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