Burnett walked toward Daddy Skinner's room.
"I wouldn't mind havin' a daughter like you," he vowed, looking back. "I got two nice boys to home, but I tell you a man misses a lot in the world, if he doesn't have a girl. Why, kiddie, I've had a better time in the past five minutes than I've had in the past five years." He paused, his hand on the latch of the door into Daddy Skinner's room.
Tessibel gurgled and giggled, and giggled and gurgled, as if she hadn't a care in the world although she felt a paralyzing pain in her heart for the dwarf beneath her. Then she threw a mischievous glance into the man's face and offered,
"While ye air searchin' the shanty, I'll sing to ye, huh?"
"Now, can ye sing?" interrogated Burnett, smilingly.
"Oh, Golly, sir, I been singin' since I weren't no bigger'n this owl," replied Tess. "I'll begin now."
She knew Andy must be numb with fright and the weight of her body, and remembered how many times when he had been kept in the garret long periods together, while people were coming and going, and danger ran high, she had sung to him—it had soothed his pains, allayed his agony.
So as Burnett disappeared from sight into the little back room, Tessibel began to sing the old, but ever newly encouraging song,
"Rescue the Perishin';
Care for the Dyin'."
And in the fleeting moment during which the officer from Auburn was searching Daddy's room, her hand went backward quickly and reassuring fingers touched the dwarf's face concealed by her curls, and still she sang,