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).
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