"I remember very well," remarked Mrs. Vandecar after a moment's thought, "when I went to Ithaca with Ann Shellington, and Horace and Everett were graduated from the university, that we went up the lake in Brimbecomb's yacht. The boys called our attention to numbers of huts on the west shore, near the head of Cayuga. I suppose it must be one of those places the children left."
"I presume so," replied the governor.
"Ann telephoned over that the boy was ill with a rheumatic heart. She seemed quite alarmed over it."
"He probably won't get well, if that's the case," murmured Vandecar. "It's a pernicious thing when it attacks the heart. Wasn't it rather strange that Ann and Horace should have used our names for them, Fledra?"
"You remember Ann asked me if I cared. She said that when they came they had some strange nicknames, and that they wanted to make them forget about their former lives, and it really pleased the poor little things to have our names. I don't mind; do you, Floyd?"
"No," was the answer. "I only wish—" He stopped quickly and turned to his wife.
Her eyes were filled with tears. Floyd Vandecar's wish had been her own, that she knew.
"I wish you had a son, too, Floyd dear!" she sobbed. "Oh, my babies, my poor, pretty little babies!"
"Don't Fledra, don't!" pleaded her husband. "It was God's will, and we must bow to it."
"It's so hard, though, Floyd, so awfully hard, and the days have been so long! Floyd, do you ever wonder and wonder where they are?"