NATURE WINS 
 
 R t COMEDY I IN t FOUR t SCTS, 
 
 BY 
 
 susa s.Vance, 
 
 Author of "Lois Carrol.' 
 
 FOR SEVEN CHARACTERS. 
 
 SAINT JOSEPH, MO. : 
 
 CHARLIE FASSBTT'S "PLEASURE AND PROFIT" PRINTING-HOUSE. 
 
 1883. 
 

NATURE WINS: 
 
 S x COMEDY UN l FOUR I fiCTS, 
 
 SUSA S. VANCE, 
 
 author of "Lois Carrot,." 
 
 FOR SEVEN CHARACTERS. 
 
 3 / 
 
 ^o~l^^f 
 
 SAINT JOSEPH, MO.: 
 CHARLIE FASSETT'S "PLEASURE AND PROFIT" PRINTING-HOUSE. 
 
 1883. 
 

 Copyright, 1883. 
 BY SUSA S. VANCE. 
 
DEDICATION 
 
 On account of my admiration for her acting, I take the 
 liberty of dedicating " Nature Wins " to the celebrated and 
 talented actress, Miss Maggie Mitchell. 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
DESCRIPTION OF COSTUMES. 
 
 Mrs. Wallace — In all four acts, a Mother Hubbard dress, 
 or any sort of plain, loose dress, swung from the shoulders. 
 
 Ivy Wallace— In first three acts, a girl's dark-blue sailor-suit. 
 No ornamentation. Plain, country hat. Hair short, dishev- 
 eled and curly, or in two long braids hanging down the 
 back. In the fourth act, a long-trailed fashionable dn 
 
 Louise Arlington — In three acts, a long-trailed fashionable 
 dress. In second act, a handsome bonnet, trimmed with 
 lace and flowers. 
 
 Mr. Leath — In all four acts, costume of old-fashioned, 
 eccentric gentleman. 
 
 Frank Wallace — In all four acts, plain suit of a young 
 country gentleman. 
 
 .neth Arlington — In three acts, elegant costume of a city 
 gentleman, but not a "dude." 
 
 John Wallace — Long iron-gray beard and hair: strange, out- 
 landish costume of a man who has been out of the world, 
 on an island, among savages, seventeen years. An old 
 sailor's -nit might do. 
 
NATURE WINS 
 
 A COMEDY IN FOUR ACTS. 
 
 LIST OF CHARACTERS. 
 
 Mrs. Mildred Wallace, a supposed widow. 
 
 Ivy Wallace, her daughter. 
 
 Frank Wallace, her son. 
 
 (Paul Leath, Mrs. Wallace's brother— an old bachelor. 
 
 John Wallace, shipwrecked husband. 
 
 Kenneth Arlington, \ Brother and sister, and cousins of 
 
 Louise Arlington, ) the Wallaces. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene 1. — A Lawn, with trees and country house, chaws, &*c 
 
 Mr. Leath {walking stage slowly). That sister of mine is 
 the brightest woman in America to-day. She is a wonder- 
 ful, wonderful woman. She has some rather queer ideas of 
 her own, but withal a clear, fine mind In fact, she has 
 brains {touching his forehead) like a man. She would not 
 thank me for the comparison, however. Ha, ha ! 
 
 Enter Mrs. Wallace {in time to hear the last sentence). 
 
 Mrs. Wallace. No, brother, I don't like the comparison. 
 
 Don't say that I have brains like a man, but like a woman. 
 
 That is the better compliment. You are the only man in 
 
 the world that I like, and you have some qualities that are 
 
6 NATURE WINS. 
 
 too good for a man. You must have inherited them from 
 your mother. Men arc mostly selfish, conceited, overbear- 
 ing, stingy, and given over to self-gratification. Not that 
 they show these fine traits to each other, but to their women- 
 folk — to those they have at their- mercy. (Walks about rest= 
 lessly at back of stage.) 
 
 Mr. L. There she goes, off on her hobby, but /don't mind 
 it. She is a woman of splendid heart, in spite of it, and 
 wonderful mind. 
 
 Mrs. W. {coming to front). Brother, I wonder you haven't 
 tired of this monotonous, country life, long ago— of our strict 
 seclusion, and of my peculiar theories. 
 
 Mr. L. No, sister; I have considered it a great privi- 
 leclge to have the constant companionship of a woman of 
 your superior intellect. You know I have never been able 
 to forget the romance of my youth. After Heaven claimed 
 the object of my affections, I only felt desirous of leading a 
 quiet, retired life, and, thanks to you and your interesting 
 children, it has not proved a lonely or a useless one. 
 
 Mrs. W. Indeed it has not, brother. Oh, if there were 
 only more men like you in the world ! What should we 
 have done without you? It would have been almost impos- 
 sible for me to have carried out my ideas in educating my 
 children without your assistance. You have been a father 
 to them ; and together we have kept their minds unsullied 
 from the world. (Mr. L. sits.) 
 
 Mr. L. I have helped you educate them, Mildred, with 
 all my heart, and they have grown as dear to me as if thev 
 were my own ; but I have only been a passive instrument in 
 assisting you to keep them so entirely ignorant of the ways 
 of the world. You have never altogether convinced me of 
 the wisdom of rearing them to manhood and womanhood in 
 this hermit-like fashion. Frank is now nearly a man, and 
 Ivy nearly a woman; yet, they are unsophisticated as babes 
 in long elothes. You must surely begin to realize that this 
 cannot last. It was all well enough while they Were 
 children, hut how is it possible to continue it? That is the 
 question 1 should think you would ask yourself a dozen 
 t imes a day. 
 
 M It was only possible to keep Frank in this sort 
 
 of retirement, and utter ignorance of the ways of the 
 world, until time for him to go to college. That time has 
 
 about arrived ; he is twenty years old. 1 have only secluded 
 him and kept from him all sentimental hooks. for Ivy*s sake. 
 
NATURE WINS. 
 
 It would not have mattered about the boy, but for his asso- 
 ciation with the girl. I do not wish to stand in the way of 
 his marrying when the time comes, because it will be to his 
 advantage. According to my theory, it is better for all men 
 to marry, but worse for all women. Woman is man's natural 
 victim. She seems to be made for his pleasure and her 
 own discomfort, as much as some of the lower animals, who 
 drag out a laborious existence, entirely for the purpose of 
 administering to the wants of man. I have wondered if this 
 could have been the intention of an all-wise and all-merciful 
 God, or if men have made it so through their superior brute- 
 strength, which enabled them to do injustice to those weaker 
 physically, but equal mentally. If my son can find a girl 
 who has no better sense than to marry him, I shall not make 
 the slightest objection. I think that every girl who has a 
 good home, is a fool to unite herself to some man she fancies 
 at the time she is very much in love with, for his pleasure 
 and her own misery. If he be rich, she may experience the 
 shame of being generously reminded, a dozen times a day, of 
 what his money has done for her ; and if he be poor-- well, 
 it is all very well to talk about " the joy of sharing poverty 
 with one she loves," but when it comes down to the stern 
 reality, it means often to be the one to do the manual labor 
 around his house, while he goes to his office or store to gain 
 a livelihood by the exercise of his lordly brain, and keeps his 
 aristocratic hands white and soft, and free from all signs of 
 poverty. It means to black his boots while he reads his news- 
 papers, to almost faint over a hot cook-stove, to prepare my 
 lord's dinner, while he sits in an easy chair and leisurely 
 copies his brief. It means to sit up all night nursing 
 sick children, while my lord takes the rest he is bound, to 
 have under any circumstances, unless he be ill himself, and 
 then the whole household must be up to minister to his 
 wants. It means, too often, the breaking down of constitu- 
 tion under the maternal and domestic cares, and hard labor 
 of the woman who attempts, unaided, to do the work of a 
 household. I have known many husbands who have seen 
 their wives die thus, by inches, who were well able, finan- 
 cially, to keep a house full of servants. But they are afraid, 
 these selfish brutes, that they will be a little curtailed in 
 fine cigars and liquors, or might have to give up their horses 
 and buggies. Better gradually and slowly murder the deli- 
 cate wife, and have her out of the way. It is easy enough to 
 get another. I say it with shame for our sex, that wives are 
 so easily won. 
 
8 NATURE WINS. 
 
 Mr. L. Ah, sister, you look only upon the dark side. 
 You pick out the evil' examples. There are some happy 
 marriages. With all due respect for your remarkably fine 
 judgment, I must say that I think you are naturally influ- 
 enced by your own sad experience. 
 
 Mrs. W. Perhaps bo, brother, to some extent; but I also 
 get my opinions from observation. I have known a great 
 many married couples, but the happy ones have been like 
 angels' visits, " few and far between." A thoroughly con- 
 genial married couple should be secured by Barnum, and 
 exhibited as one of the greatest curiosities of the age. I 
 shall exert every energy of my mind to prevent my daughter 
 from ever becoming the wife, or in other words, the slave of 
 any man. I'd rather see her dead and in her coffin — would 
 rather see her in her shroud than in bridal robes. 
 
 Mr. L. Oh, sister, sister, your are using strong language. 
 
 Mrs. W. That is why I have so studiously kept from her 
 all knowledge of the ways of the world ; have lived in the 
 country, and have avoided our very neighbors, to prevent 
 her associating with other young people ; have taught her 
 the sciences and languages, but have absolutely prevented 
 her reading anything sentimental. Of course, when she is a 
 grown woman, I must let her become familiar with the 
 standard romance writers and poets, to complete her educa- 
 tion. But first, I wish to have her character fully formed, 
 and have her thoroughly imbued with a dislike for men, 
 and alive to the danger of the allurements of merely poetical 
 fancy. Most girls marry because they learn from senti- 
 mental novels that it is a fine thing. They should be pitied 
 for their credulity. (Ivy heard approaching from without, and 
 whistling or singing.) 
 
