“Never mind.” Rose spoke serenely. Subtly, indefinably she had become again a gentlewoman. “Oh, my dearest, yes, I forgive you. God has watched over me, honey. There is a typhoid epidemic here. The sisters sent me.”
The man gave a long sigh. “My little girl, unhurt.”
She laid him down, and he drowsed awhile. Just before dawn he stirred.
“Sing, Little Sister,” he whispered.
“I am far frae my hame
I am weary aften whiles——”
Rose sang a song of her childhood. Her voice had withstood the ravages of cigarette smoke, whiskey, and overstrain. It rose clear and true,
“Like a bairn to its mither,
A wee——”
“Little Sister!” She bent to hear him.
“I have looked for you everywhere; up and down——” he was dead.
Tearless, Rose sat by the bed a long time. She came to herself with a sudden start.