DORA. I never heard that he had a brother. Some foolish mistake of Sally's; but what! would you beat a man for his brother's fault? That were a wild justice indeed. Let bygones be bygones. Go home.' Goodnight! (_All exeunt_.) I have once more paid them all. The work of the farm will go on still, but for how long? We are almost at the bottom of the well: little more to be drawn from it--and what then? Encumbered as we are, who would lend us anything? We shall have to sell all the land, which Father, for a whole life, has been getting together, again, and that, I am sure, would be the death of him. What am I to do? Farmer Dobson, were I to marry him, has promised to keep our heads above water; and the man has doubtless a good heart, and a true and lasting love for me: yet--though I can be sorry for him--as the good Sally says, 'I can't abide him'--almost brutal, and matched with my Harold is like a hedge thistle by a garden rose. But then, he, too--will he ever be of one faith with his wife? which is my dream of a true marriage. Can I fancy him kneeling with me, and uttering the same prayer; standing up side by side with me, and singing the same hymn? I fear not. Have I done wisely, then, in accepting him? But may not a girl's love-dream have too much romance in it to be realised all at once, or altogether, or anywhere but in Heaven? And yet I had once a vision of a pure and perfect marriage, where the man and the woman, only differing as the stronger and the weaker, should walk hand in hand together down this valley of tears, as they call it so truly, to the grave at the bottom, and lie down there together in the darkness which would seem but for a moment, to be wakened again together by the light of the resurrection, and no more partings for ever and for ever. (_Walks up and down. She sings_.) 'O happy lark, that warblest high Above thy lowly nest, O brook, that brawlest merrily by Thro' fields that once were blest, O tower spiring to the sky, O graves in daisies drest, O Love and Life, how weary am I, And how I long for rest.' There, there, I am a fool! Tears! I have sometimes been moved to tears by a chapter of fine writing in a novel; but what have I to do with tears now? All depends on me--Father, this poor girl, the farm, everything; and they both love me--I am all in all to both; and he loves me too, I am quite sure of that. Courage, courage! and all will go well. (_Goes to bedroom door; opens it_.) How dark your room is! Let me bring you in here where there is still full daylight. (_Brings_ EVA _forward_.) Why, you look better. EVA. And I feel so much better that I trust I may be able by-and-by to help you in the business of the farm; but I must not be known yet. Has anyone found me out, Dora? DORA. Oh, no; you kept your veil too close for that when they carried you in; since then, no one has seen you but myself. EVA. Yes--this Milly.