O Federigo, Federigo, I love you! Spite of ten thousand brothers, Federigo. [Falls at his feet. Count (impetuously). Why then the dying of my noble bird Hath served me better than her livingthen

[Takes diamonds from table. These diamonds are both yours and mine - have won

Their value again-beyond all markets there

I lay them for the first time round your neck.

[Lays necklace round her neck. And then this chaplet - No more feuds, but peace,

Peace and conciliation!
Your brother love me.

I will make See, I tear away

1st Farming Man. Ay, haäfe an hour ago. She be in theer now. (Pointing to house.) Owd Steer wur afeärd she wouldn't be back i' time to keep his birthdaäy, and he wur in a tew about it all the murnin'; and he sent me wi' the gig to Littlechester to fetch 'er; and 'er an' the owd man they fell a-kissin' o' one another like two sweet'arts i' the poorch as soon as he clapt eyes of 'er.

2nd Farming Man. Foälks says likes Miss Eva the best.

1st Farming Man. Naäy, I krass nowt o' what foälks says, an' I curs nowt neither. Foälks doesn't s knaw thessens; but sewer I be, they be two o' the purtiest gels ye can see of a

summer murnin'.

2nd Farming Man. Beänt Miss Fra gone off a bit of 'er good looks o' lain? 1st Farming Man. Noä, not a bit. 2nd Farming Man. Why o awaäy, then, to the long barn.

[Exeust

DORA looks out of window. Enter DOISON

Dora (singing).

The town lay still in the low sun-light The hen cluckt late by the white farm The maid to her dairy came in from the

COW,

The stock-dove coo'd at the fall of The blossom had open'd on every boug O joy for the promise of May, of Vr, O joy for the promise of May. (Nodding at Dobson.) I'm co down, Mr. Dobson. I haven't seen Fra yet. Is she anywhere in the garden? Dobson. Noä, Miss. I ha'n't se

'er neither.

Dora (enters singing).

But a red fire woke in the heart of the

town,

And a fox from the glen ran away with

the hen,

And a cat to the cream, and a rat to the

cheese;

And the stock-dove coo'd, till a kite dropt down,

And a salt wind burnt the blossoming trees;

O grief for the promise of May, of May, O grief for the promise of May. I don't know why I sing that song; I

don't love it.

Dobson. Blessings on your pretty voice, Miss Dora. Wheer did they larn ye that?

Dora. In Cumberland, Mr. Dobson. Dobson. An' how did ye leave the owd uncle i' Coomberland?

Dora. Getting better, Mr. Dobson. But he'll never be the same man again. Dobson. An' how d'ye find the owd man 'ere?

Dora. As well as ever. I came back to keep his birthday.

Dobson. Well, I be coomed to keep his birthdaäy an' all. The owd man be

heighty to-daäy, beänt he?

Dora. Yes, Mr. Dobson. And the day's bright like a friend, but the wind east like an enemy. Help me to move this bench for him into the sun. (They move bench.) No, not that way - here, under the apple tree. Thank you. Look how full of rosy blossom it is.

[Pointing to apple tree. Dobson. Theer be redder blossoms nor them, Miss Dora.

Dora. Where do they blow, Mr. Dobson?

as

Dobson. Noä, Miss Dora; as blue

Dora. The sky? or the sea on a blue day?

Dobson. Naäy then. I meän'd they be as blue as violets. Dora. Are they?

Dobson. Theer ye goäs ageän, Miss, niver believing owt I says to ye - hallus a-fobbing ma off, tho' ye knaws I love ye. I warrants ye'll think moor o' this young Squire Edgar as ha' coomed among us the Lord knaws how-ye'll think more on 'is little finger than hall my hand at the haltar.

Dora. Perhaps, Master Dobson. I can't tell, for I have never seen him. But my sister wrote that he was mighty pleasant, and had no pride in him.

Dobson. He'll be arter you now, Miss Dora.

Dora. Will he? How can I tell? Dobson. He's been arter Miss Eva, haänt he? Dora.

Not that I know.

