wife can earn very little by spinning, so we have been forced at last to apply to the parish. Harf. To the parish! well, I hope they consider the services of your better days, and provide for you comfortably. John. Alas, Sir; I am not much given to complain; but what can two shillings a week do in these hard times? Harf. Little enough, indeed! And is that all they allow you? John. It is, Sir; and we are not to have that much longer, for they say we must come into the workhouse. Mary. (entering with the water.) Here, gentlemen, the jug is clean, if you can drink out of it. Harf. The workhouse, do you say? Mary. Yes, gentlemen-that makes my poor husband so uneasy-that we should come in our old days to die in a workhouse. We have lived "better, I assure you but we were turned out of our little farm by the great farmer near the church; and since that time we have been growing poorer and poorer, and weaker and weaker, so that we have nothing to help ourselves with. John. (sobbing.) To die in a parish workhouse-I can hardly bear the thought of it. But God knows best, and we must submit. Harf. But, my good people, have you no children or friends to assist you? John. Our children, Sir, are all dead, except one that is settled a long way off, and as poor as we are. Beaum. But surely, my friends, such decent people as you seem to be, must have somebody to protect you. Mary. No, Sir-we know nobody but our neighbours, and they think the workhouse good enough for the poor. Harf. Pray, was there not a family of Harfords once in this village? John. Yes, Sir, a long while agobut they are all dead and gone, or else far enough from this place. Mary. Ay, Sir, the youngest of them, and the finest child among them, that I'll say for him, was nursed in our house when we lived in the old spot near the green. He was with us till he was thirteen, and a sweet behaved boy he was-I loved him as well as ever I did any of my own children. Harf. What became of him? John. Why, Sir, he was a fine, boldspirited boy, though the best tempered creature in the world-so last war he would be a sailor, and fight the French and Spaniards, and away he went, nobody could stop him, and we have never heard a word of him since. Mary. Aye, he is dead or killed, I warrant-for if he was alive and in England, I am sure nothing would keep him from coming to see his poor daddy and mammy, as he used to call us. Many a night have I lain awake thinking of him! Harf. (to Beaum.) I can hold no longer! Beaum. (to him.) Restrain yourself awhile. Well, my friends, in return for your kindness I will tell you some news that will please you. This same Harford, Edward Harford ... Mary. Ay, that was his name—my dear Ned-What of him, Sir, is he living? John. Let the gentleman speak, my dear. Beaum. Ned Harford is now alive and well, and a lieutenant in his majesty's navy, and as brave an officer as any in the service. John. I hope you do not jest with us, Sir. Beaum. I do not, upon my honour. Mary. O thank God-thank Godif I could but see him! John. Ay, I wish for nothing more before I die. Harf. Here he is here he is-My dearest, best benefactors! Here I am, to pay some of the great debt of kindness I owe you. (Clasps Mary round the neck, and kisses her.) Mary. What-this gentleman my Ned! Ay, it is, it is—I see it, I see it. John. O my old eyes!-but I know his voice now. (Stretches out his hand, which Harford grasps. } Harf. My good old man! O that you could see me as clearly as I do you! John. Enough enough-it is you, and I am contented. Mary. O happy day!O happy -day! |