s a good girl. Now let us take a turn in the garden before
dinner.

_Agnes._ Shall I ask mamma to accompany us?

_Adm._ No, no, my love, she's busy, depend upon it. [_Exeunt ambo._

_Scene IV._

_The Hall of an old-fashioned farming house._

_Old Bar._ (_outside._) Don't take the saddle off her, boy, I'll be out
again in ten minutes.

(_Enter Bargrove._) Poof--this is, indeed, fine weather for the harvest.
We can't cut fast enough--and such crops! (_Seats himself._) My dear,
where are you?

_Mrs Bar._ (_outside._) I'm coming. [_Enters._

_Bar._ Is dinner ready? No time, my dear, to wait. We are carrying at
North Breck and Fifteen Acre. Good three miles off; the people will have
dined before I'm back.

_Mrs Bar._ Lord bless you, Bargrove! don't fuss--can't they go on
without you?

_Bar._ Yes, my dear, they can; but the question is, if they will. This
fine weather mustn't be lost.

_Mrs Bar._ Nor your dinner either. It will be ready in five minutes.

_Bar._ Well, well,--where's Lucy?

_Mrs Bar._ Upstairs, with Miss Agnes. She's a sweet young lady.

_Bar._ Yes, and so mild, and so good-tempered.

_Mrs Bar._ That sweet temper of hers don't come from her mother, but
from me.

_Bar._ From you?

_Mrs Bar._ Didn't I suckle her as well as Master Edward? 'Tis the milk
makes the nature.

_Bar._ Good-natured you are, my dear, that's certain. There may be
something in it, for look at Peter. He was nursed by that foolish woman,
Sally Stone, when you put him away for Master Edward. I can make nothing
of Peter, dame.

_Mrs Bar._ Well, really Mr Bargrove, I can't find much fault in him.
Bating that he's idle, and extravagant, and won't mind what's said to
him, and don't try to please you, and talks foolishly, I see no harm in
the boy.

_Bar._ No harm--heh?

_Mrs Bar._ All this may appear improper in another, but somehow, it does
not appear so very bad in one's own child.

_Bar._ He's his mother's child, that's plain; but I say (striking his
stick upon the ground), he's a foolish, ungrateful, wicked boy.

_Mrs Bar._ Not wicked, Bargrove, don't say that. He is a little foolish,
I grant, but then he's young; and, by-and-bye, he'll grow tired of being
idle.

_Bar._ That's what no one was ever tired of, when he once took a liking
to it. But, however, I will try if I can't bring him to his senses.
Where is he now?

_Mrs Bar._ Heaven knows! He was up very early for him this morning, and
took a book with