Flukey was on his knees, leaning against the wall, his feverish fingers
clutching his curls.
"Horace! Horace!" called Ann.
Shellington opened the dining-room door and went out hurriedly, leaving
Everett Brimbecomb and Katherine Vandecar still surveying the
disarranged table.
"It all seems strange to me, Katherine; I mean--this," said Everett,
waving his hand. "I scarcely believed Horace when he said he had allowed
it."
As he spoke, he approached the table and lifted the soiled cloth between
his fingers.
"You can see for yourself," he said, "the marks of the pig's feet on the
linen."
Katherine examined the spots. "But it really doesn't matter, does it?"
she said. "The poor little animals were hungry, and Horace has such a
big heart!" and she sighed.
Everett made an angry gesture. "But I object to Ann having anything to
do with such--" he hesitated and finished, "such youngsters. There's no
need of it."
"Oh, Everett--but those two children must be cared for! Horace will come
back in a few minutes, and then we'll know all about it."
"In the meantime I'm hungry," grumbled Everett, "and if we're going to
the theater--"
He had no time to finish his sentence before Horace, with a grave
countenance, opened the door.
"I'm sorry, Katherine," he apologized, and then stopped; for he noticed
Everett's face dark with anger. Shellington did not forget that his
friends had come to dinner; but he had just witnessed a scene that had
touched his heart, and he determined to make both of his guests
understand it also.
[Illustration: "I'M GOIN' TO TAKE HIS KIDS--AND I'LL MAKE OF 'EM WHAT I
BE."]
"The evening has turned out differently from what Ann and I expected,"
he explained. "The fact is that sister can't go to the theater, and I
feel that I ought to stay with her. So, we'll order another dinner, and
then, Everett, if you and Katherine don't--" His fingers had touched
the bell as he was speaking; but Everett stopped him.
"If the boy is too ill to be taken to a hospital," he said coldly, "Ann
might be persuaded to leave him with the servants."
"Yes, I suggested that," answered Horace; "but she refused. The boy has
somehow won her heart, and the doctor will be here at any moment."
A servant appeared, and in a half-hour the table was spread with another
dinner. Ann's coming to the dining-room did not raise the spirits of the
party; for her eyes were red from weeping, and she refused to eat.
"I've never known before, Everett," she said, "that children could
suffer as that little boy does."
"And you shouldn't know it now, Ann, if I had my way," objected
Brimbecomb. "There's a strong line drawn between their kind and ours,
and places have been provided for such people. I really want you to come
with us tonight."
In sharp astonishment, Ann turned on him.
"Oh, I really couldn't, Everett!" she said, beginning to sob. "I
shouldn't enjoy one moment of the time, while thinking of that poor
child. You take Katherine, and say to Governor and Mrs. Vandecar that we
couldn't come tonight. Tell them about it or not as you please. They are
both good and kind, and will understand."
Her tears had ceased during the latter part of her speech; for the frown
had deepened on Everett's brow, bringing determination to her own. Never
before had she been forced to exercise her wish above his, and
Brimbecomb was not prepared for it. Something new had been born in the
large, sad eyes turned to his, something he did not comprehend, and he
inwardly cursed the squatter children.
At eight o'clock Everett handed Katherine into the carriage and gloomily
took his place beside her. They were late at the theater by several
minutes, when he brushed aside the curtain and ushered Miss Vandecar
into the Governor's box. Mrs. Vandecar was seated in the far corner, her
attention directed upon the play. Vandecar rose quietly, and before
resuming his seat waited until his niece had taken her place. Then they
were silent until the curtain fell after the first act.
"Where are Horace and Ann?" asked Mrs. Vandecar of Everett. "Ann
telephoned me at dinner-time that she would be here."
Everett inclined his head toward Katherine, and the girl explained the
situation. When she had added pathos to the story by telling of Flukey's
illness, Mrs. Vandecar broke in.
"I'm glad Ann stayed, dear girl! It's like her to nurse that sick
child." She said no more; but turned away with misty eyes.