Dobson. What's a hartist? I doänt believe he's iver a 'eart under his waistcoat. And I tells ye what, Miss Dora: he's no respect for the Queen, or the parson, or the justice o' peace, or owt. I ha' heard 'im a-gawin' on' 'ud make your 'air God bless it! - stan' 'on end. And wuss nor that. When theer wur a meeting o' farmers at Littlechester t'other daäy, and they was all a-crying out at the bad times, he cooms up, and he calls out among our oän men, 'The land belongs to the people!'

Dora. And what did you say to that? Dobson. Well, I says, s'pose my pig's the land, and you says it belongs to the parish, and theer be a thousand i' the parish, taäkin' in the women and childer; and s'pose I kills my pig, and gi'es it among 'em, why there wudn't be a dinner for nawbody, and I should ha' lost the pig.

Dora. And what did he say to that?

Dobson.

Nowt what could he saäy?

But I taäkes 'im fur a bad lot and a burn fool, and I haätes the very sight on him. Master

Dora (looking at Dobson). Dobson, you are a comely man to look at. Dobson. I thank you for that, Miss Dora, onyhow.

Dora. Ay, but you turn right ugly when you're in an ill temper; and I promise you that if you forget yourself in your behaviour to this gentleman, my father's friend, I will never change word with you again.

Enter FARMING MAN from barn. Farming Man. Miss, the farming men 'ull hev their dinner i' the long barn, and the master 'ud be straänge an' pleased if you'd step in fust, and see that all be right and reg'lar fur 'em afoor he coöm. [Exit.

Dora. I go. Master Dobson, did you hear what I said?

Dobson. Yeäs, yeäs! I'll not meddle wi' 'im if he doänt meddle wi' meä. (Exit Dora.) Coomly, says she. I niver thowt o' mysen i' that waäy; but if she'd taäk to ma i' that waäy, or ony waäy, I'd slaäve out my life fur 'er. 'Coomly to look at,' says she—but she said it spiteful-like. To look at - yeäs, 'coomly'; and she mayn't be so fur out theer. But if that be nowt to she, then it be nowt to me. (Looking off stage.) Schoolmaster! Why if Steer ha'n't haxed schoolmaster to dinner, thaw 'e knaws I was hallus ageän heving schoolmaster i' the parish! fur him as be handy wi' a book beän't but haäfe a hand at a pitchfork.

coom'd upon 'im t'other daäy lookin' the coontry, then a-scrattin upon a l! paäper, then a-lookin' agean; and i taäked 'im fur soom sort of a land-sveyor- but a beänt.

Wilson. He's a Somersetshire m and a very civil-spoken gentleman.

Dobson. Gentleman! What be a-doing here ten mile an' moor fre raäil? We laäys out o' the way gentlefoälk altogither — leästwaäys the niver cooms 'ere but fur the trout i beck, fur they be knaw'd as far # Littlechester. But 'e doänt fish neithe Wilson. Well, it's no sin in a gentis man not to fish.

Dobson. Noä, but I haätes 'im. Wilson. Better step out of his roa then, for he's walking to us, and with a book in his hand.

Dobson. An' I haätes boooks an' al fur they puts foälk off the owd waäys. Enter EDGAR, reading — not seeing DOBSON and WILSON.

Edgar. This author, with his chara
of simple style

And close dialectic, all but proving ma
An automatic series of sensations,
Has often numb'd me into apathy
Against the unpleasant jolts of this rough
road

That breaks off short into the abyssesmade me

A Quietist taking all things easily.

Dobson. (Aside.) There mun be

summat wrong theer, Wilson, fur I doïrt understan' it.

Wilson. (Aside.) Nor I either, Mr. Dobson.

Dobson (scornfully). An' thou dont understan' it neither - and thou schoc? master an' all.

Edgar. What can a man, then, live for but sensations, Pleasant ones? men of old would undergo

Unpleasant for the sake of pleasant ones Hereafter, like the Moslem beauties

waiting

To clasp their lovers by the golden gates. For me, whose cheerless Houris after

death