DOBSON. What feller wur it as 'a' been a-talkin' fur haäfe an hour wi' my Dora? (_Looking after him_.) Seeäms I ommost knaws the back on 'im-- drest like a gentleman, too. Damn all gentlemen, says I! I should ha' thowt they'd hed anew o' gentlefoälk, as I telled 'er to-daäy when she fell foul upo' me. Minds ma o' summun. I could sweär to that; but that be all one, fur I haätes 'im afoor I knaws what 'e be. Theer! he turns round. Philip Hedgar o' Soomerset! Philip Hedgar o' Soomerset!--Noä--yeas--thaw the feller's gone and maäde such a litter of his faäce. Eh lad, if it be thou, I'll Philip tha! a-plaäyin' the saäme gaäme wi' my Dora--I'll Soomerset tha. I'd like to drag 'im thruff the herse-pond, and she to be a-lookin' at it. I'd like to leather 'im black and blue, and she to be a-laughin' at it. I'd like to fell 'im as deäd as a bullock! (_Clenching his fist_.) But what 'ud she saäy to that? She telled me once not to meddle wi' 'im, and now she be fallen out wi' ma, and I can't coom at 'er. It mun be _him_. Noä! Fur she'd niver 'a been talkin' haäfe an hour wi' the divil 'at killed her oän sister, or she beänt Dora Steer. Yeas! Fur she niver knawed 'is faäce when 'e wur 'ere afoor; but I'll maäke 'er knaw! I'll maäke 'er knaw! _Enter_ HAROLD. Naäy, but I mun git out on 'is waäy now, or I shall be the death on 'im. [_Exit_. HAROLD. How the clown glared at me! that Dobbins, is it, With whom I used to jar? but can he trace me Thro' five years' absence, and my change of name, The tan of southern summers and the beard? I may as well avoid him. Ladylike! Lilylike in her stateliness and sweetness! How came she by it?--a daughter of the fields, This Dora! She gave her hand, unask'd, at the farm-gate; I almost think she half return'd the pressure Of mine. What, I that held the orange blossom Dark as the yew? but may not those, who march Before their age, turn back at times, and make Courtesy to custom? and now the stronger motive, Misnamed free-will--the crowd would call it conscience-- Moves me--to what? I am dreaming; for the past Look'd thro' the present, Eva's eyes thro' her's-- A spell upon me! Surely I loved Eva More than I knew! or is it but the past That brightens in retiring? Oh, last night, Tired, pacing my new lands at Littlechester, I dozed upon the bridge, and the black river Flow'd thro' my dreams--if dreams they were. She rose From the foul flood and pointed toward the farm, And her cry rang to me across the years, 'I call you, Philip Edgar, Philip Edgar! Come, you will set all right again, and father Will not die miserable.' I could make his age A comfort to him--so be more at peace With mine own self. Some of my former friends Would find my logic faulty; let them. Colour Flows thro' my life again, and I have lighted On a new pleasure. Anyhow we must Move in the line of least resistance when The stronger motive rules. But she hates Edgar.