During the next act the Governor drew near her, and amid the shadows of
the darkened box, took up the slender fingers and held them until the
lights flashed upon the falling curtain. Both had gone back in memory to
those dreadful days when tragedy had cast its somber shadows over them.
* * * * *
The doctor had predicted a serious illness for Flukey. Ann and Horace
held an earnest conversation about it. Miss Shellington's maid had been
instructed to relieve Flea of her boy's attire and clothe her in some of
Ann's garments. Horace led his sister to the room where Flukey lay, and
suggested that Flea be called.
A servant appeared at the touch of the bell.
"Tell the boy's sister to come here," said Horace.
When Flea knocked at the door a few minutes later, he bade her enter.
Suppressing her pleasure and surprise at the girl's loveliness, Ann
walked forward to meet her; but the little stranger backed timidly
against the door and flashed a blushing glance at the man.
The mauve dressing-gown, reaching to the floor, displayed to advantage
the girl's lithe figure, accentuating its long, graceful lines. The
bodice, opened at the neck, exposed the slender white throat, around
which the summer's sun had tanned a ruddy ring. Her hair had been parted
in the center and twined in adorable curls about the young head.
The transformation drew an untactful ejaculation from Horace, and he
stared intently at the sensitive face. Flea's gray eyes, after the first
hasty glance at him, sought Flukey.
"Flukey ain't so awful sick, be he?" she questioned fearfully.
Ann passed an arm tenderly around her. "Yes, child, he is very ill. My
brother and I want to speak to you about him."
"But he ain't goin' dead?"
Her tone brought Horace nearer. In spite of Flea's somberness, the
bouyancy of her youth obliterated the memory of every other girl he
knew. He was confounded by the thought that a short time before she had
stood as a ragged boy before him. She had been transformed into
womanhood by Ann's clothing.
Flea bent over Flukey and hid her face. Even when Horace had discovered
the pig in the salad, her embarrassment had been of small moment to
this. After an instant, she lifted her eyes from her muttering brother
and allowed them to fall upon her Prince. There was an unmistakable
smile upon his lips; nevertheless, a great fear possessed her. If Flukey
were allowed to stay there because of his illness, she at least would be
taken away; for she had never heard of a theft being entirely
overlooked, and she believed that her imprisonment must be the penalty.
She stooped a little and lovingly touched Flukey's shoulder, looking
first at Ann, then at Horace. Straightening up, she burst out:
"Mister, if ye're goin' to have me pinched for stealin', do it quick
before my brother knows about it, and--I'd ruther go to prison in
Fluke's pants--please!"
Still the master of the house did not speak. Flea was filled with
suspicion, and thought she divined the cause of his quietness and smile.
He was ridiculing her dress, perhaps making sport of the way her curls
were arranged. She thrust one hand upward and tumbled the mass of hair
into disorder.
"Yer woman put these togs onto me," she said, "and I feel like an old
guy--dressed up this way!"
Anger forced tears into her eyes, and her two small brown hands clenched
under the hanging lace at her wrists. Her words and the spontaneous
action deepened the expression on the face of the silent man, and she
cried out again:
"Ye needn't be making fun of me, Mister! I can't help how I look."
But a feverish exclamation from the sick boy so increased her anxiety
for him that her own troubles were overwhelmed. She was rendered
unmindful that Ann had softly called her name; nor did she realize that
Shellington had spoken quietly to her.
She flung out her hands in eloquent appeal.
"Oh, I thank ye for covering my brother up so warm! He didn't need no
sheets nor piller-slips; but his bones did need the blankets--sure. I
say as how he'd thank ye, too, if he weren't offen his head."
Horace gently took the girl's hands in his, and Flea lowered her
sun-browned face.
"I know he would, child," he said in moved tones. "He's more than
welcome to all we can do--and you are to stay here, too, little girl."
Horace had done what Ann had been unable to do. The words had soothed
the squatter girl, and the savage young heart was softened. The long,
dreary country marches were over; the cold nights and bare fields were
things of the past. For Flukey, there were tender hands that would ease
his pain; for her, a home unmenaced by Lem. She had looked her last upon
horrors that had bound her to a life she hated.
