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, anonymous outcast, whom an honest
girl dare not know? Why do you presume to preach to me? Have you
a father?

Sandy. Hush, Miss Mary, hush! I had a father. Harkin. All that
you have suffered from a kinship even so far removed, I have known
from the hands of one who should have protected me. MY father was--
but no matter. You, Miss Mary, came out of your trials like gold
from the washing. I was only the dirt and gravel to be thrown
away. It is too late, Miss Mary, too late. My father has never
sought me, would turn me from his doors had I sought him. Perhaps
he is only right.