“You see,” he hurried on nervously, “they found out where I lived, and thought I might still want the pig—­”

Ann Shellington admonishingly touched her brother’s arm.  “Horace!” she urged; but he stopped her with a gesture.

“I think it mighty nice of them to come all the way from Dryden with a pig—­on my soul, I do, Ann!”

Taking a silver case from his pocket, he extracted a cigarette from it, while directing his attention to Flea.

“I want it now as much as I did then; but I don’t believe that I shall ever roast and eat him.”

Flea searched the speaker’s face fearfully, her eyes lustrous with melting tenderness.  He had promised her that Squeaky should live; but was he going to send Flukey away?  It was slow torture, this waiting for his verdict, each second measured full to the brim, each minute more agonizing than the last.

Horace Shellington was speaking again.  “You see, Katherine,” he said, turning to the younger girl, “I know this puzzles you; but these two youngsters won the pig at the fair, and I tried to buy it of them for a roast.  Just at that time this little—­chap—­” he motioned toward Flea, “didn’t want to part with it.  He’s changed his mind.  You see the pig is here.”

Miss Shellington did not supplement her brother’s statement; but the tall stranger with the brilliant eyes gazed dubiously at the table and then down into Flea’s face.

“I’ll bet my hat,” he said in a tone deep and rich, “that you boys have been thieving!”

Before the frightened girl could respond, the master of the house stepped between them; but not before Flea had caught an expression that took her back to Screech Owl’s hut.

“For shame, Everett!” chided Horace.  “I have just told you that they were trying to do me a favor.  The pig has come a long way, and I gave him some—­salad.  There’s plenty more in the larder.”

It was hard for Horace Shellington to lie flagrantly, and his explanation sounded forced.  The music in his voice pierced the childish lethargy of Flea’s soul, awakening it to womanhood.  Intuition told her that he had lied for her sake.

“And you gave him the birds, too?” Everett asked sneeringly, glancing at the scattered bones.

“No, I gave the dog the birds,” replied Horace simply.  “It seemed,” he proceeded slowly, “that just at that moment I felt for the hungry dog and pig more than I did for my guests.”

He had backed to his sister’s side with an imploring glance, and allowed his hand to rest lightly on hers.  She understood his message, and met his appeal.

“And now these young people have been so good to us,” she said, “we ought to repay them with a good supper.  If you will come with me, Boys, you shall have what you need....  Oh!  Yes, you can bring both the dog and the pig.”

A tranquil smile, sweet and pathetic, erased the pain-wrinkles from Flukey’s face.  Supper at last for his dear ones!