Miss Mary (impatiently). It was the 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