Providence. The lad is very ill, and the girl ought to go to school. We were wondering if you could have her admitted for special lessons to Madame Duval's. The school associations would do such a lot for her." As Ann continued, she marked Mrs. Vandecar's hesitation. "I know very well, Dear, that I am asking you a serious thing; but Brother and I think that it would do her a world of good."
Mrs. Vandecar thoughtfully received the shawl Katherine brought her. Then she looked straight at Ann and said:
"Everett doesn't approve of your work, does he, Ann?"
Miss Shellington colored, and fingered her engagement ring.
"No," she replied frankly; "but it's because he refuses to know them. They're little dears! I've explained to him our views, and have promised that they shall not interfere with any plans he and I may make. I've never seen Horace vitally interested before, or at least so much so. Now, do you think that you would be willing to do this for us? Mildred's going to the school, and you being a patroness will make Madame Duval listen to such a proposal from you."
Mrs. Vandecar turned upon her visitor searchingly.
"Are you doing right, Ann, in taking these children into your home life? I appreciate your good-heartedness; but—"
"Horace and I have talked it all over," interjected Ann, "and we are both assured that we are doing what is right. Won't you think it over, and let us know what you decide? If you find you can't do it—why, we'll arrange some other way."
The plan of naming the children came into her mind; but she hesitated before broaching it. Mrs. Vandecar wasa type of everything high-bred and refined. Would it offend her aristocratic sense to have the children named after her and her husband? Ann overcame her timidity and spoke:
"Fledra, there's another thing I wanted to speak of. The children came to us without proper names, and Horace suggested that we call them Floyd and Fledra. Would you mind?"
Mrs. Vandecar drew back a little, a shade passing over her face. A painful memory ever present seized her. Long ago two babies had been called after their father and mother—after her and her strong husband. Could she admit that she did not care? Could she consent to Ann's request? Ann noted her struggle, and said quickly:
"I'm sorry—forgive me, Dear!"
Mrs. Vandecar's face brightened, and she smiled.
"I thought at first that I didn't want you to; but I won't be foolish. Of course, call them whatever you wish. Floyd won't mind, either."
Horace met his sister expectantly.
"Did you ask her about the names, Ann?"
"Yes. At first she was not inclined to either of our plans; but she has such a tender heart."
"So she has," responded Horace.
"She consented about the names; but said that she would send me word about the school."
"And she didn't give a ready consent?"
"No; but I'm almost sure that she will do it. And now about Flea. Did you talk with her?"
"Yes. She consented to go to school, and said—that I was the best old duffer in New York State."
"Oh, Horace! She must be taught not to use such language. It's dreadful! Poor little dear!"
"It'll take sometime to alter that," replied Horace,shaking his head. "They've had a fearful time, and she's been used to talking that way always; she's heard nothing else. You can't alter life's habits in a day."
"But Madame Duval won't have her if she's impudent," said Ann.
"Oh, but she's scarcely that," expostulated Horace; "she doesn't understand. I'll try to correct her sometime."
But he felt the blood come up to his hair as he promised; for it seemed almost impossible to approach the girl with a matter so personal. For the present, he dismissed the thought.
"What about the names, Ann?" he asked.
"As you wish, Dear; Fledra doesn't care."
From that moment, the boy, struggling with fever, and the gray-eyed girl, so like him, were called Floyd and Fledra Cronk.
One morning in January, the day before Flea was to begin her school work, she was passing through the hall that led to the front door. Her face was grave with timidity; although for hours Ann had been trying to fortify the young spirit against the ordeal that was to confront her the following day. Only once had Flea faltered a request that she be allowed to stay at home; but Horace had melted her objections without expelling her fear. To Ann's instructions concerning conduct she had listened with a heavy heart.
Everett Brimbecomb opened the front door as Flea approached it. She stopped short before him, and he drew in a sharp, quick breath. Flea was uncertain just what to do. She knew that he was going to marry Ann, and was also aware that he hated her brother and herself. Ann, however, had taught her to bow, and she now came forward with hesitant grace, and inclined her head slightly. The beauty of Flea made Everett regret that his objectionsto the twins had been so strenuous; but he would immediately establish a friendship with her that would please both Ann and Horace. He vowed that at the same time he would get some amusement out of it.
"Well! You've blossomed into a girl at last," he said banteringly, "and a mighty pretty one, too! I swear I shouldn't have known that you were one of those boys!"
Flea threw her peculiar eyes over him; but did not speak.
"You're going to school tomorrow, I hear. How do you like that?"
Flea shook her head.
"I don't want to go," she admitted; "but my Prince says as how I have to."
"Your what?"
"My Prince!"
"Your Prince! Who's your Prince?" demanded Brimbecomb.
"Him, back in there," replied Flea, casting her head backward in the direction of the library.
"You mean Mr. Shellington?"
"Yep!"
Everett burst into a loud laugh. At the sound, Horace stepped to his study-door and looked out. His face darkened as he discerned Flea standing against the wall and Brimbecomb looking down at her. He came forward and stationed himself at the girl's side, placing one hand upon her shoulder.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
"Why, little Miss—I'm sure I don't know the child's name," cried Everett breaking into merriment again, "she says you're a—Prince, Horace."
Shellington lowered his eyes to Flea, who was gazing up at him fearfully. She did not look at Everett; but made an uneasy gesture with her hand toward Horace. She had never seemed so appealingly adorable, and inwardly Everett cursed the stupidity that had allowed so many weeks to pass by without his having become Flea's friend.
There was silence, during which the girl locked and unlocked her fingers. Then she relieved it with the frank statement:
"This man here didn't seem to know nothin' about ye; so I told him ye was a Prince."
Ann's voice from the drawing-room caused Everett to turn on his heel, leaving Horace alone with Flea.
For a moment they were both quiet. Flea considered the toe of her slipper. A tear dropped to the front of her dress as Horace took her hand and led her into the library.
"Fledra," he said, using the new name with loving inflection, "what are you crying for?"
"I thought you was mad at me," she shuddered. "That bright-eyed duffer what I hate laughed when I said ye was a Prince. I hate his eyes, I do, and I hate him!"
Shellington did not correct her mistakes in English as he had done so often of late. With shaded remonstrance in his tone, he said:
"Fledra, he is going to marry my sister, and he's my friend."
"He ain't good enough for Sister Ann," muttered Flea stubbornly.
"She loves him, though, and that is enough to make us all treat him with respect."
Turning the subject abruptly, he continued:
"I'm expecting you to work very hard in school, Fledra. You will, won't you?"
"Yes," replied Flea, making sure to pronounce the word carefully.
Horace smiled so tenderly into her eyes that she grew frightened at the thumping of her heart and fled precipitately.