“Your health is very far gone, Leesy; I suppose you hardly hope ever to recover it. Would you not be glad to see Nora under her father’s protection before you were taken away?”
She stretched out her arms for the child, who slid off my knee, ran and climbed into her lap, where she held the curly head close to her bosom for a moment; her attitude was as if she sheltered the little one from threatened danger.
“I know, much more surely than any one else, that my days are numbered. I believe I shall never see your face again, Mr. Burton; and that was what grieved me when you spoke of going away—it was not that I thought of my comfort so much. The winter snow will hide me before you come back from your journey; and my darling will be left friendless. I know it—it is my only care. But I would rather, far rather, leave her to the cold charity of an orphan asylum—yes, I would rather turn her upon the street, with her innocent face only for a protector—than that her father should have aught to do with Nora.”
“Why?”
“Because he is a bad man.”
“I understand that he is in California; and as I am going to San Francisco, and perhaps shall visit the mining regions before my return, I thought you might wish to send him a message, telling him the child’s condition. He may have laid up money by this time, and be able to send you a sum sufficient to provide for little Nora until she is old enough to take care of herself.”
She only shook her head, drawing the child closer, with a shudder.
“I have forgotten his name,” said Mr. Burton.
“I will not tell you,” answered Miss Sullivan, with a return of the old fierceness, like that of a hunted panther. “Why can I never, never, never be let alone?”
“Do you think I would do any thing for your injury or disadvantage?” asked the detective in that gentle yet penetrating voice which had such power to move people to his will.