She flung out her hands in eloquent appeal.

“Oh, I thank ye for covering my brother up so warm!  He didn’t need no sheets nor piller-slips; but his bones did need the blankets—­sure.  I say as how he’d thank ye, too, if he weren’t offen his head.”

Horace gently took the girl’s hands in his, and Flea lowered her sun-browned face.

“I know he would, child,” he said in moved tones.  “He’s more than welcome to all we can do—­and you are to stay here, too, little girl.”

Horace had done what Ann had been unable to do.  The words had soothed the squatter girl, and the savage young heart was softened.  The long, dreary country marches were over; the cold nights and bare fields were things of the past.  For Flukey, there were tender hands that would ease his pain; for her, a home unmenaced by Lem.  She had looked her last upon horrors that had bound her to a life she hated.

Shellington spoke to her.

“Look at me, child!” said he.  “I want to tell you what the doctor said.”

She lifted an anxious gaze filled with the emotion of a woman’s soul.  It was her dawning womanhood that Horace saw, and toward it his manhood was unconsciously drawn.

Ann spoke quietly: 

“The doctor says that your brother will be ill many weeks, and we have decided to keep him here with us, if you consent to our arrangements.”

“Ye mean,” gasped Flea, snatching her hands from Horace, “ye mean that Flukey can lay in that there bed till he gets all well and all the misery has gone out of his bones?”

Ann’s answer meant much to Flea.  The girl had realized the import of the speech; but, that she might better understand the words, she had sent them questioningly back in her vernacular for further confirmation.

“If you are willing to stay with us,” Horace was saying, “and will help us take care of him—­”

He could not have offered anything else that would so have touched her.  How she had longed to do something for Flukey those last hours in the graveyard!  But Flea wanted no mistake.  Did the gentleman understand how terribly poor they were?

“We ain’t got no money, and we only own Squeaky and Snatchet.”

Shellington smiled at the interruption.

“You will still own your dog and pig, child, if you ever wish to go away.  My sister and I are anxious to have your brother grow strong and well.  He has rheumatic fever, which is sometimes very stubborn, and if we don’t work hard—­”

He paused, tempted to pass one arm about the girl as his sister had done; but the womanliness of her forbade.

“Ye think Flukey mightn’ get well?” Flea breathed.

Ann turned anxious eyes upon the boy, who was muttering incoherently.

“Poor little child!  May Jesus help him!” she whispered.

Flea rose to her feet.

“Jesus!  Jesus!” she repeated solemnly.  “Granny Cronk used to talk about him.  He’s the Man what’s a sleepin’ in the grave with the kid with the same name as that bright-eyed duffer who don’t like Fluke nor me.”