he helpless wife of his own blood,
I tell you. The husband died broken-hearted. The wife, my mother,
struggled in poverty, under the shadow of a proud name, to give me an
education, and died while I was still a girl. To-day this cousin,--this
more than murderer of my parents,--old, rich, self-satisfied, REFORMED,
invites me, by virtue of that kinship he violated and despised, to his
home, his wealth, his--his family roof-tree! The man you saw was his
agent.

Sandy. And you--

Miss Mary. Refused.

Sandy (passing his hand over his forehead). You did wrong, Miss Mary.

Miss Mary. Wrong, sir? (Rising.)

Sandy (humbly but firmly). Sit ye down, Miss Mary. It ain't for ye to
throw your bright young life away yer in this place. It ain't for such
as ye to soil your fair young hands by raking in the ashes to stir up
the dead embers of a family wrong. It ain't for ye--ye'll pardon me,
Miss Mary, for sayin' it--it ain't for ye to allow when it's TOO LATE
fur a man to reform, or to go back of his reformation. Don't ye do it,
miss, fur God's sake,--don't ye do it! Harkin, Miss Mary. If ye'll take
my advice--a fool's advice, maybe--ye'll go. And when I tell ye that
that advice, if ye take it, will take the sunshine out of these
hills, the color off them trees, the freshness outer them flowers, the
heart's-blood outer me,--ye'll know that I ain't thinkin' o' myself, but
of ye. And I wouldn't say this much to ye, Miss Mary; but you're goin'
away. There's a flower, miss, you're wearin' in your bosom,--a flower I
picked at daybreak this morning, five miles away in the snow. The wind
was blowing chill around it, so that my hands that dug for it were stiff
and cold; but the roots were warm, Miss Mary, as they are now in your
bosom. Ye'll keep that flower, Miss Mary, in remembrance of my love for
ye, that kept warm and blossomed through the snow. And, don't start,
Miss Mary,--for ye'll leave behind ye, as I did, the snow and rocks
through which it bloomed. I axes your parding, miss: I'm hurtin' yer
feelin's, sure.

Miss Mary (rising with agitation). Nothing,--nothing; but climbing
these stupid rocks has made me giddy: that's all. Your arm. (To SANDY
impatiently). Can't you give me your arm? (SANDY supports MISS MARY
awkwardly toward schoolhouse. At door MISS MARY pauses.) But if
reformation is so easy, so acceptable, why have you not profited by
it? Why have you not reformed? Why have I found you here, a disgraced,
dissipated, anonym