“When?”

“Last night.”

Fledra lifted her head and grasped the boy’s thin hands in hers.

“You’re sure it was last night, Fluke?”

“Yep, I be sure.  I was layin’ here with my face to the wall.  When Sister Ann comes in nights, if I don’t say anything, she thinks I be asleep, and she kisses me, and I like her to do that.  Last night, when she’d done kissing me, Mr. Shellington came in, and then they talked about us.”

“And he didn’t say we was to go away?”

“No.”

Fledra rose in sudden determination, and in her excitement spoke with swift reversion to the ancient manner.

“Flukey, ye be the best da——­”

Flukey thrust up a reproving finger which stopped the oath.

“Flea!” he cautioned.

“I were only goin’ to say, Flukey,” said Flea humbly, “that ye be the best kid in all the world.  Don’t tell anybody what I said about my Prince.”

She went out quickly.

* * * * *

With her hand upon her heart, Flea halted before the library.  She knew that Horace was there; for she could hear the rustling of papers.  At her timid knock, he bade her enter.  Her tongue clove so closely to the roof of her mouth that for a minute she could not speak.  She held out her fingers, and Horace took them in his.  His face whitened at her touch; but he gazed steadily at her.

“You’ve—­you’ve something to say to me, Fledra—­sweetheart?”

The hope in his voice rang out clearly.  Fledra nodded.

“What?”

He was determined she should explain away the black thing that had arisen between them.

“I didn’t come to tell ye about what happened,” said she; “but to say that, if ye don’t smile and don’t touch me sometimes, I’ll die—­I know I will!” Her tones were disjointed with emotion, and she felt the hands holding hers tighten.

“I can’t smile when I’m unhappy, Fledra.  I can’t!  I can’t!  This past week has been almost unbearable.”

“It’s been that way with me, too,” said Flea simply.

“Then why don’t you make us both happy by being honest with me?  If you didn’t care for me, I should have no right to force your confidence; but you really do, don’t you?”

“Yes; but I’m never goin’ to marry ye, because mebbe I can’t never tell ye.  I think ye might trust me.  It’s easy when ye love anyone.  I say, ye couldn’t marry me without, could ye?” She seemed to suddenly grow old in her sagacious argument.  Horace shook his head sadly.

“We’d never be happy, if I should,” said he, “because—­because I couldn’t trust you.”

“Oh, I want ye to trust me!” she wept.  “I want ye to!  Won’t you once more?  Please do!  Won’t ye forget that anything ever happened—­won’t ye?”

For a moment her supplication almost unnerved him; but he thought of their future, of the necessity of having unlimited faith and honor between them, and again slowly shook his head.