“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.