"You said ... long ago," her voice was scarcely audible, "that if ever you could do anything for me or mine—"
"Yes," he said. "If ever I can do anything, I want to."
She sank into a chair. Her hands flew to her bonnet strings. She untied them.
"You know what it is I want you to do?" she asked.
"Yes."
He felt for his chair. It was near the one she had taken. He sat down and turned his face towards her. He could just see a dim outline of her against the morning brightness. To him she was a grey figure with a heavy black shadow about her. He strained to meet her eyes again. The very magic of them seemed to illumine her face for him, show him its beautiful outlines. And yet perhaps, he did not see them at all. It was all memory and vivid imagining that gave him the illusion. He did not see her face, thin and lined with pain and loneliness, the patience and vague disappointment that had come to dwell in her eyes.
"I want you to get the boy off for me ... to have this charge removed," she said, tremulously.
The Schoolmaster knew that this was what he had meant to try to do; but now that she had asked him, he told himself that it must be done. The means employed to lift the burden of blame from Davey's shoulders he knew—would have to be very sure ones. Davey, himself, would not say anything to implicate Conal or anyone else. Evidently the story of his droving for Donald Cameron had not carried much weight.
"Yes," the Schoolmaster said, "I will."
He had no doubt of himself now that she had appealed to him.