“Mother, we’re goin’ to Liverpool; aye, dear, they’re goin’ to make ye well.”
Barbara moaned, and her eyes brimmed with tears.
“Father dear,” she whispered, “let me—oh! Sammie—let me die—here.”
“Tut, mam, ye’re not goin’ to die—aye, they’ll be makin’ ye well in Liverpool.”
“Dad dear,” she plead, “let me—die—here.”
“But, mam,” argued Samuel, “the lad’ll be there waitin’ for us—an’—an’ to see ye,” he ended weakly.
“Sammie, Sammie,” she begged, “let me die here—not—away—from—home; the lad—will—understand.”
“Barbara, there’s a chance for ye to get well; will ye not take it for me, dearie—aye, will ye not do it for me, Barbara, for my sake?”
The big eyes that had looked into his without anger, without selfishness, through all the circumstances of life, smiled now with sudden sweetness. The hand lying in his hand tightened, her lips trembled.
“Aye, Sammie, lad, I will.”