“Some day, Shellington, you’ll apologize to me for your implied accusation.  You have taken—­”

“Pardon me,” Horace interrupted, “but I must ask you to leave.  I’m going to Governor Vandecar.”

No sooner had his visitor closed the door than Horace stooped and picked up the paper from under his foot.  Going to the window, he opened the sheet, smoothed it out, and read: 

     “Mr. Brimbecomb.—­

“I told you I got the letter you wrote me, and you know I can’t ever love you.  I hate your kisses—­they made me lie to Sister Ann, and I couldn’t tell Brother Horace how it happened.  I am going back to Lem and Pappy Lon to Ithaca because you and Pappy Lon said as how I must or they would kill Brother Horace.  But I hate you, I hate you—­and I will always hate you.

     FLEDRA CRONK.”

Like a brand of fire, every word seared the reader’s brain.  As his hand crushed the letter, Horace’s head dropped down on his arm, and deep sobs shook him.  The girl had gone for his sake, and was now braving unspeakable dangers to save him from an evil trumped up by his enemies.  Tense-muscled, he sprang to his feet and rushed into the hall.

“My God!  What a fool I’ve been!  Ann, Ann!  Here, read this!” His words, pronounced in a voice unlike his own, were almost incoherent.  He threw the paper at the trembling girl, as he continued, “Brimbecomb dropped it on the floor.  Now I think Governor Vandecar will help me!  I’m going to Ithaca!”

With the letter held tightly in her hands, the woman read over twice the pitiful denunciation; then, tearless and strong, she went to her brother.

“What—­what are you going to do for her first, Dear?”

“I must go to Albany and see the governor.”

* * * * *

In the flurry of the departure little more was said, and before an hour had passed Horace Shellington had taken the train for Albany.  He had instructed Ann to tell Floyd what had induced Fledra to leave them, and Ann lost no time in communicating the contents of the little tear-stained letter written to Everett.

Later in the day Ann received a telegram from her brother in which she learned that he had missed the governor, who was on his way to Tarrytown.  Horace said, also, that he himself was starting for Ithaca by way of Auburn.  Ann sat down beside Floyd and read the message to him.

“Did he say,” asked the boy, “that the governor was comin’ here to Tarrytown?”

“Yes.”

For many moments Floyd lay deep in thought.

“I’m goin’ to Governor Vandecar’s myself.  If he’s the big man ye say he is, then he can help us.  Get me my clothes, Sister Ann.”

“It won’t do any good, Floyd,” argued Ann.  “Governor Vandecar has always thought that your father ought to have his children.  He doesn’t realize how you’ve suffered through him.”

“I’m goin’, anyway,” insisted Floyd doggedly.  “Get my clothes, Sister Ann.  I can walk.”