 Mr. L. There comes our dear girl. She enters like a ray 
 of sunshine. I don't exactly like the idea of keeping her 
 like a nun, always, Mildred, and guarding her in this her- 
 mitage, merely to gladden our old hearts ; for you know I 
 don't altogether share 1 your opinions, with all due respect 
 lor your superior intellect: but your experiment in training 
 her, so far, has made of her the most unique and refreshing 
 little morsel of humanity I ever saw. 
 
 (Enter Ivy. L., -zvhistling or singing, with her hat and hands 
 full of flowers. Throws hat on bench.) 
 
 Ivy. I have found the dear old uncle, and mother, at last, 
 who seem to have forgotten entirely that this is my birthday. 
 :ses each.) What makes you look so serious, mother, dear ? 
 Your face is flushed with excitement. 
 
NATURE WINS. 
 
 Mrs. W. Oh, it is nothing, clear child. I am happy in 
 remembering with you that this is the anniversary of your 
 birth. 
 
 Mr. L. And how old are you now? About fourteen, I 
 think. 
 
 Ivy. Fourteen ! Why, uncle, the idea of your forgetting 
 
 my age. Look what a big girl I am ! I am seventeen to-day ; 
 
 and I begin to think that I'm a dreadfully rough, wild thing 
 
 y ««f my age. Perhaps I ought to be more like a woman now 
 
 — ought I not, mother? 
 
 Mrs. W. {startled). A woman ! What nonsense you are 
 talking, child. You will not be a woman for several years 
 yet; and, in the meantime, I want you to enjoy your wild, 
 free life to its fullest extent— to run and jump and skip 
 and drink in this health-giving, glorious country air, and 
 take as much pleasure as ever in your country sports — in 
 hunting your birds' nests, in fishing and horseback riding, 
 and in your many pets. 
 
 Ivy. Oh, I shall always love my pets, my flowers, and my 
 pony; but, mother, I don't care as much as I used for 
 hunting birds' nests and wild fruit, for pktying ball, and 
 those kinds of childish things. 
 
 Mrs. W. They are not too childish for you, Ivy, you are 
 nothing but a child. They give you healthful exercise, when 
 not at your studies. 
 
 Ivy. Let me tell you what brother heard a few days ago. 
 While out hunting he stopped at a farm house, and — 
 
 Mrs. W. Stopped at a farm house ! I told him never to 
 do such a thing ! 
 
 Ivy. It was only at the door, mother, to ask for a drink of 
 water. He said he was so thirsty, and while drinking, a 
 young girl, not so old as I, ran across the lawn, singing and 
 whistling, and her mother called her and scolded her for 
 being so noisy and rude ; telling her to be more quiet and 
 lad}'-like. 
 
 Mrs. W. Quiet and lady-like ! What conventional non- 
 sense. That mother must have been narrow minded and 
 stupid, my dear. We like to hear your voice ring out joy- 
 fully all over the place, Ivy, and if we like it, it is right for 
 you to be as gay and noisy as you please. 
 
 Mr. L. {rising). Since this is your birthday, Ivy, I don't 
 know of a better way that I could celebrate it than by 
 going with you for a ride. 
 
10 NATURE WINS. 
 
 Ivy. (clapping her hands). Oh, uncle, how delightful that 
 will be! You don't go with me often, now. (Kisses and 
 swings him around by the arms, and whistles or sings.) 
 
 Mr. L. There, there; you forget that my old arms are 
 getting rheumatic. Let go, you little witch. (Exit l. e.) 
 
 Mrs. W. Ivy, what have you been doing with yourself 
 the last hour or so? 
 
 Ivy. Why, I thought as this was my birthday, mother, 
 and we had holiday from studies, I would be as gay, and do 
 as many extravagant and ridiculous things as I pleased; so 
 I went to hunt my pet pig from the herd, and tie a blue 
 ribbon on his neck. He has grown so, and become so wild, 
 that he hardly knew me. He was dreadfully dirty, too. I 
 was determined to have him clean, so the blue ribbon would 
 not look inappropriate, so I tolled him along down to the 
 bridge and rolled him in. He likes a muddy puddle, but he 
 didn't like the clear, cold water. Ha, ha. ha! He squealed 
 and ran away from me in the most injured way. I think his 
 feelings were dreadfully hurt. But at last 1 brought him 
 back with some ears of corn, and had an opportunity to tie 
 the blue ribbon on. 
 
 Mrs. W. He very much resembles many bipeds of the 
 male gender. They usually only need self-interest as a bait 
 to attract them. 
 
 Ivy. Are most men very selfish, mother? 
 
 Mrs. W. Terribly selfish, my dear. Your uncle and 
 your brother are exceptions to the general rule, you know. 
 I hope if your brother ever marries he will not be very 
 unkind to his wife. I should feel sorry for her. 
 
 Ivy. I don't think my good brother could ever be unkind 
 to any one, mother. Is it not a pity all men are not like 
 him ? 
 
 Mrs. W. It is, indeed, my dear. That is just what I 
 said of my brother a while ago. 
 
 Ivy, i. ). If most men are so bad, mother, and so 
 
 unkind, why don't the women make them remain single? 
 
 Mrs. W. Because most women are fools, my child. Intel- 
 ligent persons in this world are greatly in the minority. 
 Women remind me of (lies — we see them deliberately go into 
 the Bpider's web over and over again. 
 Now that's .wo ions, isn't it ? 
 
 Mrs. W. It' young girls knew as well as we old women 
 do, what selfish and despotic and contempt ible creatures 
 men are, they would remain with their kind and loving 
 
NATURE WINS. 11 
 
 mothers. A mother rarely ever tires of her own child, or 
 neglects or deserts her. Girls should cling to their mothers 
 as long as life lasts; for they will never find anybody to love 
 them as the mother does. 
 
 Ivy. (timidly and hesitatingly). I was asking uncle some 
 questions the other day, and one was, why all people didn't 
 stay single as he was; and he said he supposed it was 
 because they didn't have any fathers -and mothers, or 
 brothers and sisters, or uncles and aunts, or nieces and 
 nephews, and they get lonesome and so they get married. 
 
 Mrs, W. Then if they are that lonesome, they should not 
 make fools of themselves, but should travel over the world 
 and see the sights and the great works of art. That is what 
 you and I shall do some day, Ivy, when you are older and 
 your brother is at college. It would not be hard to induce 
 3'our uncle to take a trip with us. He would probably have 
 gone when he and I inherited our fortune, at the death of 
 our father, but that he could not bring himself to leave us. 
 
 {Enter Mr. L. } L. e.) 
 
 Mr. L. Now, Ivy, the horses are ready, and we'shall have 
 a nice ride. {Mrs. Wallace lakes hat from bench, arranges it 
 on Ivy's head and then kisses her — both standing at back of 
 stage.) 
 
 Mr. L. What a remarkably sensible women my sister is, 
 to so completely disregard fashion. Not many women would 
 be strong-minded enough to dress as she does. Most 
 of them would rig their seventeen-year-old daughters up in 
 ridiculous, long riding-habits. Both she and Ivy are inno- 
 cent of whalebones and crinolines. 
 
 (Enter Frank Wallace, l. e.) 
 
 Frank. Going for a ride, Ivy? Uncle, this letter has just 
 arrived for you. A letter is a sort of curiosity among us, 
 isn't it ? 
 
 Mr. L. In other words, my boy, you would like to know 
 what this one contains. Perhaps I can satisfy you. (Opens 
 letter and reads it.) Mildred, this comes from our cousin, 
 Emma Arlington. You know I met her when on my last 
 business trip. She insisted on taking me to her house, and 
 overwhelmed me with kindness, as well as with questions 
 about you, and protestations that her old friendship for you 
 was as warm as ever. She seemed to deeply feel what she 
 called your neglect of her of late years. You remember I 
 told you on my return what a happy couple she and her 
 
12 NATURE WJXS. 
 
 husband seemed to be, and of her two fine children — a young 
 man and a young lady. In this letter she informs me that 
 she is sending them on a visit to us. 
 
 Frank. A visit from a young lady ! 
 
 Mr. L. Exactly. 
 
 Ivy. A visit from a young man! 
 
 Mr. L. That's what he seemed to be. 
 
 Mrs. W. What audacity, to disturb our privacy in this 
 way, without invitation! 
 
 Mr. L. Not entirely without invitation, Mildred. Emma 
 hinted very strongly to me that she would like to send them 
 — said they had never been in the country, and how 
 delighted she would be to know your children, and have you 
 know hers. So, of course, I said I should be delighted — that 
 is, I mean I tried not to seem impolite, and said she ought 
 to send them some time. She writes that they will arrive 
 on the fourth of this month. 
 
 All the others. That is to-day ! 
 
 Mrs. W. Great heavens! what can I do? 
 
 Mr. L. I don't see that anybody can do anything but me; 
 and what I have to do is to get out the old carriage and go 
 to the station for them, when the train is due, in about an 
 hour. I believe there is something you can do, too. Mildred. 
 You can have some rooms made ready for them, and you can 
 be the noble hostess that you knew so well how to be in old 
 times, and give them a kind welcome. That will do more 
 toward making them comfortable, than soft beds and a well- 
 laden table. 
 
 Mrs. W. This interferes terribly with my plans. I can- 
 not help feeling extremely vexed; and yet, for their 
 mother's sake, 1 must make them welcome. 
 
 Mr. L. I am sure, sister, that a woman of your superior 
 mind can arise to the emergency, and suppress your 
 annoyance sufficiently to be kind to them. Besides, our 
 young cousins are charming, and you will probably like 
 t hem for themselves. 
 
 Mrs. W. Even for their mother's sake, I could hardly 
 like a foppish city beau, and a fashionable young lady, who 
 are about to disturb our quiet life, and probably initiate 
 my children into worldly and frivolous, or sentimental, vie ws 
 of life; but I shall compel myself to be polite them. 
 
 Mr. L. Ivy, our ride will have to be postponed till some 
 other day, because 1 shall have to go immediately to the 
 station. | Exit, L. k. ) 
 
NATURE WINS. 13 
 
 Frank. Mother, there are some questions I should like to 
 ask you, which have long been puzzling my mind. There 
 must have been some distressing experience in your past 
 life, that has saddened you very much, and separated you 
 from all your old friends. 
 
