She had heard Ann explain it, too; but it seemed easier when Flukey interpreted it.

“If I could see and speak to Him once,” she mourned, “I could make Sister Ann glad by tellin’ her that I knowed He’d answer me.”

“Ask Him to let ye see Himself,” advised Flukey, “He’ll do it, I bet!  Will ye, Flea?”

“Nope!  I’d be ’fraid if He came and stood near me.  I’m ’fraid even now when I think of Him; but ’cause I can’t believe ’tain’t no reason why you can’t, Fluke.”

She turned her head toward the door and listened.

“Brother Horace ain’t like Sister Ann,” she whispered.

“Nobody ain’t like her, Flea.  She’s the best ever!”

“Yep, so she is.  But I wish as how—­” She paused, and a burning blush spread over her face.  “I wish as how Brother Horace had Sister Ann’s way of talking to me.  I could—­”

“Brother Horace ain’t nothin’ to do with yer believin’, Flea.”

“Yep, he has, and when he says as how he believes like Miss Shellington, then I’ll believe, too.  See?”

Then Flea fell into a stubborn silence.

One afternoon in December, Ann and Horace sat conversing in the library.

“I don’t see how Mrs. Vandecar can refuse to help you get that child into school, Ann.”

“I don’t believe she will; but Everett thinks she ought.”

“Everett’s getting some queer notions lately,” Horace said reluctantly.

Ann’s heart ached dully—­the happiness she had had in her lover had diminished of late.  Constantly unpleasant words passed between them on subjects of so little importance that Ann wondered, when she was alone, why they should have been said at all.  Several times Brimbecomb had refused to further his acquaintance with the twins.

“I only wish he would like those poor children,” said she.  “I care so little what our other friends think!”

Shellington pondered a moment.  He reflected on Flea’s beseeching face as she pleaded for Flukey, and he decided that the censure of all his acquaintances could not take his protection from her.

“No, I don’t care for the opinion of any of them,” he replied deliberately.  “I want only your happiness, Sis, and—­theirs.”

“Wouldn’t it be nice if we could find respectable names for them?” Ann said presently.  “One can’t harmonize them with ‘Flea’ and ‘Flukey.’”

After a silence of a few moments, Horace spoke: 

“What do you think about calling them Floyd and Fledra, Ann?”

“Oh, but would we dare do that, Horace?”

“Why not?  It wouldn’t harm the Vandecars, and the children might be better for it.  We could impress upon them what an honor it would be.”

“But the Vandecars’ own little lost children had those names.”

“That’s true, too; but I haven’t the least idea that either one of them will take offense, if you explain that we think it will help the youngsters.”