Still more interested in his absent sister than in his newly found parent, Floyd put in: 

“I’ll do anything ye say, if ye’ll go for Flea.”

Ann touched the father’s arm gently.

“Come upstairs now.”

* * * * *

Mrs. Vandecar was alone when her husband entered.  She was sitting near the window, her eyes pensive and sad.  The governor advanced a step, thrusting back the desire to blurt out the truth.  The woman glanced into his eyes, and the change there brought her to her feet.  Her face paled, and she put out her slender, trembling hands.

“There’s something the matter, Floyd....  What’s—­what’s happened?...  I heard the bell ring.”

In an instant he crushed her to him, and in an agitated voice whispered gently: 

“Darling, can you stand very good news—­very, very good news, indeed?...  No, no; if you tremble like that, I sha’n’t tell you.  It’s only when you promise me—­”

“I promise, I promise, Floyd!  Is it anything about our—­our children?”

“Yes—­I have found them!”

How many times for lesser things had she fainted!  How many hours had she lain too weak to speak!  He expected her now to evince her frail spirit.  He felt her shiver, felt her muscles tighten, until she seemed to grow taller as he held her.  Then she drooped a little, as if afraid.  Dazedly she brushed back her tumbled hair, her eyes flashing past him in the direction of the door.

“Bring—­bring them—­to—­me!” she breathed.

Just how to explain her daughter’s danger pressed heavily upon him.  He dared not picture Lon Cronk or the man Floyd had described.  To gain a moment, he said: 

“I will, Dear; but only one of them is here.  The other one—­”

“Which one is here?”

“The boy, Sweetheart, our own Floyd.”

Although she was shaking like a leaf, Vandecar saw that she was not fainting, and when she struggled to be free he released her.  She staggered a little, and said helplessly: 

“Then, why—­why don’t you bring—­him to me?”

“I will, if you’ll sit down and let me tell you something.”  He knelt beside her and spoke tenderly: 

“Sweetheart, our children have been near us for months.  They came to Ann and Horace—­”

Fledra Vandecar gave a glad little cry.

“It was he, then, the pretty boy that prayed!  Oh, Floyd, something told me!  But you said he was here alone.  Where is my girl?”

“That’s what I want to tell you, Fledra.  Look at me, dear heart.”

The eyes, wandering first from his face, then to the door, fell upon him.  They seemed to demand the truth, and he dared not utter a lie to her.

“By some crooked work, which Everett and the squatter—­”

His words brought back Horace’s story.  A strange horror paled her cheeks and widened her eyes.

“That man, the one who called himself her father, took her back to Ithaca.  Is that what you wanted to tell me?”