 Ivy. Yes ; you have never talked to us of this cousin, 
 Mrs. Arlington, who seems to have been so dear a friend to 
 you, and who so deeply regrets your neglect of her. 
 
 Frank. There was one still nearer to us of whom you 
 never speak. Will you not now tell us of our father? 
 
 Ivy. Yes; do tell us of our father. Would he not also 
 have loved us if he had lived ? 
 
 Mrs. W. {coldly). It was hardly in his nature to love any 
 one but himself. (All sit.) 
 
 Ivy. How was it you married so cold and selfish a man ? 
 
 Mrs. W. Oh, he was loving enough in our courtship days. 
 All men are when they are trying to win a wife. They make 
 man}^ promises " to always love and cherish the one who is 
 dearer to them than life," to use their own hypocritical 
 phrase; when the truth is, that one can hardly be depended 
 on, after marriage, to lose a single night's sleep to save the 
 life of a wife who is ill. (Turning to Ivy. )~Men know how to 
 to make love charmingly ; they can talk like angels, and act 
 like brutes. 
 
 Frank. But will you tell us of your own married life, 
 mother ? 
 
 Mrs. W. Yes; it is time you both should know now, and 
 I shall give you my history as briefly as possible, as it is an 
 extremely painful subject to me. I would like to say as 
 little as possible that is harsh of your father. When I 
 became engaged to him, my father (a very wealthy man) 
 so seriously objected to the match, that he threatened to 
 disown me if I married Mr. Wallace ; but I was young, 
 foolish and romantic, and was so much in love with him, 
 that I could not see his fan Its. These consisted in a want of 
 practical sense, and a cold selfishness, which absorbed him 
 completely in his own theories. He was b}^ taste and educa- 
 tion an enthusiastic astronomer, but by inheritance, a 
 cotton planter. He owned a small plantation in Louisiana, 
 on the Mississippi river. We were married secretly, one 
 day while out walking, and left the city immediately, to 
 avoid my father's anger. We lived four years after that 
 on my husband's plantation, and he seemed for a w T hile to 
 to be making an effort to cultivate his neglected lands. 
 
14 NATURE WINS. 
 
 His heart was not in his work, however, and he spent hours 
 and hours in poring over his books and studying his 
 favorite science. He had neglected most of his other studies 
 for it while at college. As somewhat of an excuse for his 
 treatment of me, I must say, that after long years of think- 
 ing over the subject, I have come to the conclusion that he 
 was not altogether sane. His love for astronomy amounted 
 to a passion, a monomania, that completely absorbed his 
 mind and took it off every other subject. He had no taste, 
 whatever, for farming, and grew more tired of it, and my pro- 
 tests against his neglect of all means of giving us a support. 
 As he neglected his land more and more, we had to give up 
 the very comforts of life, and I did heavy work that I was 
 totally unfitted for, as I had been reared in luxury. 
 
 Frank. Could he sit by with folded hands and see his 
 delicately nurtured wife do manual labor ? 
 
 Mrs. W. Oh, he seemed to be unconscious of it. Frank, you 
 were born a year after our marriage. Sometimes, when I felt 
 almost too weak to walk across the floor, I was obliged to cul- 
 tivate the garden with my own hands, milk cows, cook, and 
 do all such work, while my husband sat in his study with 
 his books and instruments, and writing lectures, with which 
 he expected to make a living. 
 
 Ivy. My poor mother; is it possible you had to suffer so! 
 
 Mrs. W\ After my second child was born, he left me alone 
 to struggle for existence, while he went about delivering lec- 
 tures on astronomy, and making just barely enough to sup- 
 port himself; at least he did not send me a cent. After he 
 left, I took the farm into my own hands, and rented most of 
 it, thereby gaining enough to support myself and children, 
 without needing to work so hard; for, at times, I feared it 
 was breaking ray constitution terribly. Occasionally, when 
 it was on his direct route, your father came to see us, but 
 took hardly any interest in his family. The last time he 
 came there, he was exultant over a letter he had just 
 received, asking him to join a government expedition to 
 some island in a distant part of the globe, to make an 
 important astronomical observation. He had accepted the 
 offer, and was enthusiastic over what he called the rare priv- 
 ilege. While he was with us, one of those disastrous over- 
 Hows of the river came upon us so suddenly that we w r ere 
 obliged t<> lice to a hovel on the only high ground within 
 miles of us. An old colored man and his wife lived in a 
 part of it. There you were horn, Ivy, amid surroundings 
 
NATURE WINS. 15 
 
 more fit to usher in the life of the poorest peasant child, 
 than my rich father's grandchild. I shall tell you very 
 briefly of the privations we endured there, because any long 
 description of it would be too painful for both of us. 
 
 Frank. Did my father make no effort to go in a boat to 
 procure comforts for you ? 
 
 Mrs. W. No. His chief anxiety was to get away in time 
 not to miss his expedition. I had three children then, and 
 if it had not been for the assistance of the old colored couple, 
 we should almost have starved. 
 
 Ivy. I can hardly believe it possible that we had such a 
 heartless father. 
 
 Mrs. W. I had thought that it would be impossible lor 
 him to leave us in our forlorn condition, when the time 
 came; but, shortly after we arrived at our place of refuge, 
 he sent, by a man in a passing boat, a letter to my brother, 
 Paul Leath, telling him to come and take charge of us. 
 Ivy. Had you never written to your father for assistance? 
 Mrs. W. No ; I knew his cold and unforgiving nature too 
 well. My brother was in business and making a good living 
 for himself, but I shrank from exposing my husband's faults 
 even to him. , 
 
 Ivy. Oh, mother, how I wish we had been old enough to 
 help you, instead of being a burden. 
 
 Mrs. W. Although my children were a care to me, con- 
 tradictory as it may seeni, they were the only joy of my life. 
 I could not help still clinging to my husband. My affection 
 for him had not all perished, and his intention to leave us as 
 we were then situated, was breaking my heart. The land 
 was covered with the pitiless, brown waters of the Missis- 
 sippi for miles around us, with the exception of the high 
 ground on which the negro cabin was built. We were liv- 
 ing entirely upon the bounty of the kind colored couple, but 
 the woman was so aged that she could give me very little 
 assistance in caring for my children. I implored, even 
 prayed my husband not to leave us, but he thought it 
 foolish of me to wish to make him miss the astronomical 
 expedition— what he called " the grand opportunity of his 
 life." When Ivy was ten days old, he left us, and the last 
 time I ever saw 'him was through a mist of tears, when he 
 disappeared in his little boat, like a tiny speck, far off upon 
 the waters. 
 
 Ivy. {sadly). He left us? 
 
16 NATURE WINS. 
 
 Frank. I was in hopes he would have relented at the last 
 moment — that the helplessness of his family would have 
 appealed to even his heart. 
 
 Mrs. W. My grief threw me into a fever, and I was 
 delirous for days. On recovering, I missed from the room 
 my little two-year-old girl — your sister Alice. She was a 
 beautiful child — the very idol of my heart — and I called for 
 her to be brought to me. I cannot tell you how overwhelmed 
 I was with horror and misery, when they pointed through 
 the window to a little freshly made grave. My little darling 
 had gone from me while I was unconscious. ,She had prob- 
 ably died from want of attention. 
 (A *pause, during which Mrs. Wallace, Frank and Ivy are 
 
 overcome with emotion, and John Wallace is seen creeping 
 
 from behind a tree. He comes up behind the others unper- 
 
 ceived, looks curiously at each of them, and then returns to the 
 
 tree.) 
 
 Mrs. W. My terrible grief would have driven me insane, 
 if I had not been compelled to make a powerful effort to con- 
 trol it, for the sake of the two children I had left. 
 
 Ivy. It is too painful for you, mother, to be obliged to 
 refer to this horrible time of your life. Let us imagine the 
 rest. Our uncle came for you, thank God, and took you to a 
 comfortable home. 
 
 Mrs. W. Yes, he has been the best brother woman ever 
 had. 
 
 Ivy. And so, you see, in place of one heartless man, God 
 gave us another noble one. I fancy it is so all over the world. 
 For every bad man, may there not be a good one? 
 
 Frank. Yes, it is hardly just or fair, because of your own 
 sad experience, to think the great majority of men bad. 
 You have not told us of our father's death. Did it occur 
 while he was abroad? 
 
 Mrs. W. I have never known anything positively about it. 
 The ship on which he sailed for home must have gone down 
 in a storm. It was never heard of after it was spoken by a 
 certain steamer in mid-ocean. 
 
 Ivy. Dear mother, Frank and I will do our best to make 
 your life a happy one now. Come; let us go and gather 
 (lowers, and dress np the old house, to make it bright for 
 our cousins. 
 
 Curtain. 
 
 END OF FIRST ACT. 
 
NATURE WINS. 17 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene— A country drawing-room. 
 
 {Enter the fonr young cousins. Come down, Ivy, R. c, Louise, 
 l. c, Frank, R., Kenneth, l. 
 
 Ivy. How jolly it is to have cousins to come and visit us. 
 We never did have any company before. 
 
 Louise. Never in your lives? 
 
 Ivy. No; never since I can remember. When we first 
 came to this neighborhood I was a baby, and people called 
 onus; but mother excused herself to every one, till they 
 became offended — our old cook says — and ceased coming. 
 
 Frank. Did you come on the steam-cars? 
 
 Louise. Why, certainly. 
 
 Ivy. We never saw the steam-cars. 
 
 Louise. How strange ! You don't know how glorious it is, 
 then, to fly through the air at the rate of forty miles an 
 hour. 
 
 Ivy, Is that what makes you look so slender about the 
 waist ? 
 
 Louise. No, you odd child ; that is because my dress is 
 tight-fitting. 
 
 Ivy. Mother and I wear our dresses loose. She says it is 
 healthy to have the weight of one's clothes swung from the 
 shoulders. Uncle says mother is a sensible woman, and the 
 least frivolous one he ever saw. Are you frivolous? 
 
 Louise (surprised, but laughing). I hope not. (Turns 
 toward her brother. Ivy examines Louise's long train very curi= 
 ously, smoothing it with her hands.) 
 
 Kenneth (aside). She is as innocent and uncultured as 
 the calves and the lambs. 
 
 Frank (aside). I wonder if all young ladies are as 
 pretty as my Cousin Louise! 
 
 Ivy. I say. Cousin Louise, what do you call this part of 
 your dress hanging on the floor ? 
 
 Louise. That is my train. 
 
 Ivy, Why, it must be terribly in your way. How do you 
 manage when you want to climb a tree for apples, or cherries, 
 or for blossoms ? 
 
 Louise (horrified). Climb a tree ! That is something I 
 never did in my life. 
 
 Frank. How odd ! 
 
 Louise. Young ladies don't climb trees, except when brought 
 up exclusively in the country. 
 
18 NATURE WINS. 
 
 Ivy. And did you never ride on horseback ! 
 
 Louise. No, never. 
 
 Frank. And did you never ride on horseback, Kenneth ? 
 
 Ken. No; I suppose I should be ashamed to say I 
 never mounted a horse in my life. 
 
 Ivy. Aren't they ignorant, Frank? 
 
 Frank. Yes; but we'll have to teach them. 
 
 Ivy. Oh, that will be fun {clapping her hands). We'll 
 show these city cousins what good sport is! 
 
 Frank. Can you shoot a pistol, Kenneth! 
 
 Ken. (indifferently). Oh, I suppose I could, but I never 
 tried it. 
 
 Ivy. Brother and I are real good shots. 
 
 Louise. What ! a girl shoot a pistols. 
 
 Ivy. Yes indeed ; uncle taught us, so that we can hit the 
 mark every time. He says no lady's education should be 
 considered complete until she learns to shoot well; and above 
 all, to swim. 
 
 Ken. {surprised). Can you swim? 
 
 Ivy. I can that. You should see me strike out into deep 
 water {makes motions with her arms). I think it the best 
 sport in the world — better even than skating. 
 
 Louise. Can you skate on ice ? 
 
 Ivy. Yes; where else should I skate — on the ploughed 
 fields ? {Laughs.) 
 
 Louise. No; but on parlor skates, in the house. / can 
 do that. 
 
 Ivy. I never saw 7 any parlor skates, but I should think 
 all the fun would be lacking, if you were not out in the 
 open air. 
 
 Ken. {to Ivy). So you can swim, can you, you strange 
 little country girl? 
 
 Ivy. Yes indeed ; and I would not take a million dollars 
 for the fun I have in the water. We have a fine, big creek, 
 with some deep holes in it, and bathing suits. We'll teach 
 you both to swim ; won't we, Frank ? 
 
 Frank. Yes; I'll teach Cousin Louise. 
 
 Louise. I thank you very much, I'm sure, but I'd rather 
 be a spectator. I'm afraid of the water. 
 
 Ivy {laughing at Louise). Oh, what a coward! I'll teach 
 Cousin Kenneth, though. 
 
 Ken. Thank you ; I'd be very glad. Every man and 
 woman, too, ought to know how to swim, Perhaps we shall 
 1m- able to persuade my sister to venture. 
 
NATURE WINS. 19 
 
 Frank. There are two things that I have not been able to 
 teach my sister, though. She has gone hunting with me, 
 and fishing with me, but she makes neither a good hunter 
 nor fisherman. She is too pitiful. She wants to throw all 
 the fishes back in the water before they die, and she hides 
 her face, so as not to see the little squirrels and birds shot. 
 
 Ivy. Yes ; that seems too cruel. 
 
 Ken. {aside). She has some womanliness after all. I 
 thought her sweet face could not belong to a thoroughly 
 manish girl. 
 
 Ivy. But I tell you what I love to do — to seine for fishes, 
 and keep them in a tiny pond to themselves, for pets. That 
 is, I used to think it fun, but brother laughs at me now, and 
 says it is too childish for a big girl. 
 
 Frank. Yes ; such a good Latin, German, and French 
 scholar as she is, ought to give up such childish play. 
 
 Ken. You study something else, then, besides shooting 
 and fishing and horseback riding. 
 
 Ivy. Yes, mother and uncle make us study hard, too. How 
 far are you advanced in Latin, Cousin Louise? 
 
 Louise {ashamed). I never studied Latin. 
 
 Ivy. Why, what do city people learn ? 
 
 Louise. We go to school and study till we can pass our 
 examinations and get our diplomas. 
 
 Ivy. Diplomas! Oh, mother told me they did not amount 
 to a row of pins. 
 
 Louise. And then we come out in society. 
 
 Ivy. How do you do that? I never learned that. 
 
 Louise (with patronizing tone). Of course not. People have 
 no society in the backwoods. In summer, we go to lawn 
 parties, on excursions, and to picnics. Did you ever go to 
 picnics? 
 
 Frank. No, never. 
 
 Louise. Oh, how much you have missed. And in winter, 
 we go sleighing and to parties. Can either of you dance ? 
 
 Frank and Ivy. Dance ! No. (Looking ashamed.) i 
 
 Louise (turning to her brother). Just think of it, Kenneth, 
 they don't know how to dance ! I think one's education is 
 hardly finished unless one goes to dancing-school. It teaches 
 a woman to be graceful. 
 
 Ken. (lightly). I rather think it does. We shall have to 
 teach them. I will teach Cousin Ivy, and you teach Frank. 
 
 Ivy and Frank. Thank you ; we'd like to learn. 
 
 Ken. This is the way. y (Takes his sister in his arms and 
 whirls away in a waltz). 
 
20 NATURE WINS. 
 
 Ivy. It is lovely, and yet, it looks rather ridiculous, too. 
 But if young ladies have to learn it, I'd like for you to teach 
 me. Mother never told us about it. 
 
 Frank. It is beautiful. Do teach me, Cousin Louise. (He 
 takes Louise in his arms and dances with her rather awkardly.) 
 
 Louise. It will not be hard to teach you. (Shows him steps 
 at back of stage.) 
 
 Ken. Now, Cousin Ivy. (Holds out his arms for her. She 
 starts to place herself in his arms, but hesitates, looks at him 
 and blushes, and then shrinks back.) 
 
 Ken. (still holding out his arms). Come ! 
 
 Ivy. No, I can't. (Hesitates.) Here, take my hands and 
 we will dance so. (They join hands and dance. When the 
 dance is over, all come forward. One or more songs may be 
 introduced here. Frank, L., Kenneth, L. c, Ivy and Louise, c.) 
 
 Ken. We shall have to take several mornings and teach 
 you to dance. 
 
 Louise. Another pleasure we have, Ivv is going shopping. 
 
 Ivy. What is that? 
 
 Louise. Going about from shop to shop, binding materials 
 for our dresses. 
 
 Ivy. Oh, dear! how strangely you talk about things — 
 so differently from mother. She says that is terribly tire- 
 some. She goes fifteen miles to the nearest city to buy our 
 clothes, and always comes back tired out. I have asked to 
 go with her, but she always said it would give me unneces- 
 sary fatigue. 
 
 Louise. I think it great fun. I wouldn't have anybody 
 do my shopping for me. 
 
 Ivy. I should think you would require a great deal of dry 
 goods, if you put so much of it on the ground in that funny 
 thing you call your train. 
 
 (Enter Mr. Leath and Mrs. Wallace, R. d. Come down, Mr. 
 L., R., Mrs. W., r. c.) 
 Mrs. W. When I met you a while ago, Kenneth, I was 
 very much struck with your likeness to your mother. 
 
 I am glad you think so. She has talked to us often 
 of her intimate friendship with you. 
 
 Mr. L. Have our rural children been entertaining you, 
 or is it hard for you to find anything in common to talk 
 about? 
 
 Mrs. W. 1 must beg of you and Louise, Kenneth, not 
 to teach my children to be too worldly. I have purposely 
 brought them up in the country entirely, far from all the 
 
NATURE WINS. 21 
 
 fashion and nonsense of the world, and wish them to remain 
 
 quite unsophisticated for some time to come. 
 
 (During the foregoing conversation, Ivy so greatly admires Louise's 
 train that she takes table-cover from table, c. f., pins it on her own 
 dress, so as to make a train, and takes Louise's lace handkerchief, 
 places it on her own head with hair pins, in such a way as to form 
 an airy bonnet. Louise, seeing the pantomime, comes to her assist- 
 ance, and takes bunch of roses from vase on the table, and pins it 
 on the side of Ivy's improvised bonnet. Ivy struts the stage, look- 
 ing back at her train, delighted.) 
 
 Mrs. W. (perceiving Ivy). Oh Ivy, how can you ? 
 
 Ivy. I want to look like Louise, mother. See what a 
 beautiful, long dress she is wearing. 
 
 Mrs. W. (aside). I fear that she is already becoming 
 demoralized. 
 
 Louise. It is human nature, Cousin Mildred, for young 
 ladies to like some adornment. I heard a magnificent 
 preacher say once in a sermon, that there was something 
 lacking in a true woman's nature if she did not like to array 
 herself becomingly. 
 
 Mrs. W. My opinion of young ladies who are given over 
 to fashion is that they are very frivolous. 
 
 Louise. But, Cousin Mildred, a young lady may be a gen- 
 uine, thoughtful woman and, and far from given over to 
 fashion, and yet like to dress becomingly, from an artistic 
 love of the beautiful, and a general sense of the fitness of 
 things. 
 
 Mrs. W. Don't put such ideas into Ivy's head. She is 
 only a child yet. 
 
 Ivy. I must be nearly as old as Louise, mother. How old 
 are you, Louise? I am seventeen to-day. 
 
 Louise. I am just eighteen. 
 
 Ivy. And what a grown-up young lady you are ! Mother, 
 I would look nice and grown, too, if I had on pretty things 
 like hers. Oh, isn't it splendid to be a young lady! (Struts 
 about, looking at her table= cover train.) 
 
 Mrs. W. ^aside). This will never do! 
 
 Ivy. Mother, do let me be grown-up and wear long dresses. 
 It must be glorious to go to parties ! (All laugh.) 
 
 Ken. Louise has had some lovers since she came out, 
 but I don't think she has lost her heart yet. 
 
 Ivy. Lovers! Is that something pretty to wear? I must 
 have some of that, too. Tell me about it, Cousin Kenneth. 
 
 Ken. Certainly. 
 
22 NATURE WINS. 
 
 Frank. Well, come ; he can tell you out on the lawn. We 
 are going to practice pistol shooting. (All go out L. d., but 
 Mrs. Wallace.) 
 
 Mrs. W. This is horrible! Come back, Ivy! (Ivy, who 
 is just leaving after the others, returns). It distresses me, Ivy, 
 to see you growing like these city cousins. 
 
 Ivy. But aren't they splendid? I didn't know city 
 people were so nice. Now, Louise is the finest creature I ever 
 saw. She is prettier than the red-birds. 
 
 Mrs. W. She looks more like a peacock with that ridicu- 
 lous trail, and here you are aping it. 
 
 Ivy (looking ruefully at her table=cover train). But, mother, 
 you must confess that the young man is lovely. I thought 
 all young men were like my brother Frank, but this one is 
 far prettier. There is a light in his eyes, when he looks you 
 squarely in the face, that is beautiful. He wanted to take 
 me in his arms and dance, but somehow I couldn't. It seemed 
 so strange It could not have been wrong, though, because 
 Louise danced so with my brother. Kenneth took my hands 
 while we danced ; and oh, how it did make my fingers tingle. 
 It was like touching that electric battery you have. 
 
 Mrs. W. Ivy, come immediately to your room and pack 
 your trunk. You and I are going away on this evening's 
 train. 
 
 Ivy. And leave these beautiful, sweet cousins? 
 
 Mrs. W. Yes; your uncle and Frank can entertain them. 
 
 (A pistol shot is heard from without, followed by screams from 
 Louise. Enter Mr. Leath, L. d.) 
 
 Mr. L. Sister, Kenneth has accidentally shot himself. 
 Let us tie up his wound the best we can and send quickly 
 for a doctor. I think it is only a slight wound in the arm. 
 (Enter Kenneth, L. d., with Frank supporting him on one side 
 and Louise on the other. Kenneth sits on sofa.) 
 
 Ivy (seating herself on the other end of sofa). Oh, do let 
 me help him in some way. Lean on me, Cousin Kenneth. 
 (Kenneth stretches himself out on sofa, with his head resting 
 in Ivy's lap or arms.) 
 
 Curtain. 
 END OF SECOND ACT. 
 
NATURE WINS. 23 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene— A lawn with country house visible on the left. . One 
 chair and a sort of out=door sofa. Ivy is sitting in chair, c. 
 Louise and Frank are standing R. c. 
 
 Louise. Since Kenneth rested so well all last night, and is 
 better to-day. could we not walk about a little ? This quaint 
 old country place is something entirely new to me. 
 
 Frank. I shall be delighted to show you all the pretty 
 walks. {Louise takes his arm, and they start off, leaving Ivy.) 
 
 Ivy. I say, Cousin Louise, is it the fashion in the city for 
 only two walk at a time ? 
 
 Louise. It is customary for young people to go in couples. 
 {Start off again ; but, on second thought, turn once more, still 
 holding arms.) Will you come with us, Ivy ? 
 
 Ivy, No, thank you ; it would not do to go contrary to the 
 custom. {They start off once more. Turn again.) 
 
 Frank. Ivy, we would like to have you walk with us. 
 
 Ivy. No doubt you are both very anxious to have me ; 
 but I wouldn't spoil a couple for the world. I'd rather sit 
 here {seats herself on bench. Frank and Louise disappear, R.), 
 where I can see Kenneth's window. I wonder why I love to 
 watch his window? Before yeste.day, that window was the 
 same to me as all the others in the house ; but now, it has a 
 peculiar and wonderful charm. I hope he will soon be well. 
 I feel quite sure he must be different from the sort of men 
 mother has known, and far nobler and better. {Ivy sings a 
 ballad.) 
 
 Ken. {appearing at window). Thanks, Ivy; I have enjoyed 
 the serenade. 
 
 Ivy. Go back to your sofa, Cousin Kenneth. You should 
 not stir about. 
 
 Ken. Will you come in and read to me ? 
 
 Ivy. Yes; directly. {Kenneth disappears. Ivy, still sit= 
 ting, continues to hum the air oj her song. John Wallace is 
 seen approaching slowly from the back. Comes before Ivy. 
 She screams at the sudden sight of him.) 
 
 Mr. Wallace (r. a). Hush! you will alarm the house- 
 hold. 
 
 Ivy {rising). Who are you, sir? 
 
 Wat. You need not be afraid of a poor old man like me. 
 I wish I had a daughter like you. It would take away the 
 horror of death if I could die in her arms. 
 
 Ivy. Why, how strangely you talk, sir. 
 
24 NATURE WINS. 
 
 Wal. Perhaps I may seem a little wild to you. Your 
 mother is a misanthrope, is she not? 
 
 Ivy. What right have you to discuss my mother? 
 
 Wal. I had a daughter like you, and that is why I take 
 an interest in you. 1 knew your mother years ago. She 
 has many fine traits of character, but she has made a mis- 
 take in trying to bring up her daughter to be a man 
 hater. If the man ever comes, young lady, whose voice is 
 music to your ears, whose presence brings a glow of delight 
 to your cheeks, and whom you have every reason to believe 
 to be an noble man, do not renounce, for any one's whims, 
 your birthright to happiness in this world. You have the 
 right to choose for yourself whether you shall marry or 
 remain single all your life. 
 
 Ivy. Mother says an old maid's life is the happiest in the 
 world. 
 
 Wal. An old maid's life is often so unhappy and lonely 
 that she is obliged to resort to nursing dogs and cats upon 
 her lap, instead of the little children that should be there. 
 I have seen many lonely old maids, and many happy wives 
 and mothers. One should not judge of all human life by 
 one's own narrow experience. The drunken man believes 
 every one else to be intoxicated ; but that does not make it 
 true. I have had a very sad life, but I hope you will have 
 a bright one. 
 
 Ivy. Thank you, sir. I suspect there must be some 
 peculiar reason why you should take such interest in me. 
 
 Wal. Yes; there is, Ivy. I am very feeble; I have not 
 long to live, and there is no one to take an interest in me. 
 Would you be kind and pitiful to me ? I know you have a 
 good heart. 
 
 Ivy. I feel very sorry for you, sir. 
 
 Wal. Do you, dear? Do you, my little Ivy? ((Puts his 
 arms about her. Ivy screams and struggles. Kenneth rushes 
 from the house, with his left arm in a sling. With his right 
 hand he catches hold of the old man and pulls him away from 
 Ivy. 
 
 Ken. What do you mean, old man, by this behavior? 
 Who is he, Ivy ? 
 
 Ivy. I do not know. I never saw him before. 
 
 Wal. I mean no harm, sir. I am weak and ill. I 
 thought she would be kind to me. 
 
 Ivy. Poor old man ! Perhaps he has no relative in the 
 world. 
 
NATURE WINS. 25 
 
 Wal. I am all alone. I had a wife and three children 
 
 once. 
 
 Ivy. Did your wife die? 
 Wal. No; she is still living. 
 Ivy Did she leave you ? 
 
 Wal. No; I left her, and this is my punishment. I am 
 ill, and shall probably die alone. {Totters toward a seat. 
 Kenneth assists him, and he sits.) 
 
 Ken. (to Ivy). He must be insane. His eyes have a strange, 
 wild look. He may have wandered off from his friends. 
 (Enter Mrs. Wallace and Mr. Leath, l., and Frank and Lou= 
 
 ise, R.) 
 Mrs. W. I thought I heard some one scream. Why, Ken- 
 neth, you will aggravate your wound by stirring about. It 
 is very imprudent. Who" is the stranger? 
 
 Ivy Oh, mother, he is a poor old, helpless man, who says 
 
 that he has no friends. I feel so sorry for him ; but at first 
 
 I was frightened and screamed. 
 
 Mrs W. (to Wal). Have yo no home, sir? 
 
 Wat No ; I long ago forfeited all claims to my home. 1 
 
 had a wife and three children ; but I was a scientist, so 
 
 so absorbed in my studies that I was unconscious ot the cold, 
 
 selfish way in which I was neglecting my family. I was^ an 
 
 enthusiast— a monomaniac— men said. I did not appreciate 
 
 the blessings Fate had strewn in my path. You think me 
 
 mad now ? No ; my mind is now clear, and I understand all : 
 
 but then I was mad, and craving for knowledge that could 
 
 not bless me as the domestic happiness I might have had 
 
 for the wishing. . n _ 
 
 Ken Human beings are rarely satisfied. Men are every 
 day throwing away jewels and going in search of stones. 
 
 Wal That was* just my case, young man. 1 had a lovely 
 wife who left a luxurious home for me ; who worked lor me 
 without a murmur while I studied in idleness ; and who bore 
 three children during the four years of our married lite. 
 
 Ivy Why, that sounds like my mother ! 
 
 Wal God pity your mother, then, young lady I left my; 
 wife and children in such a helpless condition that one of 
 the little ones died. Ingrate, and heartless, selfish fool that 
 I was, I could find it in my heart to go away to a foreign 
 country to seek my fortune. But I was not as selfish as 1 
 seemed 7 I was thinking always of those I had left at home, 
 and hoping to make a name by which I could gain them a 
 
 fortune. 
 
 Frank. That sounds like my father ! 
 
