But she was not Sister Ann, neither was Horace, Everett.  In a twinkling everything that Horace had been to her since the first day in Ithaca flooded her heart with happiness.  Her dreamy imagination, which had enshrined him king of her life, worked with a new desire that nothing should interfere with the love that he had showered upon her.  He had said, “Do you love me, Dearest?”

The anxious question had thrilled her vibrant being to silence, had stilled her eager tongue with the magnitude of its passion.  Horace was pleading with his eyes, imploring her to answer him.  Suddenly he burst out: 

“You will tell me, Dear, why you were untruthful to my sister?”

Fledra pondered for a moment.

“Something happened,” she began, “and Sister Ann came in—­I was mad—­”

“Were you angry at what happened?”

“Yes.”

Horace led her on.

“And did Floyd know what had happened?”

“No.”

“And then?” he demanded almost sharply.

“And then Sister Ann asked me what was the matter, and I lied, and said I was mad at Floyd.”

Horace still held her.  This sweet possession and desire of her filled him with serious decision.  He deliberated an instant on her confession.

“Now you’ve told me that much,” said he, “I want to know what happened.”

“I can’t tell ye,” she said slowly, “I can’t, and ye said that ye wouldn’t tell anybody about it.”

Horace’s arms loosened.  Surely she could have no good reason for keeping anything from him!  Suddenly he grasped her tightly to him and kissed her again and again.

“Of course you’ll tell me, of course you will!  Tell me all about it.  I won’t have this thing between us!  I can’t, I can’t!  I love you!”

It maddened her to hear him chide her thus, filled as she was with all the primeval qualities of the native woman to feel the strength of her man.  How his pleading touched her, how gravely his dear face expressed an anxiety that she herself was unable to banish!  Even should he send her from him, she could not be false to Ann.  To this decision the strong, untutored mind clung, and again she refused him.

“No, I’m not goin’ to tell you.  Mebbe some day I will; but not now.”

She heard him take a deep breath which tore savagely at all the best within her.  It wrestled with her affection for Miss Shellington, for her duty to Floyd’s friend.  Not daring to glance up, she still stood in silence.  Horace’s voice shocked her with the sternness of it.

“You’ve got to tell me!  I command you!  Fledra, you must!” Then, tilting her chin upward, he continued reproachfully, “If you’re going to keep vital things from me, you can’t be my wife!”

The resistance against telling him grew faint in her heart in its battle for desirable things.

“Ye mean,” she asked, with quick intaking of breath, “that I can’t be your woman if I don’t tell you?”