“We’ve got to eat.  Ye stay here while I hunt for somethin’.”

She darted away before Flukey could remonstrate.  For a long time the boy lay on the damp ground, his face drawn awry with pain, watching the wagons going back and forth on the road below.  The pangs of hunger and the night of rheumatism had told upon his young strength.  His mind went back to the hut on Cayuga Lake, and he thought of how when their absence had been discovered Granny Cronk had cried a little, and how Pappy Lon had cursed and grown more silent than ever.  The tender heart of the sick boy yearned toward the old squatter woman, who had been the only mother he and Flea had ever known.  In his loneliness he stroked Squeaky on the snout and muttered tender words to the lean dog lying under his lame leg.  After a short time he saw Flea, with a small bundle in her hand, picking her way among the graves.  Flukey lay perfectly quiet until his sister offered him a bun.

“I could only buy four, ’cause I only had a nickel.”

“Give Squeaky and Snatchet one, will ye, Flea?” ventured Flukey.

“Yep.  I said, when I buyed ’em, there’d be one apiece.”

“Somethin’ has made ye pale, Flea,” said Flukey after each of the four had devoured breakfast.  “Ye didn’t—­”

“I see Lem Crabbe’s scow down by the river.”

Flukey uttered an exclamation and sat up with a groan.  “He’s comin’ after ye, Kid,” he breathed desperately.

“Nope, he ain’t,” assured Flea; “he’s takin’ lumber down to New York.  And he didn’t see me.  And we’ll stay in this here graveyard till he’s gone.  He’s waitin’ for the steam tug to come.  I guess he poled from Albany down when he couldn’t use his mules.”

“Were Pappy Lon with him?” asked Flukey, drawing up his knees.

“I dunno; I didn’t wait to see.  I had to ’arn this nickel.”

“Ye didn’t steal it, Flea?”

“Nope; I had it give to me for holdin’ a horse.  Ye believe me, Fluke?”

“Yep, I believe ye.  And ye say as how we can’t go on now to the good land?  We has to stay here?”

“For awhile,” replied Flea.  “When Lem Crabbe goes to New York, then we go, too.”

* * * * *

While hundreds of birds made ready for a long night in the elm trees, the twins turned silent.  Flukey lay with his eyes closed in pain.  The girl broke the quietude now and then by muttering softly the names on the gravestones over which her eyes roved: 

“EverettBrimbecomb
one year old
beloved son of Agnes and Harold Brimbecomb. 
Resting in Jesus”

Flea read this over several times, and turned to Flukey.

“Who’s Jesus, Fluke?” she asked.

The boy raised his head and opened his eyes languidly.  “What?  What’d ye say, Flea?”

“Who’s Jesus?” she asked again, pointing to the inscription on the stone.