"But ain't ye goin' for Flea?" demanded Floyd.
"Of course, I am going for my girl," cried Vandecar, "as fast as a train can take me!" He turned suddenly and placed his firm hands on the boy's shoulders. "Before I take you upstairs, boy, listen to me! You've a little mother, a sick little mother who has mourned you and your sister for years. I'm going to leave her with you while I'm gone for your sister. Your mother is ill, and—and needs you!"
Still more interested in his absent sister than in his newly found parent, Floyd put in:
"I'll do anything ye say, if ye'll go for Flea."
Ann touched the father's arm gently.
"Come upstairs now."
Mrs. Vandecar was alone when her husband entered. She was sitting near the window, her eyes pensive and sad. The governor advanced a step, thrusting back the desire to blurt out the truth. The woman glanced into his eyes, and the change there brought her to her feet. Her face paled, and she put out her slender, trembling hands.
"There's something the matter, Floyd.... What's—what's happened?... I heard the bell ring."
In an instant he crushed her to him, and in an agitated voice whispered gently: