A flush crawled to his forehead as the rich young voice flung the question at him.  She was so maddeningly beautiful, so young and clinging!  But she must bend to his will in a thing like this!  In his desire to set her right, he answered somewhat harshly.

“You must tell me; of course, you must!”

Fledra threw him a glance, pleading for leniency.  She had expected him to importune, to scold, but in the end to trust.  Suddenly, in the girl’s imagination, Ann’s gentle face bending over Floyd rose in its loving kindness.

“Then—­then,” she stammered, “if you won’t have me, unless I tell you—­then I’ll go now—­please!”

She left him with pathetic dignity, and her last glance showed his eyes, too, filled with a strange pain.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The next week held unutterable pain for Flea, each twenty-four hours deepening her unhappiness more and more.  She made no effort to talk with Shellington, nor did she mention her sorrow to Ann.  It did not seem necessary to her that she should again speak to Horace of going away.  When she had last suggested it, he had said that nothing she could do would alter his decision about his home being hers until Floyd should be well.  Nevertheless, an innate pride surged constantly within her.  Any deprivation would be more welcome than the studied toleration that, she thought, she encountered in Horace.

One morning she stood looking questioningly down at her brother.

“How near well are ye, Fluke?”

“Ain’t never goin’ to get well!” he replied, shivering. “’Tain’t easy to get pains out of a feller’s bones when they once get in.”

“If you do get well soon, I think we’d better go away.”

“Why?” demanded Flukey.

“Because we wasn’t asked to stay only till you got well.”

“Don’t ye believe it, Flea!  Ye wasn’t here last night.  Brother Horace and Sister Ann thought I was to sleep, and I wasn’t.”

“What did they say?” broke in the girl, with whitening face.

“Sister Ann told Mr. Shellington about yer work at school, and he said—­as how—­”

Floyd waited a moment before continuing, and Flea crept closer to the bed.  She was crying softly as she knelt down and bent her face over her brother.  The boy passed his hands through the black curls.

“What’s the matter, Flea?”

“I want to know what my Prince said to Sister Ann.”

“Be ye crying about him?”

“Yes!”

“Ye love him, I bet!”

Flea buried her face deeper into the soft counterpane; but she managed to make an affirmative gesture with her head.

Floyd was silent, and sometime passed before he heard the girl’s smothered voice: 

“And I’m goin’ to love him always—­even after we go away!”

“We ain’t goin’ away,” said Floyd.

“Who said so?”

“Mr. Shellington.”