DAUGHTER. Oh, but I mean so that it wouldn't matter what clothes we wore; so that we could wander over the hills and down into the valleys, and sleep perhaps in a barn and bathe ourselves in the brook next morning, and-- MOTHER. I don't think I should like that very much. Perhaps I'm peculiar. DAUGHTER. Oh, if only I were a boy to go out and make my own way in the world. Would you let me go, Mother, if I were a boy? MOTHER. I don't suppose you'd ask me, dear. DAUGHTER (sighing). Oh, well! We must make the best of it, I suppose. Perhaps one day something will happen. (She goes back to the spinet and sings again.) _Lads and lasses, what will you sell, What will you sell?_ Four stout walls and a roof atop, Warm fires gleaming brightly, Well-stored cellar and garnered crop, Money-bags packed tightly; An ordered task in an ordered day, And a sure bed nightly; Years which peacefully pass away, Until Death comes lightly. _Lads and lasses, what will you buy? What will you buy?_ Here is a cap to cover your head, A cap with one red feather; Here is a cloak to make your bed Warm or winter weather; Here is a satchel to store your ware, Strongly lined with leather; And here is a staff to take you there When you go forth together. _Lads and lasses, what will you gain, What will you gain?_ Chatter of rooks on tall elm-trees New Spring houses taking; Daffodils in an April breeze Golden curtsies making; Shadows of clouds across the weald From hill to valley breaking, The first faint stir which the woodlands yield When the world is waking. _Lads and lasses, this is your gain, This is your gain._ (Towards the end of the song the face and shoulders of the TALKER appear at the open lattice window on the left. He listens with a bland and happy smile until the song is finished.) TALKER. Brava! Brava! (They turn round towards the window in astonishment.) A vastly pleasing song, vastly well sung. Mademoiselle Nightingale, permit me to felicitate you. (Turning to the Mother) The Mother of the Nightingale also. Mon Dieu, what is voice, of a richness, of a purity! To live with it always! Madame, I felicitate you again. MOTHER. I must ask you, sir, to explain the meaning of this intrusion. TALKER. Intrusion? Oh, fie! Madame, not intrusion. My feet stand upon the highway. The road, Madame, is common to all. I can quote you Rex--What does Rex, cap. 27, para. 198, say? _Via_, says Rex, meaning the road; _communis_ is common; _omnibus_ to all, meaning thereby--but perchance I weary you? DAUGHTER. Mother, who is he?