Alfred, and in laying her hand softly on his shoulder, says :] Do not feel distressed, dear child ! Alfred. [Looks up in astonishment.] Who are you, Madam ? I do not know you. Rachel. I am your friend, as I have always been — your — mother's — friend . Alfred. [Excitedly.] A friend of my mother. [Kneels be- fore Rachel.'] Let me kiss your hand in reverence ; this hand, that once in friendship was clasped by my dear mother. Rachel. Do you remember her still? And do you remember too, the day— she passed out of your life? Alfred. Indeed, I do remember my sweet and tender mother. Ah, and the dreadful reminiscences of the day she perished in the sea are, forever, lite with a fiery needle, engraved on my mind. Rachel. And your father, how did he receive the blow that fell on him? Alfred. After there was not a glimmer of hope left to him, when he saw the boat drifting along without my dear mother, he gazed helplessly around, and then fell heavily to the ground. Rachel. Ah, these reminiscences shake my very soul. Alfred. After I had cried myself to sleep that terrible night, I awoke again after some time, and, in glancing up, I saw my father kneeling by my bedside. " Poor motherless child !" I heard him say, and then he began to sob aloud. I threw my arms around his neck, and, mingling our tears, we both gave way to grief and despair! You weep, dear friend of my mother ? Rachel. Oh, let me weep ! Your tale of sorrow cuts my heart to the core ! Alfred. The profound tenderness and love my dear father felt for me kept him alive. He promised to live for my sake I And he has kept his promise ! All his anxieties and thoughts were given to his son's happiness and welfare. Rachel. But, why are you not by his side, dear child ? Alfred. A deep depression of mind rendered my father, of late, incapable of taking even an interest in the affairs of his son. Mr. Burlow, the clergyman of this parish, advised me to comply with Lady Winford's peremptory command to con- tinue to live in this place ; the more so, as it had been my 25 father's wish that Mr.-Burlow should prepare me for Oxford. But to-morrow I am going to join my dear father at his resi- dence in London, and then we shall never part again ! Rachel. What causes you to hope for such happiness ? Alfred. My father's counsel arrived here this morning, and confided to Mr. Burlow, my kind teacher, that the divorce be- tween my father and My lady, though not yet publicly an- nounced, was Rachel. Granted? Alfred. Yes, granted. Rachel. [Throws herself in wild exstacy on her knees.] Thanks, Father in Heaven, thanks ! ! Now my wildest hopes are realized at last ! In that agonizing hour, when I set the boat adrift, I thought myself the most wretched of unfortunates ! But the glorious sun bursting out of dark clouds filled my heart with hope again! And in my solitude, full of anguish, there kept whispering a faint, Heaven-sent voice: u Have patience! God will remember you even yet I" Then I have been wonder- ing when that time would come ! And now it has come at last! No longer shall I be desolate and an exile ! I shall be united with my husband and my child ! Ah, that I do not lose my senses in this whirlwind of joy ! ! Alfred. How am I to understand your great emotion ? You shiver — are you ill ? Rachel. The mother — for whose loss you so deeply mourn — she lives ! Alfred. Lives ? And where, where is she? Rachel. Here you behold her. I — am — your mother!! Alfred. Ah, my mother! Dearest mother ! ! Rachel. My child! How I have hungered for your love! Alfred. Can I believe it ! Is this reality or a dream ? Rachel. Though it seems a wild, delicious dream! it is reality ! The full light of happiness will henceforth shine on us! Nothing shall part us evermore! I will fceep and guard my treasure! Ah, 1 hold in my arms my son, my glory, my de- light!! Alfred. Oh, dearest, sweetest mother! How can I ever repay such devotion, such great love ? Rachel. Dearest ! you pay me now by your kisses, your fond love! Alfred. Dearest, sweetest mother! Rachel. For ten years I have been dreaming, dreaming, dreaming of this meeting! Years, doleful and dreary, and the tears of blood I shed, are now paid, richly paid! Alfred. My dearest mother. Rachel. Hush ! I hear footsteps ! They must not find us here together ! Hush ! [Exit Rachel. 26 Enter Lady Winford, Lord Gordon, Walter, jACBi and Mrs. Melyil. Walter. Did I not tell you the truth, mamma ? There he is still. Lady. What is the cause of your disobedience ? [Alfred holes radiant with happiness, and remains silent.'] Lady. Do you refuse to answer, spiteful boy ? Gordon. Pray, your Ladyship, let the matter rest there. The- poor boy ought to be entitled to your sympathy and pity. Lady. Lord Gordon, your constant outbursts of moral plati- tudes are growing wearisome of late. Spare me them in future. Gordon. [Coldly, hit with the finest manners of an aristocrat > speaks] : Once before I told your Ladyship, though I was fully aware that the goddess, at whose shrine I am worshipping, is a false idoL I still continued to see in her a goddess. But, when this goddess divests herself of her divinity, and turns before our eyes into, a common mortal, a cruel woman, the scales fall off from them, her allurements vanish, and the desire ceases to lavish on her any further platitudes. Lady Winford, I bid you an eternal farewell ! [Bows respectfully, and exit. Lady. [Suppresses her anger and speaks to Jack.] Remove this boy to the place I told you. Jack. Pardon me, My lady. If you discharge me on the spot, I cannot, will not do it ! Lady. Then you are discharged. [To Alfred.] Come, fol- low me. Alfred. Lady Winford, to day. is my fifteenth birthday. Pray, do not insist on punishing me like a child. Lady. You dare refuse me your obedience ? Alfred. My obedience belongs from to-day to my father. Let me communicate to you the news that a messenger has come to take me to my father's resi Lady. The boy must be crazy. [Laughs mockingly.] It seems to run in the family! I am not in the mood to ba trifled with any longer. Do you know who you are, my proud fellow ? Do you not know that your father's first marriage never -was proved, and Lord Winford's father refused to acknowledge it, up to his death ? You are nothing but a beggar and a bastard ! Come, or . [She wears a riding-habit and has a whip in her hand, which she lifts up as if to strike Alfred.] Rachel. [Parts them.] Do not touch this boy ! Do not deal him a single blow ! Lady. Who are you ? How dare you interfere? Rachel. [With suppressed emotion.] Your friend, who parted with you forever, called you a cruel woman ! and I can only verify his words. Lady. Am I bewitched ? How dare you, a stranger, offer 27 me such an insult ? What is this boy to you, and what is your name? Rachel. [Looks fondly at her son.] What is this boy to me ? I love him dearly ! My blood runs in his veins ! Lady. Explain this ridiculous assertion, pray. Rachel. [Still fondly looking at her son.] He was my little nursling. Lady. What ? Ha! ha! ha! His nurse ? A servant daring a Lady Winford's commands ? A nameless woman has the impudence Rachel. Not nameless ! No ! Not nameless ! I will prove myself to be — what you are not — Lady Winford, Lord Win- Word's legitimate wife, and this boy their lawful son and heir ! END OF ACT SECOND. ACT THIRD. (A small reception-room in Lord Winford's residence in London.) SCENE I. — Mrs. Melvil and Jeanette. Jeanette. Madame, have ze goodness to prepare mine Lady Winford's apartments. Mine lady vill arrive here in a' hour. Melvil. Miss Jeanette, you must trouble yourself to give your lady's orders to Mrs. Welmore, Lord Winford's housekeeper. I am only a guest in this house myself. Jeanette. Plait-il? An guest? Comment? How can madame be guest here? Melvil. In the capacity of our new mistress, Lady Winford's friend, thaft honor has been bestowed on me. Jeanette. [Laughs mockingly.] Certainement ! C'est bien drole ! Mine lady vill soon makes a end of zis aventuriere, adven- turess you like to call Lady Winford your amie, friend. J'ai l'honneur de vous saluer, amie, friend, of new made Lady Win- ford. Ha, ha, ha, ha! [Jeanette laughing, exit. Melvil. [Alone.] Artificial and frivolous like her mistress. Life seems nothing but a holiday, a merry carnival to them. I did not feel in the mood to answer her Frenchy chatter, my mind being altogether absorbed in the task which course we should pursue to effect a meeting between my dear Rachel and her hus- band. To see my poor friend at peace is now my most heartfelt prayer. Enter Jack. Jack. Please, Mrs. Melvil, can you spare me a few minutes ! Will you kindly listen to what I have to say to you? Melvil. Certainly, I will ; speak, dear Jack. Jack. My mother, whom I came to visit in this house to-day, has communicated to me the happy news that my rich bachelor uncle has left me in his will his farm and a snug little fortune besides. Melvil. I am rejoiced to hear of your good luck. You fully deserve it, dear Jack. Jack. Mrs. Melvil, there is still something wanting to com- plete my felicity. I love your daughter and you can make' me happy beyond expression by allowing her to become my wife. 29 Melvil. Does my daughter reciprocate your feelings? Jack. Mrs. Melvil, I think I am not mistaken in believing that our feelings are mutual. Though dear Lily may still be 4inconscious as to the real nature of her feelings. Melvil. You are both still very young to assume the fetters and responsibilities of wedded life. But, nevertheless, it may be ad- visable to marry a young girl to an honest man like Jack Wel- more, who would place her in a quiet, happy home, beyond the corruption and temptation of this world. Jack. Dearest Mrs. Melvil, you fill my heart with pride and hope. Melvil. Dear Jack, a mother cannot help feeling a pang of jealousy and dread in surrendering her child to a stranger. But you are like a son to me. In your earliest boyhood I had often occasion to observe with what tender heart and noble nature Heaven had endowed ycu. To you I will joyfully trust the fu- ture of my only child, whose sunny, quiet existence has not yet been darkened by a single cloud. Jack. You touch ine/Mrs. Melvil, beyond my power to ex- press. The praises of a lady I so deeply revere and respect are indeed a high reward for me. I will try to deserve them. You have given me the best gift there is in this world — trust! Melvil. Dear son, that is generously, bravely spoken. Hence- forth my prayers will hover over you and your future wife — to guard and bless you ! Jack. Permit me now, dear mother, to speak to your daughter. Melvil. Delay it for an hour. I wish you to remain in this or in the adjoining room, in order to give me immediate notice of Lady Winford's arrival. Dear Jack, will you oblige me in this one instance? Jack. With all my heart, Mrs. Melvil ! It seems quite queer that Lady Winford should venture to come here under the exist- ing circumstances. Her position in the main has been rather uncomfortable of late. Melvil. How strangely these things work. Her hard, light and wanton nature caused her never to bore herself with do- mestic or maternal responsibilities. But the last shock will go home to her. Enter Adolphus. Jack. Mrs. Melvil, she will soon be as larky as ever, if she has once shaken off all restraint. She is a true French woman of the period. Adolphus. Mrs. Melvil, will you grant me a private conversa- tion with you? Mr. Welmore, nothing need any longer detain you. Jack. I assure you, I feel my own temerity in having been obliged to interfere with Mr. Adolphus Snigger. [Exit. 3* 30 Adolph. Mrs. Melvil, permit me to find you a chair. Melvil. Do not trouble yourself. Mr. Adolphus. What is it you wish to say to me? Adolph. Before I broach the very delicate subject of my communication to you, deign to accept this little floral offering as a tribute I owe to the mother of charming Miss Lily. Mdvil. [Takes the 'bouquet.'] You are very kind, Mr. Adolphus, but excuse me when — Adolph. Let me open my heart to you, Mrs. Melvil. Your daughter, this pearl of women, has, with her freshness, her buoyancy, her mien, her voice, her eye, her manifest affection for me, given me the undeniable proof that she has become my fate, a late from w r hich there is no escape. Melvil. Mr. Adolphus, I have been always well aware of your genius for making fine speeches. But, please, do not waste this genius on me. Though my daughter is still very young — Adolph. I do not mind that ! Do not grow nervous on that score, clear madam ; I rather like it. But these young girls ought to be put early under the matrimonial yoke to keep them out of mischief. Melvil, Mr. Adolphus, there is some sense in your sug- gestion. Adolph. Oh, dear mother-in-law, how shall I be able to thank you ? Melvil. Mr. Adolphus, I am afraid you mis Adolph. Do not be alarmed. When you come to visit us in the capacity of a mother-in-law I will always give you a cordial greeting. You know, dear madam, my father was a gentleman, and I am no unworthy offspring of his. Melvil. Mr. Adolphus, I am sorry for having to make you ac- quainted with the tact, that I am obliged to deny myself your cordial, gentlemanly greetings. Adolph. Really, I do not understand you, Mrs. Melvil ! Melvil. The man I have chosen for my daughter is not you, Mr. Adolphus. Pardon me, you would be no match for her. [Places the bouquet on the table and exit. Adolph. [ Walks up and down. Jack, who has been listening to the preceding scene, walks behind him.] What, refuse me, a gentleman? Haughty woman ! I'll teach you a lesson for hav- ing turned up your impertinent nose at me ! She shall not fool me by her airs of grandeur ! Jack. Blinded