Flea threw her peculiar eyes over him; but did not speak.

“You’re going to school tomorrow, I hear.  How do you like that?”

Flea shook her head.

“I don’t want to go,” she admitted; “but my Prince says as how I have to.”

“Your what?”

“My Prince!”

“Your Prince!  Who’s your Prince?” demanded Brimbecomb.

“Him, back in there,” replied Flea, casting her head backward in the direction of the library.

“You mean Mr. Shellington?”

“Yep!”

Everett burst into a loud laugh.  At the sound, Horace stepped to his study-door and looked out.  His face darkened as he discerned Flea standing against the wall and Brimbecomb looking down at her.  He came forward and stationed himself at the girl’s side, placing one hand upon her shoulder.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Why, little Miss—­I’m sure I don’t know the child’s name,” cried
Everett breaking into merriment again, “she says you’re a—­Prince,
Horace.”

Shellington lowered his eyes to Flea, who was gazing up at him fearfully.  She did not look at Everett; but made an uneasy gesture with her hand toward Horace.  She had never seemed so appealingly adorable, and inwardly Everett cursed the stupidity that had allowed so many weeks to pass by without his having become Flea’s friend.

There was silence, during which the girl locked and unlocked her fingers.  Then she relieved it with the frank statement: 

“This man here didn’t seem to know nothin’ about ye; so I told him ye was a Prince.”

Ann’s voice from the drawing-room caused Everett to turn on his heel, leaving Horace alone with Flea.

For a moment they were both quiet.  Flea considered the toe of her slipper.  A tear dropped to the front of her dress as Horace took her hand and led her into the library.

“Fledra,” he said, using the new name with loving inflection, “what are you crying for?”

“I thought you was mad at me,” she shuddered.  “That bright-eyed duffer what I hate laughed when I said ye was a Prince.  I hate his eyes, I do, and I hate him!”

Shellington did not correct her mistakes in English as he had done so often of late.  With shaded remonstrance in his tone, he said: 

“Fledra, he is going to marry my sister, and he’s my friend.”

“He ain’t good enough for Sister Ann,” muttered Flea stubbornly.

“She loves him, though, and that is enough to make us all treat him with respect.”

Turning the subject abruptly, he continued: 

“I’m expecting you to work very hard in school, Fledra.  You will, won’t you?”

“Yes,” replied Flea, making sure to pronounce the word carefully.

Horace smiled so tenderly into her eyes that she grew frightened at the thumping of her heart and fled precipitately.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN