Miss Mary (aside. Rising abstractedly, and recalling herself with an effort). I see,—a poor outcast, the mother of my anonymous pupil. (Aloud.) Tommy! a good boy,—a dear, good little boy.
Duchess. Thankee, miss, thankee. If I am his mother, thar ain't a sweeter, dearer, better boy lives than him. And, if I ain't much as says it, thar ain't a sweeter, dearer, angeler teacher than he's got. It ain't for you to be complimented by me, miss; it ain't for such as me to be comin' here in broad day to do it, either; but I come to ask a favor,—not for me, miss, but for the darling boy.
Miss Mary (aside—abstractedly). This poor, degraded creature will kill me with her wearying gratitude. Sandy will not return, of course, while she is here. (Aloud.) Go on. If I can help you or yours, be assured I will.
The Duchess. Thankee, miss. You see, thar's no one the boy has any claim on but me, and I ain't the proper person to bring him up. I did allow to send him to 'Frisco, last year; but when I heerd talk that a schoolma'am was comin' up, and you did, and he sorter tuk to ye natril from the first, I guess I did well to keep him yer. For, oh, miss, he loves ye so much; and, if you could hear him talk in his purty way, ye wouldn't refuse him anything.
Miss Mary (with fatigued politeness, and increasing impatience). I see, I see: pray go on.
The Duchess (with quiet persistency). It's natril he should take to ye, miss; for his father, when I first knowed him, miss, was a gentleman like yourself; and the boy must forget me sooner or later—and I ain't goin' to cry about THAT.
Miss Mary (impatiently). Pray tell me how I can serve you.
The Duchess. Yes, miss; you see, I came to ask you to take my Tommy,—God bless him for the sweetest, bestest boy that lives!—to take him with you. I've money plenty; and it's all yours and his. Put him in some good school, whar ye kin go and see, and sorter help him to—forget—-his mother. Do with him what you like. The worst you can do will be kindness to what he would learn with me. You will: I know you will; won't you? You will make him as pure and as good as yourself; and when he has grown up, and is a gentleman, you will tell him his father's name,—the name that hasn't passed my lips for years,—the name of Alexander Morton.
Miss Mary (aside). Alexander Morton! The prodigal! Ah, I see,—the ungathered husks of his idle harvest.
The Duchess. You hesitate, Miss Mary. (Seizing her.) Do not take your hand away. You are smiling. God bless you! I know you will take my boy. Speak to me, Miss Mary.