_The_ LANDLORD _of the inn leads_ AGATHA _by the hand out of his house._ LANDLORD. No, no! no room for you any longer—It is the fair to-day in the next village; as great a fair as any in the German dominions. The country people with their wives and children take up every corner we have. AGATHA. You will turn a poor sick woman out of doors who has spent her last farthing in your house. LANDLORD. For that very reason; because she _has_ spent her last farthing. AGATHA. I can work. LANDLORD. You can hardly move your hands. AGATHA. My strength will come again. LANDLORD. Then _you_ may come again. AGATHA. What am I to do? Where shall I go? LANDLORD. It is fine weather—you may go any where. AGATHA. Who will give me a morsel of bread to satisfy my hunger? LANDLORD. Sick people eat but little. AGATHA. Hard, unfeeling man, have pity. LANDLORD. When times are hard, pity is too expensive for a poor man. Ask alms of the different people that go by. AGATHA. Beg! I would rather starve. LANDLORD. You may beg and starve too. What a fine lady you are! Many an honest woman has been obliged to beg. Why should not you? [Agatha _sits down upon a large stone under a tree._] For instance, here comes somebody; and I will teach you how to begin. [_A Countryman, with working tools, crosses the road._] Good day, neighbour Nicholas. COUNTRYMAN Good day. [_Stops._] LANDLORD. Won’t you give a trifle to this poor woman? [_Countryman takes no notice, but walks off._] That would not do—the poor man has nothing himself but what he gets by hard labour. Here comes a rich farmer; perhaps he will give you something. _Enter_ FARMER. LANDLORD. Good morning to you, Sir. Under yon tree sits a poor woman in distress, who is in need of your charity. FARMER. Is she not ashamed of herself? Why don’t she work? LANDLORD. She has had a fever.—If you would but pay for one dinner— FARMER. The harvest has been indifferent, and my cattle and sheep have suffered distemper. [_Exit._ LANDLORD. My fat, smiling face was not made for begging: you’ll have more luck with your thin, sour one—so, I’ll leave you to yourself. [_Exit._ [Agatha _rises and comes forward._]