“Oh, do everything you ought to, Floyd, if you discover that they have really been abused.  It might be that they would be really harmed if they were taken back to their home.  Did Horace tell you where they lived?”

“Yes, near Ithaca somewhere.  I think he said they had a shanty on Cayuga Lake.”

“One of the squatters?”

“Yes.”

“I remember very well,” remarked Mrs. Vandecar after a moment’s thought, “when I went to Ithaca with Ann Shellington, and Horace and Everett were graduated from the university, that we went up the lake in Brimbecomb’s yacht.  The boys called our attention to numbers of huts on the west shore, near the head of Cayuga.  I suppose it must be one of those places the children left.”

“I presume so,” replied the governor.

“Ann telephoned over that the boy was ill with a rheumatic heart.  She seemed quite alarmed over it.”

“He probably won’t get well, if that’s the case,” murmured Vandecar.  “It’s a pernicious thing when it attacks the heart.  Wasn’t it rather strange that Ann and Horace should have used our names for them, Fledra?”

“You remember Ann asked me if I cared.  She said that when they came they had some strange nicknames, and that they wanted to make them forget about their former lives, and it really pleased the poor little things to have our names.  I don’t mind; do you, Floyd?”

“No,” was the answer.  “I only wish—­” He stopped quickly and turned to his wife.

Her eyes were filled with tears.  Floyd Vandecar’s wish had been her own, that she knew.

“I wish you had a son, too, Floyd dear!” she sobbed.  “Oh, my babies, my poor, pretty little babies!”

“Don’t Fledra, don’t!” pleaded her husband.  “It was God’s will, and we must bow to it.”

“It’s so hard, though, Floyd, so awfully hard, and the days have been so long!  Floyd, do you ever wonder and wonder where they are?”

The man shook his shoulders sharply.

“Do I ever wonder, Fledra?  My hair is whitened, my life shortened, and many of my efforts of no avail, because of my sorrow and yours.  If the days have been long to you, they have been longer to me; if your heart has been torn over their disappearance, mine has been doubly hurt, because—­because you have depended upon me to return them to you, and I have not been able to.”

He spoke drearily, shading his face with his hand.

“Floyd, dear Floyd, I’m not blaming you.  I realize that if it had been possible you would have given me back my babies, and you must not say that your efforts have been of no avail.  Why, dear husband, the papers are full of your great, strong doings.  I’m immensely proud of you.”  She had leaned over him; but the despondent man did not take the hand from his eyes.

“Of all the strange cases, Fledra, ours is the strangest.  You remember how I turned the state almost upside down to find those children.  Yet, with all the power I could bring to bear, I made no headway.”