26 NATURE WJXS. 
 
 s 
 
 Wal. Your father must have been a wretched man, then, 
 young man. In a few months I started to return home. To 
 make a long story short, the ship in which I sailed encoun- 
 tered a furious storm, and went down. I was found clinging 
 to a plank, by some savages, picked up, and taken to their 
 village, in, I know not, what wild country. They made me 
 their slave, and put upon me such heavy work that my con- 
 titution became entirely broken. 
 
 Mrs. W. And how long did you live among them ? 
 
 Wal. Sixteen years and a half. My hands are hardened 
 and horny from labor. After watching and waiting all those 
 long, weary years, for a chance to escape, a ship passed near 
 us one morning. I signaled her, and was taken up. On re- 
 turning to my native land, I searched out my family. 
 
 Mr. L. You found them ! They are living ! 
 
 Wal Yes, they are living, but almost dead to me. I did 
 not wish to shock my wife by a too sudden appearance. I 
 lingered around her house for a glimpse of her and my chil- 
 dren. I saw them one day sitting under the trees, and heard 
 her giving them her history. 
 
 Louise. It sounds like a romance. 
 
 Wal. She told them of my coldness, of my neglect, and 
 desertion of her, but she did not make me one-tenth as bad 
 as I had painted myself during all those years I spent in a 
 savage land. 
 
 Mrs. W. Oh, God! it is my husband ! 
 
 Wal. I could not go away without speaking to my 
 daughter, for I hoped her young and tender heart would have 
 some pity — perhaps, some love for me. Was I not right, Ivy ? 
 {Mrs. Wallace is overcome with emotion, and hides her face 
 in her hands.) 
 
 Ivy {falling on her knees beside his chair and embracing him). 
 Oh, father — my poor father! Indeed you were right. 
 
 Wal. And you forgive me for leaving you fatherless all 
 these years ? 
 
 Ivy. Yes, father. It was not your fault that you were 
 kept by the savages all these sixteen years. 
 
 Wal. And Frank, can you make friends with me, in what 
 is, perhaps, my last hour ? 
 
 ank {taking his hand). Yes. father, with all my heart. 
 
 Mildred (Mrs. Wallace raises her head and gazes at 
 
 him), I dare not ask your forgiveness. I do not deserve it. 
 
 Our two children can be my mediators. You love them and 
 
 may do what they ask. 
 
 Mrs. Vv. If L have entertained any hard feelings, John, 
 all these years, they arc softened now by the realization 
 
NATURE WINS. 27 
 
 that your health is so broken, and that you are prematurely 
 aged. It makes my heart ache to think of the terrible life 
 you have lead. (She goes to Mr. Wallace. He arises and they 
 embrace.) 
 
 Mrs. W. Oh, brother, come quickly ! He seems faint. 
 (Mr. Leath and Frank assist Mr. Wallace to a sofa, which 
 
 Kenneth wheels forward}-, while Louise runs and fetches a 
 
 pillow. The. old man is placed gently upon the sofa.) 
 
 Wal. I am growing weak. 
 ■ Ivy (sitting beside him on the sofa). Oh, father, we will love 
 and nurse vou so well that you will soon be strong again. 
 ■;Wal. I fear not, my little girl. My eyes are growing dim. 
 (Stretches out his hands.) Mildred, where are you ? 
 
 Mrs. W. (falling on her knees beside him and taking his 
 hands). ; Here I am, John. 
 
 ' Ivy. See ! he has fainted. (Mrs. Wallace bends her head 
 over his hands. Mr. Leath leans over Mr. Wallace and touches 
 his forehead.) . . 
 
 .Mr. L. No; he has not fainted. His poor, weary spirit 
 has passed away. (Tableau.) 
 
 '■'■■ ■ < '•"• - Curtain. 
 
 END OF THIRD ACT. 
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene..— -Country drawing=room. Frank Wallace and Louise 
 Arlington are seated on a sofa, c. 
 
 Frank. Do you know, Cousin Louise, that I like you bet- 
 ter than anybody in the world ? < # 
 
 Louise. Why, Frank ! Better than your mother and sis- 
 ter whom you have known all your life? 
 ■■■Frank. Well, no (embarrassed)) I don't hardly like you as 
 well as I do them, because my mother and sister have been 
 kind to me all my life. It would be ungrateful of me, 
 would it not, to like any one as well as I do them. 
 
 Louise (disappointed). Y-e-s, I suppose it would 
 
 Frank (still embarrassed). Yes, I like my mother better 
 than anybody in the world. 
 
 Louise (teasingly). Why, Cousin Frank; you just now 
 said that you liked me better than anybody ! 
 
 Frank (looking at her lovingly). I didn't mean it though. 
 I don't like you at all. 
 
28 NATURE WINS. 
 
 Louise. Don't like me ! What do you mean, sir, by being 
 so contradictory ? 
 
 Frank {sheepishly). I don't like you, Louise, because I love 
 you better than anybody in the world. 
 
 Louise. Ah ! better than your good mother ? 
 
 Frank (very much embarrassed). Yes, that is — I'm 
 extremely fond of her— but I don't get all in a tremble 
 when she comes near me, and she doesn't give me rush of 
 blood to the head as you do. 
 
 Louise. Then I must affect you very strangely and unpleas- 
 antly. 
 
 Frank. Yes you do (Seeing Louise start) — that is, I mean 
 — no you don't. What I am trying to say is, that I am in 
 heaven when with you. 
 
 Louise (teasingly). I shouldn't think it would be very 
 heavenly to have a rush of blood to the head. 
 
 Frank. Oh, but it is, though. 
 
 Louise (demurely). Is that so? 
 
 Frank (summoning up courage enough to put his 
 face down close to hers, and taking her hand). Yes ; that 
 sort is. (She looks at him and then looks away; he looks at her 
 and then looks away. Then both look at each other). 
 
 Frank. Well ? 
 
 Louise. Well, go on. 
 
 Frank. Goon? Go on with what? 
 
 Louise. With what you have got to say, of course. 
 
 Frank. But I haven't got anything to say. 
 
 Louise (drawing away from him and going apart). He's the 
 queerest lover I ever saw. He stops right in the middle of 
 his love-making, and says there is nothing more to say. I 
 can't help being fond of the boy ; his very peculiarities 
 attract me. 
 
 Frank (taking chair a little apart. Aside). I wonder why 
 she doesn't tell me whether she loves me. 
 
 Louise (aside). I have a great mind to make love to him. 
 Perhaps he expects it. (Aloud.) I say, Cousin Frank, what 
 makes you look so dejected. 
 
 Frank (rising). Because you haven't told me whether you 
 love me. 
 
 Louise. Why, you haven't asked me. 
 
 Frank. So 1 haven't. But then, I told you I loved you, 
 without any asking. 
 
 Louise. It isn't the lady's place to ask. 
 
 Fran!:. Well, Louise, will you not make allowances for 
 me ? You know lmw my mother has brought us up in such 
 strict seclusion. I know nothing of the ways of the world. 
 
NATURE WINS. 29 
 
 I only know that I love you with all my heart and soul. I 
 know my love for you is very different from that I have for 
 my mother and sister. I am happy when with you, and 
 unhappy when away from you.^ 
 
 Louise (aside). Oh, how ingenious and natural he is. His 
 love is entirely sincere. It is not a thing born of the imagin- 
 ation and nourished on sentimental novels and flirtations. 
 (Aloud.) Cousin Frank, I have read in novels how people 
 make love, and have had a few suitors myself. I know more 
 about it than you do. Suppose we reverse the general order 
 of things, and I will do the talking, you playing the part of 
 the lady, and merely answering. 
 
 Frank (heartily). Agreed! That will suit exactly. 
 Louise. Now, to begin : I have an important communica- 
 tion to make to you, Cousin Frank, which has been on my 
 my mind some time. It is something which immensely con- 
 cerns my happiness, and I cannot longer endure this sus- 
 pense. (Clasps her hands to her heart, tragically^) I love you 
 madly, devotedly! 
 
 Frank (excitedly, and clasping her in his arms). On, do you,. 
 Louise ? , 
 
 Louise (disengaging herself). Don't, Frank ; you are play- 
 ing the lady, and ladies do not do that. It is my place to 
 clasp you in my arms. 
 
 Frank. Oh, do! 
 
 Louise. No; that would not be proper even if 1 were trie 
 gentleman ; because I would first have to learn whether you 
 loved me, and then obtain your consent to our marriage. 
 
 Frank (excitedly). Our marriage ! . , . 
 
 Louise. Certainlv; what would be the use in lovmg you, 
 or asking yon to love me, if I didn't intend to ask you to 
 marry me." (Aside.) That's business ! 
 
 Frank. Why, yes— that's true. That means that we shall 
 always be together. Oh, Louise, we will be married, won t 
 we ? (Takes her hand.) 
 
 Louise. Some day, perhaps ; but there are others to con- 
 sult. We have to obtain the consent of our parents. 
 (Enter Mr. Leath, R. d.) 
 
 Mr. L. Oh ! Ah ! I see that I am not wanted here. I 
 
 shall retire. 
 
 Louise. No; don't go; we want you to come in. _ 
 Mr L Yes; no doubt, you want me very much, indeed. 
 Frank. We really do want you, uncle. I have some glori- 
 ous news to tell you. 
 
30 NATURE WINS. 
 
 H 
 
 Mr. L. Has Louise taught you to dance. 
 
 Frank. She has taught me something better than that. 
 She has taught me to love her better than anything in the 
 world. 
 
 Mr. L. Of course I am very much surprised. Of course 
 I have been blind during the last five weeks. It's human 
 nature, and my sister, with all due deference to her superior 
 intellect, can't fight against that. Put a given number of 
 young people, evenly divided as to sex, in a country house, 
 for several weeks, and there is almost certain to be some love 
 making. I congratulate you both. You had just asked 
 Louise to marry you, had you, m} T boy? {(Rubbing his hands.) 
 
 Frank. No; I hadn't asked her to marry me. 
 
 Mr. L. Well, you were just about to when I interrupted 
 you. You had just asked her, then, if she loved you, if I may 
 be so inquisitive? 
 
 Louise {laughing). No, he hadn't asked me that, either. 
 
