Thornton. Yes, yes, 'tis a cheery old place. Pity the storm should ever beat upon it; pity that dark clouds should ever obscure its brightness; yet they will come. For the first time in a life of passion and change, this rural beauty has stirred my heart with a longing it never felt before. I cannot analyze it. The sound of her voice thrills me; the sight of her face fascinates me; the touch of her hand maddens me; and, with it all, the shadow of some long-forgotten presence mystifies me. This must be love. For I would dare all, sacrifice all, to make her mine. She is betrothed to him. He must be taken from her side, made unworthy of her, made to forget her. The task is easy to one skilled in the arts of temptation. Once free, her heart may be turned towards me. 'Tis a long chase: no wonder I am melancholy, Harry Maynard; but there's a keen, patient hunter on the track, who never fails, never. (Enter John Maynard, r.)

John Maynard. Well, well, here's hospitality: here's hospitality with a vengeance. That rascal Harry has deserted you, has he?—you, our honored guest. It's too bad, too bad.

Thornton. Don't give yourself any uneasiness about me, old friend. Harry has left me a moment to escort a young lady.

Maynard. Ah, yes, I understand: Jessie, our Jessie, the witch that brings us all under her spells. No wonder the boy forgot his manners; but to desert you—

Thornton. Don't speak of desertion; you forget I am one of the family.

Maynard. I wish you were with all my heart. I like you, Mr. Thornton. I flatter myself I know a gentleman, when I meet him. You came up here, looked over my stock, and bought my horses at my own price, no beating down, no haggling; and I said to myself, He's a gentleman, for gentlemen never haggle. So I say I like you (gives his hand), and that's something to remember, for John Maynard don't take kindly to strangers.

Thornton. I trust I shall always merit your good opinion.

Maynard. Of course you will; you can't help it. There's our Harry just raves about you, and you've taken a fancy to him. I like you for that too. Then you are going to take him away, and show him the way to fortune by your high pressure, bustle and rush, city ways. Not just the notion I wanted to get into his head; but he's ambitious, and I'll not stand in his way. He's our only boy now. There was another; he went down at the call of his country, a brave, noble fellow, and fell among the first; and he died bravely: he couldn't help it, for he was a Maynard. But 'twas a hard blow to us. It made us lonely here; and even now, when the wind howls round the old house in the cold winter nights, mother and I sit silent in the corner, seeing our boy's bright face in the fire, till the tears roll down her cheeks, and I—I set my teeth together, and clasp her hands, and whisper, He died bravely, mother,—died for his country like a hero,—like a hero.

Thornton. Ah! 'tis consoling to remember that.

Maynard. Yes, yes. And now the other, our only boy, goes forth to fight another battle, full of temptation and danger. Heaven grant him a safe return!

Thornton. Amen to that! But fear not for him. I have a regard, yes, call it a fatherly regard; and it shall be my duty to guard him among the temptations of the city.

Maynard. That's kind; that's honest. I knew you were a gentleman, and I trust you freely.

Thornton. You shall have a good account of him; and 'twill not be lonely here, for you have a daughter left to comfort you.

Maynard. Our Jessie, bless her! she's a treasure. Sixteen years ago, on one of the roughest nights, our Harry, then a mere boy, coming up from the village, found a poor woman and her babe on the road lying helpless in the snow. He brought her here: we recognized her as the daughter of one of our neighbors, a girl who had left home, and found work in the city. This was her return. Her unnatural father shut the door in her face, and she wandered about until found by Harry. She lingered through the night, speechless, and died at sunrise. I sought the father, but he had cast her out of his heart and home; for he believed her to be a wanton. Indignant at his cruelty, I struck him down; for I'm mighty quick-tempered, and can't stand a mean argument. I gave the mother Christian burial, took the child to my heart, and love her as if she was my own. As for him, public opinion drove him from our village; and her child is loved and honored as he could never hope to be.

Thornton. And your son will marry her with this stain upon her?

Maynard. Stain? what stain? Upon her mother's finger was a plain gold ring; and, though the poor thing's lips were silent, her eyes wandered to that ring with a meaning none could fail to guess. She was a deserted wife; and, even had she been all her father thought her, what human being has a right to be relentless, when we should forgive as we all hope to be forgiven? But come, here I am chatting away like an old maid at a quilting. Come in, and get your supper, for you must be hungry: come in. (Exeunt r. Enter l., Harry, with his arm round Jessie, the pail in his hand.)

Harry. Yes, Jessie, 'tis hard to leave you behind; but our parting will not be for long. Once fairly embarked in my new life, with a fair chance of success before me, I shall return to seek my ready helper.

Jessie. Harry, perhaps you will think me foolish, but I tremble at your venture. Why seek new paths to fortune when here is all that could make our lives happy and contented?

Harry. But it's so slow, Jessie; and, with the best of luck, I should be but a plodding farmer. To plough and dig, sow and reap, year in and year out,—'tis a hard life, all bone and muscle: to be sure, rugged health and deep sleep; but there is excitement and bustle, quick success and rousing fortunes. Ah, Jessie, if one half my schemes work well, you shall be a lady.

Jessie. To be your own true, loving wife, your ever ready helper, is all I ask. O Harry, if you should forget me in all this bustle!

Harry. Forget you? Never: in all my hopes you are the shining light; in all my air-built castles, which energy should make real and substantial ones, you are enthroned my queen.

Jessie. Enthrone me in your heart: let me be an influence there, to shield you from temptation, and, come fortune or failure, I shall be content.

Harry. An influence, Jessie: hear my confession. Unknown to you, I stood beneath your window last night, as you sat looking up at the moon, singing the song I love, "In the sweet by and by." I thought how soon we must part, and your sweet voice brought tears to my eyes. Jessie, I believe, that, were I so weak as to fall beneath temptation, in the darkest hour of misery, the remembrance of that voice would call me back to you and a better life.

Jessie. You will not forget me?

Harry. Oh, we are getting melancholy. (Smiles.) Why should I not fear a rival?