speak to her on the subject, so I might. It couldn't do any harm, and as Patience is so anxious about it I'll try. SCENE IV.-Mrs. Hastings' parlor—Peter, in Sunday best, knocks at the door-Mrs. Hastings goes to the door. PETER (timidly). Can I see your daughter Betsey Ann a few minutes, alone? MRS. H. Certainly, Mr. Doughty. Walk into the back parlor; I'll send her in. Peter passes to opposite side of the stage. Mrs. H. calls "Betsey Ann," who enters. MRS. H. Betsey, Mr. Doughty wishes to speak with you in private a few minutes. BETSEY. With me, mother? That is strange! MRS. H. I must confess I have some curiosity to know what the man is after, in his new coat with the brass buttons. He looks so mysterious and so bashful too. His face is as pink as a sweet-william. BETSEY (gaily shaking her curls). Poor soul! most likely he has been reading some more quack advertisements, and would like to know my opinion in regard to snakes. Where's my fan? I shall need it to screen my face when I laugh. (Miss Betsey approaches Peter. Mrs. H. retires.) Goodevening, Mr. Doughty! How are you this fine evening and how is Mrs. Doughty? PETER. Poorly, very poorly! I mean never was better, that is to say I am-Miss Betsey Ann--that is to say, she isn't-in other words, failing fast, worse and worse, and more frequent BETSEY (with a twinkle in her eye). I am very sorry, and very glad, that is to say distressed, that is I mean for her, and in other words rejoiced for you. PETER. Yes, ma'am. I don't know about that (blushes). BETSEY. Lovely weather, Mr. Doughty. PETER (examining the buttons on his coat). Yes, ma'am! BETSEY. But we need rain! PETER. Yes, ma'am, rain. BETSEY. The river is very low. PETER. The river is. Yes, ma'am. PETER. What did you observe, ma'am? BETSEY. Dusty, I said, quite dusty, Mr. Doughty! PETER. I don't exactly understand you, ma'am, that is, I don't so much as I ought to, perhaps. BETSEY (laughing and screening her face with her fan). Fine weather, no rain, and too much dust. PETER (looks at the ceiling-turns and looks out the window). A very pretty evening out-doors. (Balances himself on his heels and turns round with a jerk.) I thought whether or no, Miss Betsey BETSEY. Well, sir! PETER. I thought whether or no, Miss Betsey BETSEY. Very well, Mr. Doughty. (Aside.) What can he want! He'll keep me here two hours. I think my mother said you wished to see me, Mr. Doughty. PETER (with still redder cheeks, inserting the index finger between necktie and throat). Nothing, oh, nothing, in particular, Miss Betsey. BETSEY. Ah, then it was a mistake of hers-so you'll please excuse me if I leave you now, for I was intending to go out. PETER. Stop, Miss Betsey! won't you please to stop! Does your father wish to buy a cow? BETSEY. Not that I know of. Shall I call him? PETER. Oh, no, not for the world! I've got one to sell, one of the best kind, and I've been calculatin' to turn her into another cow, and then beef her. Didn't know but your folks might like to trade. Dreadful rainy weather, Miss Betsey; never needed dust so much. And is your mother at home? And how's her health this summer? Give her my respects! Is Tommy pretty well, and how is his health? Is Johnny pretty well, and how is his health? BETSEY. Take a seat, Mr. Doughty, and pray tell me what in the world you have on your mind. I'm ready to befriend you indeed I am. Why are you so afraid of me? Is there anything I can do for you, or your wife? You would like me to go and watch with Mrs. Doughty? PETER. Oh, no, no, not for the world! She's past hope! You're very kind, Miss Betsey, very kind, that's the general opinion, or I wouldn't have had the heart to come here to-night, for it's something that isn't customary, it certainly isn't, but I'm in hopes you'll understand that circumstances alters cases in all cases, that is, in my case, and won't take offence, Miss Betsey. BETSEY. No offence at all, Mr. Doughty. Indeed I can imagine what your errand is before you give it. PETER. clever. Can you though, Miss Betsey? Well, that's BETSEY. It concerns some of your poor wife's fancies. PETER. Well, you are the quickest-witted girl I ever did