woman ! To refuse a match that would have added so much to the dignity of the family. No ordinary man could have endured such a paralysing outrage. Adolph. Did you play the eavesdropper, Mr. Jack? Jack. My duty kept me in the adjoining room; I could not help listening. Rest assured you have my fullest sympathy. Adolph. Mr. Jack, I shall make my future mother-in-law 31 pay for her impertinence; I have never allowed anybody as yet to disturb me in my fancies. Jack. Mr. Adolphus, I would not get angry, red and flustered like a country bumpkin — Adolph. How dare you insult me, fellow? Jack. I would show her that she has dealings with a gen- tleman. Adolph. Oh, never you fear. I'll get the better of her. We shall see ; we shall see ! Jack. What a fiery fellow you are, Mr. Adolphus. Do not exhaust all your wrath on Mrs. Melvil. You have a rival ! Adolph. The deuce ! Jack. Don't go into fits! A rival who would steal Miss Lily under your very eyes. Be on the watch ! Adolph. Do you know him ? Jack. Pardon me, Mr. Adolphus, mine is a distressing situa- tion. I know him just as well as I know myself, but I cannot give you his name. Adolph. Would to goodness you could. S'death, if I caught him! [Laughs.] Ha, ha, ha! I cannot help laughing at your idea of my having a rival. Jack. [Laughs.] I can't help joining in your laugh. Upon my soul, it seems a queer notion ; but, nevertheless, it remains true. I'll stake my life your rival is in earnest to carry off the prize you covet. Adolph. I can only think it a good joke. I should like to know the fellow who ventures after my game. Jack. Indeed, he must have quite an impetuous, daring spirit. Mr. Adolphus, if that fellow should ever marry Miss Lily Melvil, I'll stand the cost of his wife's wedding ring. Adolph. That's a good joke! Ha, ha, ha! I felt assured you would sympathize with me, my good Jack. Jack. I do, Mr. Adolphus Snigger ; I do. [Looks out of the window.] There, look out ; your charmer, Miss Lily, is just com- ing home. See ! Adolph. I cannot see her any more without craning my neck. I'll go and propose to her on the spot, in spite of her stuck-up mother. I am fully convinced, dear Jack, that Miss Lily is over head and ears in love with me. [ Takes the bouquet from the table, and exit. Jack. I will conceal myself. Let them find the coast clear. I'll let Mr. Adolphus swallow the bait, let the hook strike right into his thick-skinned vanity and conceit. [Exit. Enter Adolphus and Lily. Adolph. Miss Lily, it may be presumptive of me to say so, but I think I can flatter myself to possess your affections. Lily. [Has Adolphus bouquet in her hand. Always bashful and 32 star-tied.] Mr. Adolphus, do not talk to me like that! My mother has advised me — [Jack looks out.] Adolph. Pray don't, don't mention your mother ! She has nipped my hopes in the bud! But we need not care for her; there is still a future of happiness before us. " Faint heart never won fair lady." Miss Lily, I know you love me, and you know I am yonr devoted slave. Jack. [In the background. Aside.] That fellow's tongue runs like on oiled wheels. Lily. Mr. Adolphus, my mother has advised me, whenever a man — Adolph. Let us snap our finger at your mother's advice. Sus- tained by. the consciousness of your love, everything seems pro- pitious for our flight. [In falling on his knees Tie crushes a little Lily's dress.] Lily. Mr. Adolphus, do not crumple my dress. Adolph. Never mind the dress, darling ! But do not call me Mister! Ah, let your sweet, rosy lips syllable a warmer name! Angel! call me your own Adolphus! Jack. [Aside.] Ah, Job could not have borne his trials more patiently than I bear mine. Adolph. I besieged your heart — Jack. [Aside.] But not carried it by storm. Adolph. And now, as I have conquered it, depend on me! Name the day, and I will go and buy the wedding-ring, darling. Jack. [Aside.] Never mind, you velvet-voiced flunky, I'll pay for it. Adolph. Whenever you call on me, angel, I shall be ready to elope with you and get married. Our elopement will make no little sensation — be in all the papers ! Jack. [Aside.] They ought to caricature him as a confounded ass. Adolph. My angel, let me touch your ruby lips. Jack. [Adde.] Confusion! I long to choke the puppy! Lily. [Staining at Adolphus in a helpless manner.] Mr. Adol- phus, my mother has advised me whenever a man— Adolph. A flg for your mother's advice. Pluck up spirit, darling! If she be once my mother-in-law, I will advise her pretty soon to mind her own business ! Do not deny me the first kiss from your cherry lips. [Jack stands close behind Adolphus and Lily, and sneezes very loudly.] Adolph. Plague on that fellow! Why are you intruding here, Mr. Jack Welmore ? Jack. Pardon me, Mr. Adolphus Snigger. When I entered the room I did not see you. [Bell rings tioice.] Adolph. The bell rang twice— that is my summons. I have to answer that stupid bell, darling, but I will join you again in 33 s, minute. Remember — u Secrecy and love ! " Remain mute like -a fish ! Remember I. Will you remember, my angel ? Idly and Jack [Together.] Mr. Adolphus ! [Bell rings again.'] AdolpK Plague on that bell ! [To Jack.] You are always in the way. [ Walks off quickly. A pause.] Jack. You have made quite a conquest, Miss Lily. Lily. [Pouting.] I do not care a bit for it. Jack. You won't say so after you are Mrs. Adolphus Snigger. Lily. I shall never marry him. I don't want to marry in all my life. Jack. My gracious ! would you like to be put on the shelf like an old maid ? Lily. I do not know what may become of me; but I know that I am resolved never to give my hand if my heart cannot follow the gift. Jack. That is spoken like the brave girl I thought you to be. Miss Lily, pardon me for having annoyed you with my banter. Dear Lily, I can bear this suspense no longer! I have made up my mind to leave England forever for parts unknown, if — Lily. Jack, leave England! [Quite breathless with emotion.] ^What on earth put that into your head? Jack. There is nobody who cares for me here — nobody that loves me. Lily. But, Mrs. Welmore, your good mother, w 7 hat will she say? And — oh, Jack! [Rides her face in her bouquet.] Jack. [Talks to her softly over her shoulder.] Do not cry, dear Lily ! You are too pretty to cry. Let not your little head hang down like a lily in the rain ! Do not bury your face in the rose- buds — you a rosebud yourself ! Dearest, look in my face ! Tell me, would it grieve you if I passed forever out of your life? Lily. [Drops the bouquet and clasps her hands before her face, weeping.] Oh, Jack! Jack. [Still talking over her shoulder.] Dearest, do you love me? Lily. [Quite breathless } and still keeping her back turned to Jack.] Oh, Jack, I can't tell! Jack. Of course you are such a child. Let us think about it together ; let us try to find out whether you love me or not. Answer me, dear Lily ; what do you feel when you hear my step, my voice ? Lily. [Breathlessly.] My heart nearly stops to beat — in sus- pense ! Jack. And when I touch your hand ? Lily. [Breathlessly, but warmly, says :] I feel as if a flame were rushing — through — my veins ! Jack. Lily, dearest Lily ; do not let me startle you ; but there can be no longer any doubt — you love me! Lily. [Quickly turning around exclaims like a happy child:] Jack, I knew it all the time ! 34 Jack. [With happy surprise.} Oh, you little hypocrite! Lily. [Gleefully.] Don't look like a statue, Jack ! I loved you already when I was ten years old ! Jack. You quite surprise me ! Lily, Lily, how is that ? Lily. Six years ago, when the snow had fallen a foot deep, a boy upset me in my little sleigh. You chanced to see me when I was tumbling into the snow. Like lightning you ran up to me, picked me up, then brushed the snow carefully off my clothes, blew in my cold hands to warm them, and then— kissed rue — [joyfully, like a child}. Yes, Jack, you did kiss me! And then you seated me in the sleigh and gave me such a ride ! And since [her voice trembling with emotion] that sleigh ride, dearest Jack, I have always loved you ! Jack. After we are married, my sweet dear pet, I am going to buy a splendid sleigh, and every snowfall we get, we shall have, together, capital rides to commemorate the day I won jour heart. Oh, Lily, what a cosy, cheery, home we will make for ourselves. Lily. Dear Jack, and I will place all my nice geraniums, car- nations and rose-trees therein. Jack. Lily ; now being quite rich, I am going to build you a snug little conservatory. You, a gardener's daughter, and a ^gardener's wife, must not be without one. Lily. Dear Jack, how kind you are ! And then I will place all my pet birds in the conservatory, and in winter, among our flowers and singing birds, we shall imagine it an eternal spring and summer. Jack. And when little Jack and little Lily have come to bless us Lily. [Hides her face.} Oh, Jack; don't! Jack. I am going to buy them two splendid ponies in order to enable them to escort us on our sleighing excursions. Lily. [ Very seriously says :] No, Jack, Lily must not ride on horseback. Jack. Well, sweet pet, let us not have our first quarrel over that critical point. When little Lily is once there, and old enough to ride on horseback, we will let her decide about that matter herself. Oh, Lily, Lily; I think I have reason to believe you will soon henpeck me dreadfully ! Lily. Henpeck! what is that, Jack? Jack. [Taking Lily in Ms arms.] As I do not see any urgent necessity to give you a definition of that ominous word, I will leave it to you, darling, to find out*its meaning for yourself. Enter Adolphus. Adolphus. [Dumbfounded.] By Jove! can I trust my eyes! What does this familiarity mean ? Jack. It means that I am now in the position to make you 35 acquainted with the fact, that Miss Lily Melvil will soon change her name for that of Mrs. Jack Welmore. Adolphus. Oh, what a deceitful, miserable world it is we live in ! Lily. We think it a beautiful world ; don't we, Jack? Jack. My pet, earth seems to me a perfect Heaven ! I could dance for joy! Adolphus. Could you? Well, wait a bit, my joyful fellow; your future mother-in-law will soon mar your pleasure. Her mulish temper will soon strike up a tune, after which dancing shall grow wearisome. Jack. Now stop your bosh about my mother-in-law, or I will make you collapse like a vacant wind-bag. Adolphus. Fellow ; do not forget that you are talking to a gentleman. Jack. Gentleman ! A clumsy bear who stands in need of a good licking; that's what you are. Adolphus. Well, all the licking you want your mother-in-law will administer to you. Jack. Do not utter another word against this worthy lady. Adolphus. Worthy or not worthy; raother-in-laws are all alike — dreadful and plaguy. Jack. Now stop this exaggeration of the vulgar I A fellow of your stamp would indeed rouse the mildest temper of a woman into scorn and wrath ! Let us try to earn the respect of the mother who gives us her child in trust ; her child, which she reared in innocence and virtue, like my little blossom here ; let us make allowance for what she has or has not in her charac- ter, a simple tribute of her love and devotion to her child ; let us not attempt to make her very child apostate to the affection and obedience she owes to her — and a bad mother-in-law would be as rare as a thunder-storm in winter. Adolphus. Very fine, Mr. Jack ! You are quite entertaining. Jack. Let us honor the woman who is so well beloved by her grandchildren ! When, of an afternoon, she comes to visit her little darlings, how they are scrambling out of the room to meet her; how her very voice charms them; how they are nestling round dear granny, whose sweet familiar face seems to light up their home like sunshine. Even as she has loved them in life, so in death her last gaze dwells on them in speechless and im- measurable love, which seems to plead to the husband of her child: My son, do not forget your word to make her happy! Keep me in your memory and bless you all! — In her we lose our best well-wisher and truest friend ! Oh, all these sneerers, like you, flunky, I would like to see in the loftiest position : hanged, hanged on the highest tree in the land ! [Bell rings ticice.] Adolphus. You may bless your star that for the present I have no time to waste to punish you for your impudence. Jack. It will save me the trouble, too, to be obliged to spoil 36 your personal appearance. Though you would never be in dan-' ger of being painted for your beauty, Mr. Adolphus Snigger. Adolphus. [Bell rings twice.] Low-born creatures!' Birds of a feather! Jack Sour grapes, Mr. gentleman Adolphus ! sour grapes ! [Adolphus picks up the bouquet Lily dropped on the floor; then, with a contemptuous sniff, exit,] Lily. Dear Jack, now I must go and tell my dear mother. Oh, what will she say ? Jack. That she rejoices in her children's happiness. My duty keeps me here for the present — in this room ; but I shall soon be able to join you, my pet. Lily. Oh, Jack, how happy I am. [Exit. Enter Jeanette. Jeanette. Ah, Monsieur Jaques ! Je suis charmee de vous voir. I be zo happy to see you ! Jack. Miss Jeanette, I can only return the compliment.. Jeanette. I be never zo please as ven I be viz Monsieur Jaques. Vraiment ! You look zo fine, and strong, and nice. Jack. Thank Heaven, I am sound in wind and limb. Jeanette. You are zo galant ; zo an cavalier to ze ladies. Jack. To be obliging to the ladies has always been my motto since my mother put the first pair of breeches on her son. Jeanette. But be zere not an particular lady you like better zan ze ozers ? Jack. Miss Jeanette, you ask questions in such startling un- foreseen manner. Jeanette. Ha, ha, ha! You be an bashful young man. I vill help you un peu an little. Jack. Miss Jeanette, you are such a clever tactician you ought to know how to handle bashful fellows. Jeanette. Do you love an lady, Monsieur Jaques ? Jack. I know one who is not indifferent to me. Jeanette. Monsieur Jaques, dites moi ; tell me, iz she here in ze 'ouse ? Jack. Yes, Miss Jeanette, she is for the present in this house. Jeanette. And you love her, beaucoup, much, Monsieur Jaques ? Jack. I do love her with all my heart. Jeanette. And you zink her nice ? Jack. Nice ! I do not think her only nice, but the loveliest, most charming girl ever born ! Jeanette. Monsieur Jaques, say no more ! mine modesty vhich , belong zo much to mine country women, make me blush. Oh, Jaques ! Jack. [Aside] I should like to see her perform that miracle. [Aloud.] Where were you born, Miss Jeanette ? 37 Jeanelte. A Paris! In Paris! * Jack. [Aside.'] Of course ! All, down to the scullery maid, are born in Paris. Jeanette. And I had an countess in mine family. Jack. Oh, oh, oh, Miss Jeanette ! [Aside.] I knew she would not do it cheaper. Jeanette. You need not blush for mine family, mine birz. And you, Monsieur Jaques ? Jack. I cannot claim such a high-born dame for my ancestor. My father was a plain Englishman ; and my mother, who lives here, in the capacity of Lord Winford's housekeeper, is a sim- ple German. Jeanette. [Quite disdainfully.'] A Germain ! Jack. Does that shock you, Miss Jeanette ? Jeanette. Never mind, you vill make good for zat drawback. Ah, Monsieur Jaques, you vould be vorzy to be an Frenchman ! Yraiment ! Sur mon honneur ! Jack. How generous you are ! You quite touch me. But, nevertheless, you would be miles beyond me, Miss Jeanette. Enter Lily. Lily. [Runs up to J ack, and in embracing him stys :] Oh, Jack, I am so happy ! Oh, Jack ; my dearest Jack. Jeanette. [Quite dumbfounded.] Your be a very saucy man- ner for an young girl to act and speak zo viz young men. Jack. Miss Jeanette, you did not ask the name of the lovely girl who possesses my heart. Allow me to present to you here the future Mrs. Welmore. Jeanette. [First startled, then breaks out into a mocling laugh.] Lily. Jack, does that girl mean to mock us by her laugh ? Jack. Oh, no ! Miss Jeanette, who had a countess in her family, is far too high bred for that. She only wants to show us her beautiful teeth. Lily. Why, Jack, they are not her own ; they are false teeth ! Jeanette. [ Who has been laughing till Lily makes the remark about her teeth, now fairly screaming with rage, says:] Ah, you impudent little liar ! Jack. [Holds Jeanette back ichen she tries to pounce on Lily.] Steady, steady, Miss Jeanette, a high-born lady like you ought not to venture on any familiarity with low-born people. Lily. Bessy, the chambermaid, told me that she* found, one morning, the whole set of teeth Miss Jeanette has now in her mouth, on the wash-stand. Jeanette. [Pretends to be nearly fainting.] Ah, mon Dieu, I be afraid zis vill go on my nerves ! Jack. [Aside.] I hope so, too; it would do her good. Lily. Bessy said Miss Jeanette looks horrible when she not done up with paint and all other things. 38 Jeanette Ah, Sapristi, zis is too much ! [Dashes at Lily, j You little wretch, you Jack, Lily, keep close to me ; she shall not hurt you. Lily. {Behind Jack, speaks oxer his shoulder.] I am not the least bit afraid of her, Jack ; not the least bit ! Jack. Well, then it is time for me to start. Danger de- velops a man's qualities, but how shall I manage to keep these two beauties apart ! Lily. Jack, Jeanette is no beauty ! Did I not tell you that she is all made up ! Jeanette. JMorbleu! Come here, you little liar, I vant to punish you ! [Dashes at Lily.] Jack. {Holds Jeanette hack.] Now be reasonable, Misa Jeanette ! Do not grow as thorny as a porcupine, lest I should hurt myself in being obliged to handle you. You had better avail yourself of the open air and give your nerves a chance to* quiet down. Jeanette. [Now tenting her wrath on Jack.] You barbarian ! Jack. Now honest, Miss Jeanette, did you not say, some min- utes ago, I was worthy to be a Frenchman ? Jeanette. You — you — Germain ! Jack. Thank you, Miss Jeanette. Jeanette. [In great rage, stands face to face with Jack.] You — you — you — Bismarck ! [Exit. Lily. Dear Jack, what a dreadful name was she hurling at you. Who is Bismarck ? Jack. A man who has caused her countrymen considerable indigestion ! A man who has pushed a nut between their teeth over which they are still puzzling how best to crack it. Enter Maggie and Adolphtjs. [Adolphtjs opens the door respectfully for Maggie. The latter is dressed very elegantly. Adolphus arranges her train, hands her the bouquet Lily had dropped, then bows and leaves the room with his nose turned up, looking at Jack and Lily.] Maggie. He is a thinkin' me a great one! [Laughs gleefully.'] Ha, ha, ha ! Jack. Halloh ! our Maggie ! Lily. I scarcely knew her, Jack ! Maggie. Bran new, Miss Lily. [Looks proudly at her cos- tume.] Bran new, Mr. Jack. Lily. r>ear Maggie, how did you get that fine costume. Maggie. Our new lady be 7 a givin' it me. [Very satisfied and proudly says:] Yes Miss Lily, she do. She be' a sayin' to me this morning: Maggie, she say, you have be' a friend to my dear son, what would you be a wishin' for you ? Oh, My lady, I says, give me that butiful dress that your maid be a packin' out of your trunk this mornin\ Willin'ly, she say with a smile, and then she be a sighin' agin and say: Happy girl, who can be 39 made happy with so little ! My ! a callin' this here butiful dress little ! I ain a thinkin' it the iligantest, biggest and mightiest thing in the world ! Jack. You are now quite a great lady, Maggie. Maggie. [Gleefully.'] Oh, Jackey, Miss Lily, I am not a Tmowin' if I am a standin' on my head or a standin' on my heels ! Jack. Now you shall soon have plenty of sweethearts, Maggie. How do you like Mr. Adolphus ? Maggie. [Disdainfully.] No, he be not my style! I be a lookin' higher ! He is always a lookin' like a weathercock, with his nose a turned up. Jack. Why, Maggie, you are quite a clever, sensible girl. Maggie. Oh, I am a gettin' smart, awful smart ! Master Alfred and my dear uncle, for whom our new Lady have be' a promisin' me to find a livin', they will a goin' on kiltiwatiu' my mind. Yes. they do ; but our new Lady be a sayin' this mornin' : Maggie, never ye mind kiltiwation, be a keepin' always a warm heart, Maggie, and you will be all right ! And then she was a kissin' me and a lookin' so kind and sweet as my dear dead mother would have be' a lookin' at me, if she was a livin' ! [Cries and pulls out her handkerchief and with it a small pocket. Laughs.] Now I am a wantin' no more big pockets ! Our new Lady was a tellin' me to go a eatin' all the sweet things I be a wantin'. My ! she would be a open' her eyes if she be a knowin' what a big lot I have be' a stowin' away since I be' in this here house ! The stingy other lady nivir was a wantin' to give me nothin' but bread and pitaters. She was a sayin' that be good enough for a gal who was a burden on her hands. Jack. She will soon be here, Maggie. You had better keep out of her way. Maggie. Let her be a coinin' ! I am not a bit afeard of her no more. I will be a snappin' my finger at her. I will not be a goin' from this here very spot ! Oh, I am gettin' smart, awful smart ! I am a goin' to take other measures with Lady Winford. Jack. There is her carriage dashing up the street. She will be in this room in a few minutes. What measures are you going to take now, Maggie ? Maggie. I am a goin' to — take — to— my heels. [Buns off quickly. Jack and Lily laugh heartily.] Jack. Now, my sweet pet, let us go in order to inform our dear mother of Lady Winford's arrival. Lily. Our mother! How beautifully that sounds. Oh, Jack, what a happy couple w r e are ! Jack. \ Embracing Lily.] My sweet little Lily ! [Lily and Jack remain in this embrace during the fall of the curtain.] END OF ACT THIRD. ACT FOURTH. SCENE I. — Parlor and Conservatory. Rachel and Lady Winford. Lady. How will you justify yourself, madam, to come here under a feigned name ? Bachel. If I chose to wear a disguise I need at least not be ashamed of it. Lady. Madam, I can now comprehend how your suave man- ners, which generally belong to women of your stamp, could lure Lord Winford into an alliance of youthful indiscretion. Rachel. I will not resent your gusts of sneering insult; but do not barb your words too keenly: do not pour oil on the flame of indignation roused in my heart by your cruel conduct towards my husband and my son. Lady. It will require a little more than the stories your in- genuity has conjured up to make me believe in the validity of your marriage. Besides, I am resolved to carry my case to the court of appeals. Be careful, madam, not to commit follies too prematurely. Weak and changeable Lord Winford, whom you are pleased to call husband, may not be very anxious, after the lapse of ten years, to take to his bosom again the faded woman, who proved to be irresistible to him at sweet sixteen. Bachel. My womanly dignity renders me invulnerable to your sarcastic stings. But do not cast your venom on the noble man you have dishonored. Lady. Indeed, your acting is unparalleled ! Your vehement defense of this weak and heartless man you are claiming for your husband, is quite diverting. Rachel. Weak and heartless ? A man of a more generous, chivalrous nature, a sweeter temper, a more lavish kindli- ness, never lived ! When he did you the honor to bestow on you the sacred name of wife, and gave in your keeping his own and his child's future happiness, how did you enter on your great trust? You made yourself unworthy of his love and re- spect. Your jaundiced eye watched his slightest caress to my child; because envy stung you to the quick. Lady. Though your tirades are not of a very striking origi- nality, they, nevertheless, contrive to amuse me. Go on, madam. Rachel. When I laid down my happiness in instant sacrifice, 41 self, gliding far away from me, I meant to carry it out to the end ! I would have blessed you, worshipped the very ground you walked on, had you proved to be a faithful wife to your noble husband, and a kind friend to the motherless child. J3ut great sins are at your score, and there is no longer any need to deny myself a happiness which ycu carelessly have flung away. Believe me, your destiny will bring you face to face with the guilt of your life ; it will be stronger than all your levity and mocking wit. Serene and impassive as you pretend to be, the day of judgment will come to vou in the end. {Exit. Lady, [fiises, and walking up and down, says :] These low- born creatures are always eager to embrace the slightest occasion to make a scene. Enter Adolphus. Adolphus. [Announcing.] Sir Francis, Mylady. Lady. [Aside.] Ah, at last ! [Aloud.] Bid him enter. [Exit Adolphus. Enter Sir Francis. Lady. Sir Francis, I am rejoiced to see you. Sir Fr. [Serious and reserved.] Your Ladyship, you informed me, in your letter of to-day, that you wished to see me in order to communicate some important news. Lady. Yes, dear friend, news of great consequence. My law- yer has advised me to carry my case to the court of appeals. L>ut, before I avail myself of his advice, I should like to hear your opinion about it. Sir Fr. Lady Winford, I have every reason to believe that you had a fair trial — elaborately fair. Therefore it is better that we should go no further. Lady. Your language was different the last time you quitted me. Sir Fr. Let us understand each other. Lack of frankness would be injustice. I have gathered every scrap of intelli- gence concerning your case, and have come to the conclusion how fruitless my efforts would prove to right you before the world. Lady. Sir Francis, explain yourself more clearly. Sir Fr. When you taxed your husband with falsehood, it was not he who was false. Lady. Ah, Sir Francis, you will not do me justice either. Sir Fr. Justice has been administered to you. Lady. Lord Winford's proceedings were treacherous and un- just. 1 was more sinned against than sinning. I am innocent, ' and most perfidiously wronged. Sir Fr. Mabel, be calm and contain yourself. Nothing 42 could have induced me to throw up your case, if it had been a just one. The verdict of the law has my full approbation. Lady. I am an unfortunate woman ! Ah, to see myself wronged by the only man I ever loved ! Sir Fr. Mabel, I doubt if you ever contemplated your feel- ings for me in such a serious light. Lady. If you care for the denial! — yes, and a thousand times yes, I do love you ! Circumstances of the most painful nature forced me from you. This has often caused me intense misery. I cannot endure to be judged harshly by you. Sir Fr. Mabel, do not resent my words. Justice and honor forbids me seeing you any more; but it does not change my de- sire to befriend you. Lady. Befriend me! Ah, Sir Francis, you never loved me? Sir Fr. I did love you ; but now Lady. But now ? Sir Fr. Love once dead knows no awakening in a man's heart. Lady. Men are not known for constancy, and now I approve of my mother's teachings, though they called her a frivolous Frenchwoman, that love is only a fool's paradise ! —an angel when it comes, and a demon when it deserts us. Sir Fr. Let us have no controversy about this subject ; lit- tle could be gained by re-opening it. Lady. That is but too true. I am weary of life! Ab, woman has no power! Sir Fr. Pardon me if I dare to contradict you. The power of woman is great! A woman can make the best arid most honorable man an object for ridicule and contempt, or raise him high in the esteem of the world ! What records we have of true and