Fledra’s past experiences with her squatter father were still so vivid in her mind that she made no further appeal to him; for she feared to suffer again the humiliation of a blow before Lem.  She stood near the table, shivering, her teeth chattering, and her body swaying with fright and cold.  To whom did she dare turn?  Not to Ann or to Horace; for Lon had forbidden it.  To tell Flukey would only make him very ill again.  Lon was advancing toward her as these thoughts raced through her mind.  She drew back when he thrust out one of his horny hands.

“I ain’t a goin’ to hit ye, Flea; but I’m goin’ to make ye know that I ain’t goin’ to have no foolin’, and that ye belong to me, and so does Flukey, and that, when I come for ye, ye’re to have yer duds ready.”

Lem neared the open window, and Lon turned to follow him.

* * * * *

For fully three minutes after they had gone, the girl stood watching the black hole through which they had disappeared, where now the snow came fluttering in.  Then she crept forward and lowered the window noiselessly.  With swift footsteps she ran back through the hall and into the bedroom.  After turning on the light, she drew on a dressing-gown and slipped her feet into a pair of red slippers.

Somewhere from the story above came the sound of footfalls, and then the creaking of stairs.  The girl stood holding her hand over her beating heart.  A servant, or possibly Ann, had heard the noises and was coming down.  Suddenly into her mind came the prayer Floyd loved.

“Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, look upon a little child.”

She said the words over several times; but had ceased whispering when a low knock came upon her door.  She opened it, and saw Horace standing in his dressing-gown and slippers.  For a moment she looked at him with almost unseeing eyes, and her lips moved tremulously, as if she would speak and could not.  Horace, noticing her agitation, spoke first.

“Fledra, I thought I heard you.  I looked down and saw a light shining from your window.  Is anything the matter?”

Fledra could not find her voice to reply.  She had not expected him, and, locking her fingers tightly together, she stood wide-lidded and trembling.

“Were you speaking to someone?” asked Horace.

“Yes, I was.  I was speaking to Jesus just before you came.  I was asking Him to help me.”

The man looked at the red gown hanging over her white nightrobe, the tossed black curls, and the pale, sensitive face before he said: 

“Fledra, whatever is the matter with you?  Surely, there is something I can do.”

“Sister Ann said I would be happier, and we all would, if I asked Jesus; and I was askin’ Him jest now.”

Horace eyed her dubiously.

“It is right to ask Him to help you, of course; but, child, it isn’t right for you to act toward me as you do.”