see, considering I never said a word to a living soul, and you couldn't have guessed it from my actions. I'm very glad you understand my business, for I confess it's very unpleasant to me, and if it wasn't for the peculiar circumstances, I should certainly wait till she was dead. BETSEY. You take a very circuitous method of expressing yourself, Mr. Doughty, but no doubt you wish to tell me that you have heard something new about snakes. PETER (crestfallen). I haven't the least idea, Miss Betsey, what snakes you refer to, and that is certainly not my object in coming, though I hope you'll give me time to collect my thoughts, for I'm not good at speaking off-hand, Miss Betsey. BETSEY. So I perceive, Mr. Doughty. [Profound silence. PETER. Since I've been a-sittin' here I've been a-thinkin' -(Silence again, save the top of Betsey's foot upon the carpet.) since I've been a-sittin' here I've been a thinkin'-(Silence.) since I've been a-sittin' here, Miss Betsey, I've been a-thinkin' BETSEY. So I should judge. PETER. I've been a-thinkin' what I should do for a second wife. BETSEY (rising and facing him). Sir! PETER (hurriedly). Patience won't be with me long. It's her dyin' wish that I should look round and make my own choice of some smart, capable girl, and when the matter is decided let her know, fur she'll die easier when it's all cut and dried. BETSEY. Peter-Doughty! PETER. She wanted me to look round, she didn't hamper me, and I did look round, and my choice fell on you. Now I want you to take time to think, for there ain't any hurry -none at all. BETSEY. Stop this minute, sir! I'm going to call my mother. PETER. Wait a minute, for pity's sakes, Miss Betsey. I don't mean any harm, I don't expect you to marry me now, I'm only looking out for a rainy day. Think, Miss Betsey, there will be only myself and a neat little cottage free of all incumberances, for I'm well to do in the world if I say it myself. BETSEY (laughing and crying hysterically). Peter Doughty, do you know you are an unprincipled, audacious scamp, a wicked Mormon, and an outrageous, unmitigated idiot! Sir, do you walk out of this house as fast as you can go, and never darken our doors again. PETER. But, Miss Betsey BETSEY. Go this minute, and do you never offer yourself to any other woman till your wife is dead and buried in a Christian manner, which won't be in your day or mine, Peter Doughty. PETER (in a faltering voice). I guess you don't look at it in the right light. I wish I had stayed at home. "Twill get into the papers,-'twill be spread all over town. BETSEY. No sir; do you think Elizabeth Ann Hastings hasn't pride enough to keep such a disgraceful proposal to herself? Why, you little simpleton, I've too much self-respect to tell it to my own mother! PETER. Say that again, Betsey Ann! BETSEY. Here's my hand on it, Peter Doughty. And do you hold your feeble, stammering tongue as well. For if you ever tell a living soul what you've said to me to-night, "'ll never forgive you as long as I live. [Curtain falls. AFTER TWENTY YEARS CHARACTERS. MISS AGATHA TRELAWNEY, age, 40. SCENE.-Miss Trelawney's drawing-room; folding-doors back, piano; a screen (right) so arranged that the person hidden by it can face, the audience. Miss Trelawney discovered, in plain morning costume and cap, seated, a letter in her hand. MISS TRELAWNEY. To think that over twenty years have gone by since he was last in this house. And he is coming to-day! In all those years I have never seen him; nay, have not so much as looked upon his handwriting until this letter reached me an hour ago. Dare I remember twenty years back?-dare a woman at my age view an old sentiment with partial eyes without becoming ridiculous to herself in her soberer moments? A sentiment! No, no, it was more than that, it was more than that! I was nine. teen, he a few years more; we met, we-did he love me when so trifling a thing as a foolish hasty word could separate us? But now he is in America again, and he comes to me-for what? Oh, foolish woman-heart, you force me into forgetfulness of everything, but that you once throbbed rapturously when you knew that he came nigh. Yet I am |