“How you look!” said the dying woman. “Well, it’s over now. He never cared for me much, though—not so much as others did. He was never my real husband, you know, for I never had a divorce. He thought he was, though; and even after he left me, he sent me money regular for me to live quiet in ’Frisco, but it didn’t suit me. Then he got turned dead against me 332 when I tried to make him think the child was his. He wouldn’t do anything for me after that; I had cheated him once too often.”
“And was it?” It was the first time ’Tana had spoken, and the woman smiled.
“You care, too, do you? Well, yes, it was. You tell him so; tell him I said so, and I was dying. He’ll take care of her, I think. She’s pretty, but not like me. He never saw her. She’s with a woman in Chicago, where I boarded. I haven’t paid her board now for months, but it’s all right; the woman’s a good soul. Dan Overton will pay when you tell him.”
“You write an order for that child, and tell the woman to give it to me,” said ’Tana, decidedly, and looked around for something to write with. A sheet of paper was found, and she went to Harvey for a pencil.
“’Most ready to go?” he asked, looking at her anxiously.
She nodded her head, and shut the door.
“But I can’t write now; my hands are too weak,” complained the woman. “I can’t.”
“You’ve got to!” answered the girl; and, taking her in her strong young hands, she raised her up higher on the pillow. “There is the paper and pencil—now write.”
“It will kill me to lay like this.”
“No matter if it does; you write.”