With infinite tenderness, Ann led Flea into the pretty blue bedroom. The
girl drew back with an exclamation.
"It's too nice for a squatter! But I'm glad you put Fluke in that red
place, 'cause it looks so warm and feels warm. But me--"
Ann interrupted hastily.
"You remember my brother saying that you were going to stay here with us
until your brother was well?"
Flea assented.
"Then, as long as you are with us, you will be our guest just as though
you were my sister. Would you like to be my sister?"
Flea dropped her gaze before the earnest eyes.
"Yep!" she choked. "But I'm a squatter, Missus, and squatters don't
count for nothin'. But Fluke--"
"Poor child! She can't think of anyone but her brother," Miss
Shellington murmured to herself.
But Flea caught the words.
"He's so good--oh, so awful good--and he ain't never had no chance with
Pappy Lon. If he gets well, we'll work together, and we won't steal
nothin' ever no more."
"I feel positive you won't," assured Ann. "You remember, I told you
tonight how very good God is to all His children, and you are a child of
His, and you know that the Bible says that you must never take anything
that doesn't belong to you."
"Nope, I ain't never seen no Bible," faltered Flea.
"Then I'm going to give you one, and you can learn to read it. Wouldn't
you be happy if your brother should get well, and you knew that your
prayers had done it?"
"It wouldn't be me, Ma'm; 'twould be you and your brother."
Ann considered how she should best begin to open the young mind to
truth.
"Child, would you like me to tell you a story?" she asked presently.
"Yep," replied Flea eagerly. "Is it about fairies, or ghosts, or goblins
what live near lakes?"
"No; it's about Jesus, who died to save the world."
Then gently and simply Ann told the story of the Passion to the
wondering girl, and shortly after left her to sleep.
Miss Shellington went to her brother's study, and he met her with a
quizzical smile.
"You've woven a net about yourself, Sis, haven't you?" said he.
"And about you, too, Dear," Ann retorted. "But, Horace, I shouldn't have
thought of keeping them, if you hadn't consented."
She looked so troubled, her brow puckered up in thought, that he smiled
again.
"Of course, you wouldn't--I know that. But I'm not in the least sorry.
We've money enough to do a kindness once in awhile. And as long as you
don't work yourself to death over them I sha'n't complain."
They were silent for a little while. Then presently Ann spoke musingly:
"Horace, do those children remind you of someone?"
"I don't know that they do. I'm not a fellow who notices resemblances.
Why?"
"I can't tell. Only, when they stood there tonight by the table,
looking so forlorn, there was something familiar about them."
"Your dear, tender heart imagined it," Horace declared.
"Possibly. Still, the feeling has been with me ever since. Horace, I've
always wanted to do some real work, and don't you think this--"
"Hark!" Horace interrupted. "Wasn't that the bell?"
"Yes, it's Everett, I hope," said Ann, rising, "I thought perhaps he
would run in. Yes, I hear his voice! Shall I bring him in here for a few
moments?"
"Yes."
When Everett came in, Horace noted that he had lost the frown.
Brimbecomb good naturedly demanded if Ann intended to start a
kindergarten. He recounted how Mr. and Mrs. Vandecar had received their
excuses, and then said:
"Ann, Mrs. Vandecar thought you so charitably inclined. She seemed quite
exercised over the story. But you don't intend to keep them here after
tomorrow morning, do you?"
"Well, you see, Everett," Ann explained, "Horace and I have talked for a
long time about doing some real charity work; so now we're going to try
an experiment."
"These boys--"