Horace saw the change on Brimbecomb's face and said hurriedly:
"The girl had on her brother's clothes, that's all."
"Strange proceedings all the way through, though," snapped Everett.
He was showing himself in a new light, and Horace noted that the young
lawyer's face bore sarcasm and unpleasant cynicism. He wondered that
his gentle, obedient sister had gathered courage to stand against her
lover's wishes; for Everett had expressed a decided objection to Ann's
working for the squatter children. Suddenly he felt a twinge of dislike
for the man before him, and his respect for Ann deepened. How many
girls, he reasoned, would have the courage and desire thus to take in
two suffering children? He rose quickly and left the room.
Everett took up the argument again with Miss Shellington:
"Ann, you're going very much against my wishes if you keep those
children here."
"I'm sorry, Dear," she said simply; "but you know--"
"I know that you won't do anything of which I disapprove, Ann."
"You're mistaken, Everett," Ann contradicted slowly. "I could not allow
even you to mark out my duty. And something makes me so anxious to help
them! I don't want to go against your wishes; but--I must do as my
conscience dictates."
"Surely you don't mean, Ann, that if you were my wife you would force--"
"Please don't, Everett! No, of course not; but this is Horace's home and
mine, and, if we desire to share it with someone less fortunate than we
are, you shouldn't object."
Everett took up no more time in vain argument; but registered a vow that
he would make it warm for the beggars who had thrust themselves upon the
Shellingtons. He would search for an opportunity! Impatient and
unsettled, he left Ann. She, too, was unhappy; for it had been the first
time her duty had ever clashed with her love. The shock of the collision
hurt.
The next morning Flea crept into her brother's room and stood looking
down at him. He opened his eyes languidly, smiled, and groaned.
"Ain't yer bones any better this mornin'?" asked Flea in an awed
whisper.
"Yep; but my heart hurts me. The pains round it be worse than the misery
in my knees, 'cause I can't breathe."
Flea bent lower.
"Did the pretty lady tell ye anythin' last night?"
"Nope; did she tell you anythin'?"
"Yep, all about the Jesus. Get her to tell you, Fluke. It's better than
fairy stories. I can't remember all of it; but she says He jest loved
everybody so well that He let 'em nail Him on a cross, and died there.
But He got up again, and that's how He came to be up there."
Flea pointed upward.
"Did Miss--Miss Shellington tell ye that?"
"Yep, Fluke." She hesitated and whispered again, "Do ye believe it,
Fluke?"
"Course I do, if she says it! Don't ye think what she says is so?"
"I don't believe all that," replied Flea. "I tried last night, and
couldn't. You used to laugh at me when I said as how there was ghosts."
"Mebbe she don't believe in ghosts," sighed Flukey.
"It's almost the same. She believes in Jesus."
"He's all I believe in, too." Flukey closed his eyes wearily.
"Fluke," whispered Flea presently, "ye ought to see that room I slep'
in! It were finer'n this one."
"This be the promised land, all right, what Scraggy speaked about," said
Flukey. "There ain't no more places like it in this here world."
"I believe that, too," answered Flea, "and if we hadn't been hungry
we'd never have stealed, and we wouldn't have found Mr. and Miss
Shellington. Yet she says it's wicked to steal."
"So it be, Flea, and ye know it. All ye're tryin' to do now is not to
believe about that Jesus. I bet somethin'll come that'll make ye believe
it."
"Mebbe," mumbled Flea darkly; "but 's long 's 'tain't Pappy Lon or Lem,
I don't care."