Vermont. Stage's about due. Widder, I've a little matter on my mind I'd like to pan out afore the little one gets here.
Mother. About her?
Vermont (sits on rock R.). Yes, about her. It's ten years, widder, since your old man passed in his checks, and had a hole scooped for him out there under the hill.
Mother (sighs). Ah, yes!
Vermont. It was jest about that time that I dropped into your ranch one dark night, with a little girl in my arms. She might have been a five-year old—
Mother. Or six: we never could make out. She was burning with fever. You found her in a basket, floating in the creek.
Vermont. Exactly. That's what I told you, and I brought her to you because you was the only female woman in the camp.
Mother. Yes: bless her! she brought luck with her.
Vermont. You bet she did. Those little ones always do. Well, I read a long while ago, while prospecting in the big book,—that's pay-dirt way down to bed-rock,—about that king pin what struck the little game "Faro," and named it arter hisself, how he had a darter what found a baby floating in a creek, and called it "Moses;" and, as I warnt goin' back on scripter, I named our little one Moses too.
Mother. And, as that was not a girl's name, I changed it to Moselle.