“Oh, don’t trouble yourself,” said Gilbert, taking a chair for himself.
Mr. Talbot proceeded: “Five years since, I removed to Chicago, with my little girl, in the hope that in that growing and prosperous Western city I might, at least, earn a comfortable living. I was not wholly without means,—I had about a thousand dollars,—but misfortune pursued me. I was once burnt out, lost my situation by the failure of the firm that employed me, and the end of it all was, that a year ago I found myself bankrupt. Then I decided to come to New York, hoping to succeed better here. I managed, while I was well, to earn a precarious living by copying for lawyers (I am a book-keeper by vocation) but, a month since, I was stricken down by a fever, from which I am only just recovering. How we have got along I can hardly tell you. When I became sick I had but a dollar in my pocket-book, yet we have continued to live. My little Emma,” he continued, looking proudly at the little girl, “has been a great help to me. She has managed to earn a little, and has attended upon me by night and by day. I don’t know what I could have done without her.”
“I ought to work for you now, papa,” said the child, simply; “all my life you have been working for me.”
“She is a perfect little woman, though only ten years old,” said the father. “Poor child! her life has been far from bright. I hope the future has some happier days in store for both of us.”
“Only get well, sir,” said Gilbert, cheerfully, “and the happier days will begin.”
“I hope so; but even in health I found it hard to get along.”
At this moment there was a knock at the door.
Emma went to the door, and opened it.
A short, stout, coarse-featured woman entered, and looked about her with the air of one who had come to engage in battle.
“Take a seat, Mrs. Flanders,” said the sick man.