The next week held unutterable pain for Flea, each twenty-four hours deepening her unhappiness more and more. She made no effort to talk with Shellington, nor did she mention her sorrow to Ann. It did not seem necessary to her that she should again speak to Horace of going away. When she had last suggested it, he had said that nothing she could do would alter his decision about his home being hers until Floyd should be well. Nevertheless, an innate pride surged constantly within her. Any deprivation would be more welcome than the studied toleration that, she thought, she encountered in Horace.
One morning she stood looking questioningly down at her brother.
"How near well are ye, Fluke?"
"Ain't never goin' to get well!" he replied, shivering. "'Tain't easy to get pains out of a feller's bones when they once get in."
"If you do get well soon, I think we'd better go away."
"Why?" demanded Flukey.
"Because we wasn't asked to stay only till you got well."
"Don't ye believe it, Flea! Ye wasn't here last night. Brother Horace and Sister Ann thought I was to sleep, and I wasn't."
"What did they say?" broke in the girl, with whitening face.
"Sister Ann told Mr. Shellington about yer work at school, and he said—as how—"