 Mr. L. The mischief! I came in entirely too soon, then. 
 What do you mean, sir ? Did you call me in to do your love 
 making for you ? 
 
 Louise. No, Cousin Paul ; I generously helped him out of 
 the difficulty, when I found that he didn't know how him- 
 self. 
 
 Frank. What we would like for you to do, uncle, is 
 to break the news to my mother. 
 
 Mr. L. Hum! The dickens you do ? That's the hardest 
 task of all. Now, I might easily have helped you out of the 
 other difficulty. I could have made love to the young lady 
 for you, and been glad of the chance. (Kisses Louise^) But 
 as to this other matter (scratching his head) — my sister is a 
 very determined woman in her opinions and plans. She is 
 a very superior woman; but with all due deference to her 
 superior intellect, I do not agree with her in all her theories. 
 They are ton much against nature. However, we will go 
 out and find a cool, shady place and talk it over. (Frank 
 takes Louise's arm to lead her out.) I sha'n't help you a bit, 
 Frank, I swear, if you are so impolite to me. ((Puts Frank 
 ■, takes Louise's arm and they exeunt L. n., Frank walking 
 out after them.) 
 
 (Enter Ivy and Kenneth, r. d.) 
 
 Ken. Where did you get your trained dress, Ivy ? Has 
 your mother relented in her notions about the fashions? 
 
 No; Louise lent me this, and I had a curiosity to see how 
 t would be. It must be human nature. Kenneth, for young 
 ladies to Bomewhat like dress. 
 
NATURE WINS. 31 
 
 Ken. Yes, doubfess ; but remember this, my dear little 
 cousin : that a novice in any line is liable to goto extremes. 
 Having been brought up something like a nun in a convent, 
 you were enthusiastic in your first admiration of dress. That 
 is the danger of being too strict with young people ; it is 
 an almost inevitable result that they will go to extremes 
 when the restraint is finally and suddenly removed. Here 
 lies the great danger of "total abstinence " from liquor. The 
 worst drunkards I have ever seen, have been men who never 
 knew the taste of liquor till they were over twenty-one. 1 
 knew, Ivy, when we first came, that your sudden liking lor 
 fashion was merely on account of the novelty of the thing. 
 Your fine mind and good heart, I am sure, will teach you to 
 make love of dress subservient to your true womanly charac- 
 
 Ivy You teach me so many wise things, Kenneth, or 
 rather you teach me to think and form opinions for myselt. 
 You seem quite well again, Cousin Kenneth. Your arm 
 never pains you now? • • 
 
 Ken No, not at all. As for my illness, I have rather 
 enjoyed it, because it has kept me near you. 
 
 Ivy Five minutes before you were wounded, mother had 
 told me that I must come immediately to my room to pack 
 my trunk for a journey. She was going to take me away, 
 and leave you and Louise with uncle and Frank. 
 Ken Why did she intend doing that ? 
 Ivy Because she was afraid I would learn from you and 
 Louise to be worldly and frivolous and what she calls senti- 
 mental nonsense. 
 
 Ken Your mother's life was a sad one. m 
 
 Ivy Yes, very sad. That is why she has determined 
 that l shall never marrv. She has talked to me a great deal 
 about it lately. She says love is all imaginary and silly, 
 and that marriages are generally unhappy. 
 
 Ken Your mother is a noble woman, Ivy; but her own 
 sad experience has warped her mind on that subject. Even 
 your lather's return and sad death seemed to make no 
 impression upon her fixed opinions. Love is of God, or why 
 should all human beings have it in ; their hearts and feel 
 exalted thereby. Her judgment is at fault, when she 
 attempts to control such impulses in her daughter. She 
 would make of your life a dreary matter of calculation, and 
 trv to stultify the sweetest tendencies of your nature. 
 
 Ivy. I am sure Tennyson, in this little book you have lent 
 me tells of true love, so as to make it attractive, indeed. He 
 
32 NATURE WINS. 
 
 has quite converted me to the belief that it is not all 
 imaginary. 
 
 Ken. I have learned of its truth in the last five weeks, 
 since I have been here with you, Ivy. 
 
 Ivy (starting violently'). With me ! ((Rises and canes front, 
 very much agitated and trembling perceptibly. (Placing her 
 hand upon her heart, in loud whisper.) With me ? 
 
 Ken. Yes, with you, Ivy. Wounding my arm was a 
 happy accident, because it prevented your mother from tak- 
 ing you away from me. (Kenneth comes forward and tries to 
 look in her face. She hides her face from him and trembles per= 
 ceptibly.) What is the matter, dear child ? Why do you 
 tremble so? (Takes one of her hands.) 
 
 Ivy. I think I have a chill. 
 
 Ken. No; your hand is burning. 
 
 Ivy. Well, it is fever then. Let me go. (Tries to run 
 away, but he takes both her hands and holds her.) 
 
 Ken. No, Ivy ; it is the tumultuous beating of your own 
 heart, because you have just learned the greatest iesson life 
 can teach. / have only learned really what love means since 
 I have known you. I had heard of it often, and read of it, 
 but only thought it idle talk, or the silly vaporings of sen- 
 timental novelists. Now I know what it means. 
 
 (Enter Mrs. Wallace, R. d., with looks of dismay and horror, 
 on perceiving Kenneth holding Ivy's hands and leaning over 
 her. ) 
 
 Mrs. W. (aside). My God! What I feared has come! (In 
 severe tones.) Ivy, go to your room. [Exit Ivy, R. d.] Ken- 
 neth, before you were wounded, I intended taking Ivy away 
 immediately, but stayed to nurse you. You know perfectly 
 well what my fear was. You ill repay our kindness by 
 making love to my daughter. 
 
 Ken. I thought the best way to show gratitude was by 
 loving people, cousin. 
 
 Mrs. W. Under the circumstances, Kenneth, your speech 
 is extremely impertinent. You are behaving very wickedly 
 to flirt with her. 
 
 Ken. I could die a thousand deaths before I could intend 
 any harm to her, madam. I love her too well. My dearest 
 wish is for her happiness. 
 
 Mrs. W. What right have you to entertain any dear 
 wishes in relation to my daughter, sir? You are merely 
 a passing acquaintance, whom she has known for a few 
 week 8— a good-looking cousin, who has visited us for awhile, 
 
NATURE WINS. 33 
 
 but who will go away to-morrow, and she will forget you in 
 the course of another week. 
 
 Ken. I hope not. I almost flatter myself that she will 
 never forget me. I will trust my case in her hands. 
 
 Mrs. W. You speak with the conceit and self-assurance 
 pertaining to all young men. But I forgive that. I know 
 men too well not "to know it is born in them. They can't 
 help it. I suppose it will be necessary to tell you flatly, 
 that I intend my daughter to remain single all her life — to 
 keep her with me always; not through my own selfish 
 love, but for her best happiness. No man can ever love her as 
 I do, and I do not believe marriage is for a woman's best good. 
 
 Ken. I disagree with you entirely in your opinion, cousin. 
 However^mHght yorrbe able to control her life through her 
 obedience^to vour wishes, .you cannot control her heart. In 
 this case, it is most certainly true that "man, or rather 
 woman, proposes, and God disposes." 
 
 Mrs. W. What do you mean ? 
 
 Ken. That the Divine Being, who is working through all 
 the laws of nature, has already kindled a spark of love in 
 her heart. 
 
 Mrs. W. God forbid that you should have stolen my 
 child's heart from me ! I should consider it the most sinful 
 robbery. But, surelv, surely she has not been captivated by 
 your idle love-making. She has not been foolish enough to 
 tell you that she loved you. Ivy is a sensible girl. 
 
 Ken. No, she has not told me so in words, but my love 
 for her has taught me to read her eyes. I believe she is far 
 from indifferent to me. 
 
 Mrs. W. There your natural man's conceit^ crops out 
 again. I implore you, Kenneth, not to take advantage of 
 Ivy's youth, to put such ideas into her head. She is only a 
 child of seventeen! ■ 
 
 Kenneth. Children of seventeen sometimes know their 
 minds pretty well. 
 
 Mrs. W. I intend that she shall remain a child lor many 
 vears to come. I shall do my utmost to save her from such a 
 fate as marriage. I want you to leave us to-morrow, Ken- 
 neth Ivv will soon forget you, even if she should be a little 
 interested now. But we shall arrange matters more defin- 
 ately after I have talked with her. 
 
 Kenneth My only wish is that you should do what is tor 
 Ivy's best good'. But my idea of happiness and yours are 
 quite different. [Exit, L. d.] 
 
34 NATURE WINS. 
 
 Mrs. W. Yes ; my ideas used to be like yours when I was 
 a young fool. He is'a noble young fellow, though he selfish- 
 ly wants to take my child from me. I must confess the boy 
 has a silver tongue ; he reminds me of his mother, whom I 
 loved so well. If I wished Ivy to marry, he would be my 
 very choice. I must manage her with great policy, and not 
 seem too harsh. (Sits.) 
 
 {Enter Ivy, pale and agitated, R. rO 
 
 Mrs. W. Child, where did you get that long-trained, 
 ridiculous thing you have on? 
 
 Ivy, It is one of Louise's dresses she lent me. 
 
 Mrs. W. The sister tries to fill your head full of frivolous 
 notions of fashion, and the brother tries to corrupt your 
 heart. 
 
 Ivy. No, no, Mother ; he is too noble, too whole-souled, too 
 generous, to have an evil thought. 
 
 Mrs. W. Ah, indeed ! Why don't you use every grand 
 adjective in the English language to describe him? Now, 
 I look upon him as a selfish young man, who is ready for 
 pastime to make love to the first nice looking girl he meets, 
 and perhaps get her silly mind interested in him, and then 
 to go away and forget her in a few days, or at least weeks. 
 
 Ivy (vehemently). No; I am sure he could not do that. 
 
