“I’ve money plenty, and it’s all yours and his.  Put him in some good school, where you can go and see him, and help him to—­to—­to forget his mother.  Do with him what you like.  The worst you can do will be kindness to what he will learn with me.  Only take him out of this wicked life, this cruel place, this home of shame and sorrow.  You will; I know you will—­won’t you?  You will—­you must not, you cannot say no!  You will make him as pure, as gentle as yourself; and when he has grown up, you will tell him his father’s name—­the name that hasn’t passed my lips for years—­the name of Alexander Morton, whom they call here Sandy!  Miss Mary!—­do not take your hand away!  Miss Mary, speak to me!  You will take my boy?  Do not put your face from me.  I know it ought not to look on such as me.  Miss Mary!—­my God, be merciful!—­she is leaving me!”

Miss Mary had risen and, in the gathering twilight, had felt her way to the open window.  She stood there, leaning against the casement, her eyes fixed on the last rosy tints that were fading from the western sky.  There was still some of its light on her pure young forehead, on her white collar, on her clasped white hands, but all fading slowly away.  The suppliant had dragged herself, still on her knees, beside her.

“I know it takes time to consider.  I will wait here all night; but I cannot go until you speak.  Do not deny me now.  You will!—­I see it in your sweet face—­such a face as I have seen in my dreams.  I see it in your eyes, Miss Mary!—­you will take my boy!”

The last red beam crept higher, suffused Miss Mary’s eyes with something of its glory, flickered, and faded, and went out.  The sun had set on Red Gulch.  In the twilight and silence Miss Mary’s voice sounded pleasantly.

“I will take the boy.  Send him to me tonight.”

The happy mother raised the hem of Miss Mary’s skirts to her lips.  She would have buried her hot face in its virgin folds, but she dared not.  She rose to her feet.

“Does—­this man—­know of your intention?” asked Miss Mary, suddenly.

“No, nor cares.  He has never even seen the child to know it.”

“Go to him at once—­tonight—­now!  Tell him what you have done.  Tell him I have taken his child, and tell him—­he must never see—­see—­the child again.  Wherever it may be, he must not come; wherever I may take it, he must not follow!  There, go now, please—­I’m weary, and—­have much yet to do!”

They walked together to the door.  On the threshold the woman turned.

“Good night.”

She would have fallen at Miss Mary’s feet.  But at the same moment the young girl reached out her arms, caught the sinful woman to her own pure breast for one brief moment, and then closed and locked the door.

It was with a sudden sense of great responsibility that Profane Bill took the reins of the Slumgullion Stage the next morning, for the schoolmistress was one of his passengers.  As he entered the highroad, in obedience to a pleasant voice from the “inside,” he suddenly reined up his horses and respectfully waited as Tommy hopped out at the command of Miss Mary.  “Not that bush, Tommy—­the next.”