_Susan._ Yes, my dear father.

_Ash._ Sue, we do wish to give thee a bit of admonishing and parent-like conzultation.

_Susan._ I hope I have ever attended to your admonitions.

_Ash._ Ees, bless thee, I do believe thee hast, lamb; but we all want our memories jogg'd a bit, or why else do parson preach us all to sleep every Zunday--Zo thic be the topic--Dame and I, Sue, did zee a letter gi'd to thee, and thee--bursted into tears, and lock'd un up in thic box--and then Dame and I--we--that's all.

_Susan._ My dear father, if I concealed the contents of that letter from your knowledge, it was because I did not wish your heart to share in the pain mine feels.

_Ash._ Dang it, didn't I tell thee zoo? [_To his wife._

_Dame._ Nay, Tummas, did I say otherwise?

_Susan._ Believe me, my dear parents, my heart never gave birth to a thought my tongue feared to utter.

_Ash._ There, the very words I zaid?

_Susan._ If you wish to see the letter, I will shew it to you.

[_She searches for the key._

_Dame._ Here's a key will open it.

_Ash._ Drabbit it, hold thy tongue, thou wold fool? [_Aside._] No, Susan. I'll not zee it--I'll believe my child.

_Susan._ You shall not find your confidence ill-placed--it is true the gentleman declared he loved me; it is equally true that declaration was not unpleasing to me--Alas! it is also true, that his letter contains sentiments disgraceful to himself, and insulting to me.

_Ash._ Drabbit it, if I'd knaw'd that, when we were cudgelling a bit, I wou'd ha' lapt my stick about his ribs pratty tightish, I wou'd.

_Susan._ Pray, father, don't you resent his conduct to me.

_Ash._ What! mayn't I lather un a bit?

_Susan._ Oh, no! I've the strongest reasons to the contrary!

_Ash._ Well, Sue, I won't--I'll behave as pratty as I always do--but it be time to go to the green, and zee the fine zights--How I do hate the noise of thic dom'd bunch of keys--But bless thee, my child--dan't forget that vartue to a young woman be vor all the world like--like--Dang it, I ha' gotten it all in my head; but zomehow--I can't talk it--but vartue be to a young woman what corn be to a blade o'wheat, do you zee; for while the corn be there it be glorious to the eye, and it be called the staff of life; but take that treasure away, and what do remain? why nought but thic worthless straw that man and beast do tread upon. [_Exeunt._

SCENE IV.

_An extensive view of a cultivated country--A ploughed field in the centre, in which are seen six different ploughs and horses--At one side a handsome tent--A number of country people a.s.sembled._

_Enter_ ASHFIELD _and_ DAME.

_Ash._ Make way, make way for the gentry! and, do ye hear, behave pratty as I do--Dang thee, stond back, or I'll knack thee down, I wool.

_Enter_ SIR ABEL, _and_ MISS BLANDFORD, _with Servants._

_Sir Abel._ It is very kind of you to honour our rustic festivities with your presence.

_Miss B._ Pray, Sir Abel, where is your son?

_Sir Abel._ What! Bob? Oh, you'll see him presently--[_Nodding significantly._]--Here are the prize medals; and if you will condescend to present them, I'm sure they'll be worn with additional pleasure.--I say, you'll see Bob presently.--Well, Farmer, is it all over?

_Ash._ Ees, zur; the acres be plough'd and the ground judg'd; and the young lads be coming down to receive their reward--Heartily welcome, miss, to your native land; hope you be as pleased to zee we as we be to zee you, and the like o'that.--Mortal beautizome to be sure--I declare, miss, it do make I quite warm zomehow to look at ye. [_A shout without._] They be coming--Now, Henry!

_Sir Abel._ Now you'll see Bob!--now my dear boy, Bob!--here he comes.

[_Huzza._

_Enter_ HENRY _and two young Husbandmen._

_Ash._ 'Tis he, he has don't--Dang you all, why dan't ye shout? Huzza!

_Sir Abel._ Why, zounds, where's Bob?--I don't see Bob--Bless me, what has become of Bob and my plough? [_Retires and takes out his gla.s.s._

_Ash._ Well, Henry, there be the prize, and there be the fine lady that will gi' it thee.

_Henry._ Tell me who is that lovely creature?

_Ash._ The dater of Sir Philip Blandford.

_Henry._ What exquisite sweetness! Ah! should the father but resemble her, I shall have but little to fear from his severity.

_Ash._ Miss, thic be the young man that ha got'n the goulden prize.

_Miss B._ This! I always thought ploughmen were coa.r.s.e, vulgar creatures, but he seems handsome and diffident.

_Ash._ Ees, quite pratty behaved--it were I that teach'd un.

_Miss B._ What's your name?

_Henry._ Henry.

_Miss B._ And your family?

[HENRY_, in agony of grief, turns away, strikes his forehead, and leans on the shoulder of_ ASHFIELD.]

_Dame._ [_Apart to_ MISS B.] Madam, I beg pardon, but n.o.body knows about his parentage; and when it is mentioned, poor boy! he takes on sadly--He has lived at our house ever since we had the farm, and we have had an allowance for him--small enough to be sure--but, good lad! he was always welcome to share what we had.

_Miss B._ I am shock'd at my imprudence--[_To_ HENRY.] Pray pardon me; I would not insult an enemy, much less one I am inclined to admire--[_Giving her hand, then withdraws it._]--to esteem--you shall go to the Castle--my father shall protect you.

_Henry._ Generous creature! to merit his esteem is the fondest wish of my heart--to be your slave, the proudest aim of my ambition.

_Miss B._ Receive your merited reward. [_He kneels--she places the medal round his neck--the same to the others._]

_Sir Abel._ [_Advances._] I can't see Bob: pray, sir, do you happen to know what is become of my Bob?

_Henry._ Sir?

_Sir Abel._ Did not you see a remarkable clever plough, and a young man----