 Mrs. W. Could not go away and forget you ? (Ivy is 
 silent and abashed.) Foolish child, I know men better than 
 you do. Fortunately, I know best what is for your good. I 
 have just told Kenneth to leave this place to-morrow morn- 
 ing. After the first few days, he will never think of his lit- 
 tle country cousin again, and surely the pains I have taken 
 to train you to use your reason against all sentimental non- 
 sense, will teach you to think calmly of him as a mere pass- 
 ing acquaintance, whom you will never see again. 
 
 Ivy. Oh, no; he must not go! I cannot live without 
 him. 
 
 Mrs. W. Why, Ivy, is it possible that this is my sensible 
 little gill, who was only a child yesterday ? 
 
 v. Mother, I am no longer a child. 1 am a woman. 
 
 Mrs. W. And you arc ready to forsake the mother who 
 lias been all in all to you for the last seventeen years, for a 
 lover of five weeks ? 
 
 v. Oh, mother, don't talk so ; it will break my heart. 
 
 teels and lays her arms upon her mother's lap.) My heart 
 
 is large enough for you both. If you doubt my love for you, 
 
 tell me to give him up, and I will do as you bid me, though 
 
NATURE WINS. 35 
 
 it kill me. Mother, can you be cruel enough to part us for- 
 ever ? ((Bows her head in her hands.) 
 
 Mrs. W. (aside). Oh, heaven ! what can I say to her ? 
 Even though she leave the decision with me, since it has 
 come to this, it is hard to pronounce a sentence that may 
 wound her, I know not how much. (Aloud.) You may well 
 bow your head with shame, Ivy. I am amazed that you 
 should be so wildly fascinated with this stranger. 
 
 Ivy (lifting her head proudly). You use the wrong word 
 when you say shame, mother. I am proud of this love. It 
 so exalts me that I feel as though it were the very voice of 
 the omniscient God whispering in my heart. It must be 
 pure and noble. 
 
 Mrs. W. (rising and speaking aside). All my intended sar- 
 casm fails me. I cannot answer such words. 
 
 Ivy (rising). Mother, your life with my father was a very 
 sad one ; but your regret that you ever married seems to me 
 a sort of contradiction. Suppose you had remained single ; 
 your parents passed away long before old age came to you, 
 as was natural, and would have left you with onty a brother 
 to care for. If he had married, as might also have been nat- 
 ural, had reared a family, and there had been no appropriate 
 niche for you to fill in his family circle ; if he had been too 
 much absorbed with the cares and joys of his own immediate 
 relations, to give you many thoughts or much affection, think 
 what a lonely, hard and unloving life you would have passed 
 in your childless old age. Such a life might be mine some 
 day in the future, when my brother is married and absorbed 
 in his own family. Would you condemn me to such lonli- 
 ness, and to forever stifle the cravings of maternal love, that 
 will creep into the heart of every maiden, though she be as 
 pure as the angels, because God has intended it so, and it is 
 one of his eternal laws ? Surely, your children have been a 
 great joy to you, and have repaid you tenfold for the early 
 misery of your married life. 
 
 Mrs, W. They have, indeed. Without you my life would 
 have been utterly worthless. I have been too selfish/ and 
 have wanted to absorb yours too much into mine. Forgive 
 me, child, for my selfishness and blindness. My eyes are 
 
 somewhat opened, (t iff* Iwj-f^vw |7|T " /iw.v position awd^ He"f"> 
 
 her.) 
 
 Ivy. I must tell you of an adventure I had a few days ago, 
 mother. I felt in a mood for horseback-riding, when it did 
 not seem convenient for any one to go with me ; so I went 
 
36 NATURE WINS. 
 
 down to the lot for my pony, myself, and bridled and saddled 
 him. I rode along up the avenue, without intending to go 
 any farther than the end of it, as you have often told me not 
 to go as far as the turnpike. But the avenue gate was open, 
 and I was in a brown study, so my pony took his own course, 
 and carried me on and on, without any distinct intention on 
 my part to be disobedient to your wishes. I did not realize 
 that I was two miles from home, until I reached the country 
 road, and saw an odd-looking covered wagon, standing near 
 the fence, two horses grazing, and on further investigation, 
 a family sitting around a camp-fire, over in the woods, on 
 our side of the turnpike. 
 
 Mrs. W. Were they gypsies or immigrants? 
 
 Ivy. I don't know, but they were fair-haired people, and 
 gypsies are dark, are they not? They were a young man 
 and his wife and their child — a little creature not two years 
 old — who was so rosy and beautiful, that I felt as though I 
 must go nearer and have a better look at her, so I summoned 
 courage to leave my pony tied to the fence, and went over 
 where they were. 
 
 Mrs. W. {horrified). You joined a party of dirty immi- 
 grants ! Oh, Ivy, I am shocked! 
 
 Ivy. But they were not dirty, mother. They were dressed 
 poorly, but were quite clean. They had food prepare dover 
 the fire, and while it was cooking, the mother took the child 
 to a brook near by and washed its face and hands. You 
 should have seen that lovely little child, mother! It was 
 the first baby I ever saw, and you have never told me how 
 sweet they were. It was as beautiful as the models you 
 have taught me to draw from. When I looked at its rosebud 
 mouth and laughing, innocent blue eyes, and thought how 
 perfectly ignorant it was of all sin, I thought it must be very 
 nearly akin to the angels. The mother was so proud of it, 
 and looked so supremely happy when holding it in her arms. 
 She kissed the child so joyfully, that I asked if I might kiss 
 it too ; and I did kiss the lovely little darling, as many times 
 as it would let me. The man was not rough or cruel a bit to 
 his wife, but looked very much pleased when I praised the 
 baby. 
 
 Mrs. W. {turning sadly away from Ivy). Ah, me ; there 
 are some instincts it seems hard to educate people out of. 1 
 have been trying for seventeen years of my daughter's life to 
 train all the womanhood out of her, and here she goes wild 
 over the first little immigrant brat she sees on the highway. 
 It is human nature, and I am afraid that it is something I 
 
NATURE WINS. 37 
 
 cannot change. To return to Kenneth, Ivy. You are so 
 young, I am afraid you hardly know your own heart. You 
 have seen so few men. 
 
 Ivy. Try me, mother ! Take me out into the world 
 among the young people, and you will see that I shall cling 
 to Kenneth. Oh, mother, do relent and say that you do not 
 object to him. 
 
 Mrs. W. I have not the least objection to him person- 
 ally. On the contrary, the young fellow is extremely agree- 
 able to me. 
 
 Ivy. I must kiss you for that speech mother. '{Kisses her). 
 And now, darling mother, may I tell Kenneth that he need 
 not go ? {Caressing her mother). Say yes, say yes ; do say yes. 
 
 Mrs. W. Dear Child, I am thinking only of your happi- 
 ness. You may tell him to stay. [Exit Ivy, R. d.] 
 [Enter Mr. Leath with Louise on his arm, and Frank follow^ 
 
 ing, L. d. They all stand before Mrs. Wallace, and fidget 
 
 and look sheepish. ~] 
 
 Mrs. W. (R. a). Why, I declare, you all look as guilty as 
 if you had been engaged in a gunpowder plot. Brother, I 
 know that you can never have been engaged in a conspiracy 
 that is wrong. 
 
 Mr. L. It may be what you consider wrong, sister ; but 
 then, you have some theories that are rather against nature. 
 Now, with all due deference to your superior intellect— 
 [Enter Kenneth and Ivy, arm in arm, R. d.] 
 
 Ken. (c.) Hurrah ! Everybody congratulate us ! My 
 good mother, that is to be, has consented to our engagement 
 —Ivy's and mine. {Shakes Mrs. Wallace's hand.) 
 
 Mrs. W. I said nothing about an engagement, but I said 
 you might stay.. I have changed my mind about that, how- 
 ever. 
 
 Ivy {taking her other hand, R.). You have not forgotten 
 your promise to me mother? 
 
 Mrs. W. I have concluded that we will all go on a visit 
 to my old friend— the mother of Louise and Kenneth. She 
 should have something to say in the matter of an engage- 
 ment between you and Ivy, Kenneth. As to my consent to 
 an engagement, it will only be conditional. It must be an 
 engagement of not less than two years, so that each of .you 
 may be certain that you know your own minds. Ivy 
 is very young to choose, now. She is only seventeen, 
 and must have the privilege of changing her mind. You 
 
38 NATURE WINS. 
 
 invited yourselves to visit us, and now we' will invite our- 
 selves to visit your mother. Then Ivy can see something of 
 society before she becomes bound. 
 
 Louise. Our mother would be delighted to have you come. 
 
 Ivy. I care nothing for the society of any one but Ken- 
 neth and my friends, but I should like to go to know Ken- 
 neth's mother. 
 
 Frank. And I should like to know Louise's mother. 
 
 Ivy. You, too, Frank, are particularly interested in 
 Louise's mother. I fancy that you, also, would like her for a 
 mother-in-law. 
 
 Frank. I should like it above everything in the world if I 
 had my mother's consent. 
 
 Mr. L. Now, sister, the gunpowder plot is out. Since 
 you are so lenient to Ivy, I do not fear for Frank's fate. 
 
 Mrs. W. No; you need not fear. I began with a preju- 
 dice against Kenneth and Louise, because I feared they 
 would intefere with my plans ; but now I love them as my 
 own children. 
 
 Mr. L. That speech is worthy of a woman of your 
 superior intellect. 
 
 Mrs. W. In giving my consent to Frank's engagement, 
 I must, however, make the same condition that I did in Ivy's 
 case. He is only twenty years old, Louise is only eighteen, 
 and two years from now will be time enough to marry. 
 Under all the circumstances, you will surely think my terms 
 very easy. I love my children too well to act the harsh 
 mother, when I know their hearts are already lost. My 
 game is lost. 
 
 Ivy (r. c, taking Kenneth's hand). And " Nature Wins." 
 
 RS. W. 
 R. 
 
 Ivy. 
 
 R. C. 
 
 Ken. Louise. 
 ('. c. 
 
 Curtain. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 Frank. 
 
 L. C. 
 
 Mr. L 
 
 L. 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 
 Q 017 401 512