The years went on, with the gap still left wide in the Vandecar household.  As month after month passed and nothing was heard of her children, Mrs. Vandecar gradually gave up hope.  Her despair left a shadow of pathetic pleading in her blue eyes.  This constant silent appeal whitened Floyd Vandecar’s hair and caused him to apply himself to business more assiduously than ever.  Never once in all those bitter years did he connect Lon Cronk with the disappearance of his babies.

Meantime two sturdy children were growing to girlhood and boyhood in the Cronk hut on Cayuga Lake.  So safely had the secret of the kidnapping been kept from Granny Cronk and the other squatters in the settlement that the twins were regarded by all as the son and daughter of the squatter.

The year following Flea’s and Flukey’s fourteenth birthday the boy was taken into his foster-father’s trade of thieving.  At first he was allowed only to enter the houses and deftly unbar the door for an easier egress for Eli Cronk and Lem Crabbe.  Later he was commanded to snatch up anything of value he could.  Many were the times he wept in boyish bitterness against the commands of Lon, revealing his sorrows to Flea, who listened moodily.

“I wouldn’t steal nothin’ if I was you,” she said again and again.  But Flukey one day silenced this reiteration by confiding to her that Pappy Lon had threatened to turn her to his trade if he rebelled.

* * * * *

One afternoon in late September, Flea left the hut and went out to the lake.  Flukey, Lon Cronk, and Lem Crabbe had gone to Ithaca to buy groceries, and it was time for them to return.  A chill wind swung the girl’s skirt about her knees, and for some minutes she squatted on the beach, keeping her eyes upon the lighthouse in the distance.

For the last year Flea had been rapidly growing into a woman.  Granny Cronk had proudly noted that the fair face had grown lovelier, that the ebony curls fell about her shoulders.  The one dream the girl had had was a dream of long hair, ankle dresses, and girl’s shoes.  Until that year Lon had insisted that her hair be kept short, and had himself trimmed the ebony curls every month.  Now, in the damp air, they twisted and turned in the wildest profusion.  The coming of womanhood had thrown new light into the clear-gray, brown-flecked eyes.  At this moment she was wondering what she and her brother would do if Granny Cronk died.  She shivered as she thought of life in the hut without the protecting old woman.

Suddenly, from above the Lehigh Valley tracks, she heard the sound of horses’ hoofs.  Her attention taken from her meditations, she lifted her pensive gaze from the lake, wheeled about, and looked for the horseman.  Flea knew that it was not a summer cottager; for many days before the last of them had taken his family to Ithaca.  Perhaps some chance wayfarer had followed the wrong road.  Just below