There followed a few personalities, and after finishing the reader threw it down with a smile.  He had hesitated a moment over the thought that his father would have a decided objection to the Cronk case.  But his desire to work against Horace had overcome his irresolution.  Now his way was clear!  The sooner Mr. and Mrs. Brimbecomb were away, the better pleased he would be.

* * * * *

Floyd was suddenly taken worse.

“I think, if you were to come and speak with him, he might feel better,” said Ann to Horace.  “He wants to see you.  Fledra is with him.”

Floyd was quiet now, his large eyes closed with quivering pain.

“Floyd!” murmured Horace, touching the lad gently.

The lids lifted, and he put up his hand.

“I’m glad ye come, Brother Horace,” he said in a whisper.  “I’ve been wantin’ to talk to ye.  Will ye take Flea out, Sister Ann?”

Both girls left the room, as Horace drew a chair to the bed.

“I ain’t goin’ to get well,” said Flukey slowly.  “I know the doctor thinks so, too, ‘cause he said there was somethin’ the matter with my heart.  And I have to go and leave Flea.”

Shellington took the thin, white hand in his.

“You must not become downhearted, boy; that’s not the way to get well.  And you’re certainly better than when you came, in spite of this little setback.”

Floyd closed his eyes, and Horace saw silent tears rolling down the boy’s cheeks.  The young man bent over him.

“Floyd, are you worrying about your sister?”

Flukey nodded an affirmative.

“Why?”

“Because she ain’t the same as she was.  And she ain’t happy any more, and I can’t make her tell me.  Have ye been ugly to her—­have ye?”

Horace racked his mind for a truthful answer.  Had he been unfair to Fledra?

“Floyd,” he said softly, “your sister and I have had some words; but we shall soon understand each other—­I know we shall!”

“What did ye say to Flea?”

“I can’t tell you, Floyd, because I promised her I would not.”

The boy writhed under the warm blankets.

“She’s always makin’ folks promise not to tell things,” he moaned.  “It’s because you’re mad at her, that’s what makes her cry so, and I can’t do anything for her.  Can’t you, Brother Horace?”

“She won’t let me, Floyd.”

“Did ye ask her?”

“Many times.”

“Would she let ye if I asked her?”

“No, Floyd, you must not!  I promised her that I would not speak with you about her unhappiness.”  Horace ejaculated his reply so emphatically that Floyd looked at him curiously.

“But I can’t die and leave her that way, and I’m a goin’ soon.  Sometimes my heart jest stands still, and won’t start again till I lose all my breath.  A feller can’t live that way, can he, Brother Horace?”

“It will pass off; of course, it will—­it must!” Horace looked into the worn, suffering young face, and a resolution took possession of him.