therefore powerful women ! But woman is power- less, indeed, if she disposes of life's serious duties and responsi- bilities lightly ; imbues her mind with that materialistic philos- ophy which marks our present age, and disregards the pernicious influences it must produce on herself and her surroundings. They like to be terse and brilliant ; they seem to be unconscious of the modesties and reserves which prevail among true women. They pretend to be utterly without moral prejudices. Their cherished aim and ambition is — pleasure; though everything seems to urge them to simpler and nobler pursuits. To play the inconspicuous part of a devoted wife and a fond mother is looked down upon as too commonplace a task. Their frivolous pursuits begin with folly and end in crime, which give cause to such enormous scandals. In the rich and full sufficiency of youth life seems but a dream of pleasure; but when time begins to steal their charms how will they meet the weariness of old age ? The true woman does not challenge and destroy, but soften. — and build up for herself a future that will lead her to a noble age, an age that will have no terror for her, whether her 43 cheeks begin to wrinkle or are blooming with youth ! Such a woman has power, great power ! Lady. Though I may be guilty of folly and there be no par- allel between me and the woman you so highly praise, do not refuse me your sympathy, your pity. The recent blow I have received has broken mv spirit ! I have to drag out a wearisome life! Sir Fr. My lady, I deeply sympathize with you. But there is still an immense amount of good to be done in your future. There are grea f missions for women to fulfil. The poor, the aged, the infirm, will give you a field for pursuits, noble and pure. Lady. Sir Francis, I am not aware as yet of possessing any vocation to fill a position of a sister of mercy. Sir Fr. Mabel, let me have faith in your better nature. The doom of a purposeless life need not be your fate. Let the love for your only son purify and exalt your mind ! Endeavor to gain a prize beyond all things : your son's love and esteem ! Rest assured that your efforts shall meet with my heartiest ap- probation, and gain for you my deepest respect. [Sir Francis botes respectfidly and exit. Lady. I am crossed and disappointed and trampled on in every way and by everybody. I am fairly surfeited with disgust in having been obliged to listen to the moral outbursts of Sir Francis. To make angels rejoice over a repentant sinner may be very fine in theory, but surely not in practice. No, my canting Sir Francis, you shall not succeed in converting me into a sister of mercy and drag out a dreary, tiresome, vegetating existence. I will not go into sackcloth and ashes, but to my friend, Lady Trouville, in Italy. Her lively and animating surroundings will readily make me forget the wearisome life I had to lead during the recent trial. After all life is but short and of no importance. I will try to make the best of it in my own fashion. Lady Trou- ville's gay friends will soon compensate for all that I have en- dured and lost. [Exit, Enter Mrs. Melvil. Mrs. Melvil. [ Walks up to the window.'] My lady has changed her mind; she is not going to stay here. Now she enters her carriage. Thank Heaven ! she has gone at last ! What con- tempt I feel for that woman! How I have grown to hate her ! But the dishonor and shame she has brought on the house of Winford shall soon be wiped out forever. A merciful Heaven may grant my dear Rachel success in the great task that is be- fore her to-day. Enter Rachel. Rachel. Dear Dora, what news do you bring ? Melvil. Rachel, the opportunity to accost your husband has u come ! Though the doctor deems it advisable to prepare him by slow degrees for your revelations, and to set a strict guard over yourself in order not to betray your secret too prematurely, he has, nevertheless, the profound conviction that the great shock caused by joyful excitement will forever rouse him from the mental depression that filled us all with the greatest appre- hensions. Rachel. Oh, Dora, I shudder to think what evil I have wrought to him, though I hoped to do good. Melvil. Your noble nature has done a noble act. Dear Rachel, do not wrong yourself with self-accusation. Rachel. Dora, you are generous, indeed ! Melvil. Not generous, but just! The news of the granted divorce and his son's presence has brought new life to the de- pressed mind of your husband. Under the name of your twin- sister, whom you so greatly resemble, you may accost him with- out danger of recognition. Let him first conceive a glimpse of the truth, and hope, once awakened, will prove a powerful ally to further disclosure. Rachel. Hush, Dora ! I hear footsteps ; let us withdraw. [Exeunt, Enter Lord Winford and Alfred. Alfred. How kind you are, dear father, in yielding to my de- sire to leave the gloom of your solitary room. Ah, what a beau- tiful sunset ! Look, dear father ! Lord Winford. [ Very pale and apathetic, leans on Alfred's shoulder ; out not like an invalid, more like a weary man.] Beau- tiful, indeed! A glorious spectacle! And yet, what sad rem- iniscences it conjures up in my mind ! Just such a sunset it was when I was gazing far out to sea, and then discovered the boat drifting along without my wife ; my Rachel ! Alfred. Dear father, do not give way to these sorrowful thoughts. I have something to tell that may prove of some in- terest to you. Lord. There is nothing in this world that can arouse my in- terest, save your welfare, dear son. Alfred. How can I ever repay such kindness, dearest father? Lord. By keeping the warm, gentle heart you inherited from your -mother, and by keeping your mind untainted by evil de- sire ; then I shall not have lived my dreary life in vain. Alfred. Dearest father, will you kindly listen to the news I have to tell you ? Lord. Demand of me what you will. Follow your fancies in everything. What pleases you pleases me. Alfred. Father, did you never receive any news from my dear mother's sister ? Lord. No, my son. All the letters I sent her remained un- answered. In all probability she is dead, too. 45 Alfred. Dear father, would you be pleased to hear that she is still alive, and has returned to England? Lord. My Rachel's sister in England ? Ah, this is news in- deed, dear Alfred. Alfred. And would you be pleased, dear father, to see her ? Lord. See her ? Where, where is she ? If I had to walk night and day on foot, I would go and join my Rachel's sister. Where is she ? Alfred. Compose yourself, dear father. In a few minutes hence she will be with us. Lord. Thanks, dear son, for being the messenger of such un- expected joy. The irrepressible torpor of my mind seems to vanish in view of this happy meeting. Rachel. [In the background. Aside.] Fear, hope, joy, dread, makes me tremble and faint ! Heaven assist and strengthen me in this difficult task. Lord. But when will she arrive., dear Alfred ? Alfred. Here she is, dear father. Lord. ) r ,?