DAN SMITH (_bellowing_). O lor, Miss! noä, noä, noä! Ye sees the holler laäne be hallus sa dark i' the arternoon, and wheere the big eshtree cuts athurt it, it gi'es a turn like, and 'ow should I see to laäme the laädy, and meä coomin' along pretty sharp an' all? DORA. Well, there are your wages; the next time you waste them at a pothouse you get no more from me. (_Exit_ DAN SMITH.) Sally Allen, you worked for Mr. Dobson, didn't you? SALLY (_advancing_). Yeäs, Miss; but he wur so rough wi' ma, I couldn't abide 'im. DORA. Why should he be rough with you? You are as good as a man in the hayfield. What's become of your brother? SALLY. 'Listed for a soädger, Miss, i' the Queen's Real Hard Tillery. DORA. And your sweetheart--when are you and he to be married? SALLY. At Michaelmas, Miss, please God. DORA. You are an honest pair. I will come to your wedding. SALLY. An' I thanks ye fur that, Miss, moor nor fur the waäge. (_Going--returns_.) 'A cotched ma about the waäist, Miss, when 'e wur 'ere afoor, an' axed ma to be 'is little sweet-art, an soä I knaw'd 'im when I seed 'im ageän an I telled feyther on 'im. DORA. What is all this, Allen? ALLEN. Why, Miss Dora, meä and my maätes, us three, we wants to hev three words wi' ye. HIGGINS. That be 'im, and meä, Miss. JACKSON. An' meä, Miss. ALLEN. An' we weänt mention naw naämes, we'd as lief talk o' the Divil afoor ye as 'im, fur they says the master goäs cleän off his 'eäd when he 'eärs the naäme on 'im; but us three, arter Sally'd telled us on 'im, we fun' 'im out a-walkin' i' West Field wi' a white 'at, nine o'clock, upo' Tuesday murnin', and all on us, wi' your leave, we wants to leather 'im. DORA. Who? ALLEN. Him as did the mischief here, five year' sin'. DORA. Mr. Edgar? ALLEN. Theer, Miss! You ha' naämed 'im--not me. DORA. He's dead, man--dead; gone to his account--dead and buried. ALLEN. I beä'nt sa sewer o' that, fur Sally knaw'd 'im; Now then? DORA. Yes; it was in the Somersetshire papers. ALLEN. Then yon mun be his brother, an'--we'll leather '_im_.