Mrs. Clifton was now sitting up, supporting her head upon her hand, and essaying her strength.
“I must go back, and nurse Carolyn myself.”
“You! Now, never suppose, my dear sister, that I have been hinting for you to return and finish killing yourself for us! I would not permit it, if you wished it ever so much! I’ll lock and bar the doors and windows, to keep you out, first. But think and counsel me as to the best thing to be done. There is no one at home but Zuleime—and even if I were willing she should risk taking the dreadful disease, she is so very young and inexperienced that I should be afraid to trust her sister’s safety in her hands. But I am not willing that she should run any risk to herself—that’s flat. But what’s to be done?”
“There is not a servant on your plantation, or on this farm, fit to be trusted in such a case. I must go and take care of my daughter myself!”
“D—d if you shall, ma’am! I’ll bar my doors and windows against you, first, I tell you! Why, in your weak state, it would be suicide!”
The lady maintained her purpose against Mr. Clifton’s vehement opposition, and her calm persistence must have conquered, but Kate Kavanagh mildly interposed, by saying—
“Let me go.”
“You!” exclaimed Mr. and Mrs. Clifton, in a breath.
“Yes; I am not a bad nurse. I have had considerable experience with sick people.”
“But—you’ve never had the small-pox—you’re not the least marked!” said Mr. Clifton.