darling, (he releases her) Listen, Izod;
     I've been here, on this bit o' land, resting under
     this old roof, and working in this old yard, since I
     was a mite—so high. I've been here in times of
     merrymaking and times of mourning, and I've seen
     the grass grow over all the Veritys but one—the
     Squire who gives me the same living that goes to the
     best table, and as soft a pillow as lies on the best
     bed. No, I'll keep the keys, Izod dear; you go and
     swallow Gilbert Hythe's dinner.

     Izod. (slouches over to door L., with a scowl)     You don't care if the Squire does snub your poor
     brother. Faugh! you've nothing of the gipsy but
     the skin. (He goes out into outhouse, door L.)
     Chris. (looks at the keys, and slips them into
     her pocket) A bunch of his keys; they are safer in
     my pocket than in Izod's—poor Izod is so impulsive.
     (she crosses to R. C., goes up the steps and calls
     at door. Calling) Squire! Squire! Here's Gilbert
     Hythe with two men. Don't let 'em bring their
     boots indoors.

     (Izod appears at door L.)
     Izod. (savagely) Christiana!

     Chris. (turning) Hush! (coming down steps)
     Izod. How long am I to be treated like this?

     Chris. (going towards L.) What's wrong, dear?

     Izod. What's wrong! Why, it's only cold meat!

     Chris. Go in, Izod! Here's the Squire! go in!

     (She pushes Izod in L.)
     (Kate Verity comes out of house R., C. and down
     the steps; she is a pretty woman, bright, fresh, and
     cheery; she carries a small key-basket containing
     keys, and an account book and pencil, which she
     places on R., table as she turns from Gilbert;
     she throws the shawl over the mounting stone as
     Gilbert Hythe appears in the archway, followed
     by Robjohns, Junior, a mild-looking, fair youth,
     and a shabby person in black with a red face.)
     I'm close at hand if you want me, Squire. Here's
     Gilbert! (she goes into outhouse L.)
     Kate. What are you doing with the gun, Gilbert?

     Gil. I've been putting the ferrets at the ricks.
     (holding out hand eagerly) Good afternoon, Squire.

     Kate. (shakes her head at Gil.) What a mania
     you have for shaking hands, Gilbert.

     Gil. (withdrawing his hand) I beg your pardon.

     Kate. Who are those men?

     Gil. The son of old Robjohns, the fiddler, and a
     reporting man on the "Mercury."

     Kate. Well, Master Robjohns, how's your father?
     (sits R.)
     (Rob. comes down L., C., nervously.)
     Rob. (with a dialect) Father's respects, and he's
     ill a-bed with rheumatics, and he hopes it'll make
     no difference.

     Kate. Who's to play the fiddle to-morrow night
     for the harvest folks?

     Rob. Father wants me to take his place. I'm
     not nearly such a good fiddler as father is, and he
     hopes it'll make no difference.

     Kate. Your father has played at every harvest
     feast here for the last five and twenty years—is he
     very ill?

     Rob. Father's respects, and he's as bad as he can
     well be, and he hopes it'll make no difference.

     Kate. Good gracious! Gilbert, have you sent
     the doctor?

     Gil. The doctor's busy with an invalid at the
     White Lion at Market-Sinfield—a stranger.

     Kate. No stranger has a right to all the doctor.
     (rises and stands by table R., making notes in book)     All right, Master Robjohns, you shall play the fiddle
     to-morrow night.

     Rob. Thank'ee, Squire.

     Kate. Christie!

     Gil. Christie!

     Chris. (from within L.) Yes!

     Kate. Give Master Robjohns something to drink.

     Chris. (appearing at the door) Yes, Squire.
     (She retires.)
     Kate. And give my love—the Squire's love—to
     father, and tell him to keep a good heart.

     Rob. Thank'ee, Squire. But father sends his
     respects, and thinks he's a dead 'un, and hopes it'll
     make no difference.

     (Rob. goes over to L. meeting Chris., who gives
     him a mug of milk and retires. Rob. sits L., and
     drinks on form.)
     Kate. (sits on stone C., sharply to the Shabby
     Person, who is up stage) Now then, sir, what do
     you want?

     S. P. (who is evidently addicted to drink) I—oh
     yes. (to Gil.) Is this Miss Verity?

     Gil. That is the Squire, (behind Squire a little
     to her L.)
     S. P. The Squire!

     Gil. The Squire in these parts is the person who
     owns Verity's lands. Miss Verity chooses to be
     regarded as the Squire, and to be called so. (passes
     behind Squire)
     S. P. Quite so. (he comes down L., C.) Hem!
     The editor of the "Pagley Mercury and Market-
     Sinfield Herald," with which are incorporated the
     "Inn-Keeper's Manual" and the "Agriculturists'
     Guide," presents his compliments to Squire Verity,
     and, regarding the ever-spreading influence of modern
     journalism, requests that I, its representative,
     may be permitted to be present at Squire Verity's
     Harvest Feast to-morrow evening. (Kate laughs
     heartily. The S. P. looks round at Rob. to ascertain
     the cause of her amusement) Journalism is as a tree,
     its root is embedded in our constitution, while its
     branches—

     Kate. All right; you can come.

     S. P. (raising his arms) While its branches—

     Kate. All right; you can come.

     S. P. (hurt) Thank you.

     Kate. Would you—(noticing his face) Oh dear

     S. P. I beg pardon.

     Kate. Would you—would you like anything to
     drink?

     S. P. (quickly) Yes.

     Kate. Christie!

     Gil. Christie!

     Kate. (sorrowfully) Are you quite sure?

     S. P. Positive, (sits R., of table)
     (Chris, appears at door L.)
     Kate. Christie! (emphatically) Milk!

     S. P. Er—I should prefer ale. (rises quickly)
     Chris. The old cask has run out, and the new
     one isn't to be tapped till to-morrow.

     S. P. I don't think I really need anything. I'm
     very moderate. Thank you. Good day!
     (Robjohns puts mug on form, rises and goes up
     stage wiping mouth.)
     (Shabby Person hurries off through archway;
     Kate laughs.)
     Kate. Good-bye, Master