"Yes, I was. I was speaking to Jesus just before you came. I was asking Him to help me."
The man looked at the red gown hanging over her white nightrobe, the tossed black curls, and the pale, sensitive face before he said:
"Fledra, whatever is the matter with you? Surely, there is something I can do."
"Sister Ann said I would be happier, and we all would, if I asked Jesus; and I was askin' Him jest now."
Horace eyed her dubiously.
"It is right to ask Him to help you, of course; but, child, it isn't right for you to act toward me as you do."
Fledra was so desirous of his love and confidence that she made as if to speak. She took two steps forward, then hesitated. Remembering Ann and the care she had given Floyd, her hand fell convulsively on the door, and she tried to close it. She dared not tell him of Lon's midnight visit to the home, and wondered if he would give her up to her squatter father, and let Flukey be taken back to the settlement.
"I told ye the truth when I said I was prayin'," she said; "but I was thinkin', too, if it was right for a father to have his own children, if he was to ask for 'em."
Horace, not understanding her enigmatical words, regarded her gravely.
"What a queer girl you are, anyway, Fledra!" he exclaimed. He spoke almost irritably. He felt like grasping her up and shaking her as one might an obstreperous child.