"You want me to care for her?"
"She has no one. No friends. We are—friendless."
"How is that?" Cragg put the question involuntarily, and there was an uneasy movement on the part of the sick man.
"Not my fault," came slowly. "I want—if you would promise me—I want—"
"Don't trouble yourself to say much. I think I understand. You want me to see that Pattie has a home. I had thought of that already. It is through me that you are like this. Not my fault, I hope, for nobody had a notion of the old mine being there; but still it is through me. I couldn't neglect your child."
"You will care for her? She will have—almost nothing of her own— almost nothing. Only twenty pounds a year."
"That is better than nothing. I promise to see to her. Something shall be arranged somehow." Cragg put aside recollections of his own embarrassments and of what his wife might say. He felt that he had no choice.
Dale's hand grasped his with a feverish clutch.
"You promise—promise—"
"I do indeed. Pattie shall never be without a friend, so long as I live. One way or another, I'll see that she is not homeless. I will count myself her guardian. Will that do?"