„„! \ ^ n 5 dear sister! •RacM.\^ ether ^\Dekr brother! Lord. The very sound of my Rachel's sister's voice causes my heart to throb with tumultuous feelings of pain and delight ! You weep, dear sister ! But it is growing dark. Alfred, order lights, that I may see the countenance which bore so much re- semblance to my beloved wife. Rachel. I like this twilight — let us remain as we are. You will hardly recognize me. Ten years of grief have wrought great change in my features. Lord. Dear sister, between then and now for me, too, has stretched a long interval of life full of heartache and worse — dishonor. Sister, perhaps I may soon join my Rachel. This legacy, her son, I shall leave then to your care. Rachel. I fervently hope you may live long enough to see him grow into a noble manhood, and reap the reward of your unselfish conduct towards him. Lord. Ah, if it were not for his sake, life would have been unbearable ! Not to rob him of his title and fortune I consented to reconcile my father in marrying the woman he had set his mind on to make my wife. He is dead now, and I will forgive him the misery this alliance brought on his son, and the dis- honor, the shame that tarnished the escutcheon of the noble house of Winford. But now, I have regained my liberty. The law has rid me of a woman to whom the tragedy of a man's dis- honor is only fit for mockery and mirth. But, let me forget her Tery existence, and choose a worthier subject for our conversa- tion. Ah, in looking at you, dear sister, my thoughts sink far into the bitter past ! Bring on my memory, with all the fresh- ness of a recent blow, the day my Rachel had passed away from me forever. Dearest, often, with an aching heart, I have been 46 wondering where my Rachel's remains might have found its rest- ing place. Oftentimes I felt a pang of guilt not to have de- voted myself more eagerly to the task of finding her body. Rachel. Many times I thought it strange, too, that we never could succeed in finding her body. This very fact has caused me often vague suspicions. Lord. Suspicions! What does this mean, sister? Rachel. I have reasoned on this subject many a time, and, all things considered, she had perhaps some motive to make you believe in her death. Lord. This is strange language, sister. I fail to comprehend you. Rachel. I can no longer withhold from you a secret which I have kept for ten years. Did you not receive a letter the day before we lost her? Did not your father therein threaten you with disinheritance in case of your refusal to dissolve your marriage? Lord. Yes, I did receive such a letter; but I kept it a secret from my wife. Rachel. She found the letter — read it ! Lord. Sister, what a tumult you awaken in my heart! But she was to me like an open book; she could not have concealed that fact from me. She knew that our affections required no stimulus of wealth and title. She knew I should not have cared to go to the very depth of poverty with her by my side! Ah, it is vain and fruitless to think her still alive. Rachel. She was fully convinced of your firm purpose never to dissolve your marriage, whatever the consequences might have been for you. If we follow all these strange occurrences, here for the first time put together, must they not supply a link for themselves to discern her motive of making you believe in her death? In the first impulse to restore your father's love to you, may she not have decided to sacrifice her life, but then only carried out part of her intention, and therefore — perhaps — still lives? Lord. Sister, sister! Rachel. If I were not afraid that your health may give way under the sway of such violent emotion, I should like to tell you more. Lord. Speak, speak! Now that this lethargy of my mind has vanished, physical strength shall not fail me. Sister, I wish you had told me of all this before ! It would have roused me from a monotonous and irksome life. It would have made fall off the burden of mind! Speak, speak! I can no longer endure these tantalizing doubts. Rachel. Some time after the deplorable accident had taken place a rumor spread that a vessel, bound for foreign parts, had taken on board a lady, who had been rescued by its boat's crew. Lord. Sister, sister ! 47 Rachel. Is there Dot a possibility that this lady may be Rachel? Lord. Let us cling to this fragment of hope ! Like with a sorcerer's wand my mind is restored to life and action again ! Like one coming out of utter darkness I am dazzled by this bright sunshine of hope ! Like the greedy goldseeker searches for gold I shall from this day search for her ! And if she be still among the living the indefinable impulse, that mysterious attrac- tion which true love inspires, shall guide me to find my precious treasure ! Rachel. Let me then tell you all! I received trustworthy news of late. Rachel— lives ! Lord. Lives ! [Quite overwhelmed sinks hack into his chair* After a pause, recovering, speaks to Rachel.] Sister, ministering angel of peace and joy ! And where, where is my Rachel ? Rachel. At first the immediate effect of seeing my sister alive " proved overwhelming to me [Alfred leaves the room.] Lord. You have seen her, then ? — addressed her ? — — Rachel. She bade me tell you that love alone forced her from you. She knew too well that you would have loved her through every trial and every sacrifice. But she could ' not accept it I To see you suffer caused her tortures unspeakable. [Falls on her knees.] Gerald, Gerald, forgive me, if love for you made me sin ! [Alfred returns icith a lamp, which he places on the table.] Lord. Is this a vision of my delirious brain? This well- known pressure of her hand — and these eyes— these eyes ! Rachel. Gerald ! Lord. Though I behold you with wondering awe — and my dimmed brain seems to mock me, — no longer can I doubt — it is my wife — my Rachel ! Rachel. Yes, your Rachel ! Who, here at your feet asks for- giveness for her rash act, which, though prompted by her im- measurable love, has brought nought but misery on you. Lord. You ask my forgiveness ? Pure minded, rare and un- selfish creature! Oh, such a soul as yours! Rachel, dearest wife ! Rachel. My husband ! Lord. My dearest wife! On the eve of our marriage, after we were greeted by the sailor's cheerful shouts: u Long life to bride and groom! " we seated ourselves in a quiet corner with our hands fondly clasped together, and remained silent in our great happiness. Then I spoke to you words which, in this supreme hour, at this our second union, I will now repeat: M Rachel, nothing shall part us evermore but death ! " Rachel. My husband! [To the kneeling hoy Alfred:] My son ! ! THE END. LIBRARY OF CONGRESS I llllllllllll 1 017 373 261 2