Shellington spoke to her.
"Look at me, child!" said he. "I want to tell you what the doctor said."
She lifted an anxious gaze filled with the emotion of a woman's soul. It
was her dawning womanhood that Horace saw, and toward it his manhood was
unconsciously drawn.
Ann spoke quietly:
"The doctor says that your brother will be ill many weeks, and we have
decided to keep him here with us, if you consent to our arrangements."
"Ye mean," gasped Flea, snatching her hands from Horace, "ye mean that
Flukey can lay in that there bed till he gets all well and all the
misery has gone out of his bones?"
Ann's answer meant much to Flea. The girl had realized the import of the
speech; but, that she might better understand the words, she had sent
them questioningly back in her vernacular for further confirmation.
"If you are willing to stay with us," Horace was saying, "and will help
us take care of him--"
He could not have offered anything else that would so have touched her.
How she had longed to do something for Flukey those last hours in the
graveyard! But Flea wanted no mistake. Did the gentleman understand how
terribly poor they were?
"We ain't got no money, and we only own Squeaky and Snatchet."
Shellington smiled at the interruption.
"You will still own your dog and pig, child, if you ever wish to go
away. My sister and I are anxious to have your brother grow strong and
well. He has rheumatic fever, which is sometimes very stubborn, and if
we don't work hard--"
He paused, tempted to pass one arm about the girl as his sister had
done; but the womanliness of her forbade.
"Ye think Flukey mightn' get well?" Flea breathed.
Ann turned anxious eyes upon the boy, who was muttering incoherently.
"Poor little child! May Jesus help him!" she whispered.
Flea rose to her feet.
"Jesus! Jesus!" she repeated solemnly. "Granny Cronk used to talk about
him. He's the Man what's a sleepin' in the grave with the kid with the
same name as that bright-eyed duffer who don't like Fluke nor me."
Ann, mystified, glanced at Horace.
Flukey turned slowly, opened his eyes, and murmured;
"'Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, look upon a little--'"
He sighed painfully as the last words trailed from his lips. Flea ended
his quotation, saying:
"'A little child.' But, Flukey, Jesus is dead and buried."
"No, no, He isn't, child!" cried Ann sharply. "He'll never die. He will
always help little children."
"Ain't He a restin' in the dead man's yard out there?"
demanded Flea, lifting her robe as she moved toward Ann.
"No! indeed, no! He is everywhere, with the dead and the living, with
men and women, and also with little children."
"Where be He?" Flea asked.
"In Heaven," replied Ann, leaning over Flukey. "And He's able even to
raise the dead."
Flea grasped her arm.
"Then, if He's everywhere, as ye've jest said, can't ye--"
Flukey opened his eyes.
"If ye know that Man Jesus, well enough," he broke forth, trying to take
her hand in his, "if ye ever sees Him to speak to Him, will ye say that,
if He'll let my bones get well, and keep my little Flea from Lem, I'll
do all He says for me to? Tell Him--tell--tell Him, Ma'm, that my bones
be--almost a bustin'."
"Can He help Fluke any if ye ask Him?" Flea questioned.
Ann nodded; but Flea, not satisfied, asked the question directly of
Horace.
"I believe so," he hesitated; "yes, I do believe that He can and will
help your brother."
"Will ye ask Him?" Flea pleaded. "Will ye both ask Him?"
Ann answered yes quickly; and Flea was satisfied with the nod Horace
gave her before he wheeled about to the window.
When Flukey was resting under the physician's medicine, Horace and Ann
listened to the tale of the squatter children's lives, told by Flea. It
was then that Shellington promised her that Squeaky should find a future
home on their farm among other animals of the kind, and that he would
make it his task to see that the little pig had plenty to eat, plenty of
sunshine, and a home such as few little pigs had. Snatchet, too, Horace
promised, should be housed in a warm kennel with the greyhounds and
blooded pups.
When Flea leaned over Flukey to say goodnight to him, she breathed:
"This be the promised land, all right, Fluke! Ain't we lucky kids to be
here?"