"Jeanne," he began again, "it is time for me to go up North. And I must take you, my daughter—" looking at her with questioning eyes.
She raised her hand as if to entreat. A soft color wavered over her face, and then she glanced up with a gentle gravity.
"Oh, my father, leave me here a little longer. I cannot go now;" and her voice was persuasively sweet.
"Cannot—why?" There was insistence in his tone.
"There is Pani—"
"But we will take Pani. I would not think of leaving her behind."
"She will not go. I have planned and talked. She is no longer strong. To tear her up by the roots would be cruel. And do you not see that all her life is wound about me? She has been the tenderest of mothers. I must give her back some of the care she has bestowed upon me. She has never been quite the same since I was taken away. She came near to dying then. Yes, you must leave me awhile."
"Jeanne, my little one, I cannot permit this sacrifice;" and the tenderness in his eyes smote her.
"Ah, you cannot imagine how I should pine for Detroit and for her. Then besides—"
A warm color flooded her face; her eyes drooped.