THOMAS. You be a brave, fine country lad, George, what a pretty baggage from London town might give a year of her life to catch, so be it her had the fortune. GEORGE. No, no, Master Thomas. Nothing of that. There baint nothing. THOMAS. There be a piece of blue ribbon, George. GEORGE. They be coming down and into the room now, master. [_Steps are heard in the staircase_. THOMAS. We’ll off to the meadow then, George. [GEORGE _and_ THOMAS _go out_. [JOAN, _dressed as a lady of fashion_, _and followed by_ CLARA, _comes into the kitchen_. CLARA. Now, Joan, if I were you, I should go out into the garden, and let the gentlemen find you in the arbour. Your ways are more easy and natural when you are in the air. JOAN. O I’m very nigh dead with fright when I’m within doors. ’Tis so hard to move about without knocking myself against sommat. But at table ’tis worst of all. CLARA. You’ve stopped up in your room two breakfasts with the headache, and yesterday we took our dinner to the wood. JOAN. But to-night ’twill be something cruel, for Farmer Thomas have asked them both to supper again. CLARA. Luke Jenner and the other man? JOAN. I beg you to practise me in my ways, a little, afore the time, mistress. CLARA. That I will. We will find out what is to be upon the table, and then I will shew you how it is to be eaten. JOAN. And other things as well as eating. When I be sitting in the parlour, Miss Clara, and Hooper, he comes up and asks my pleasure, what have I got to say to him? CLARA. O, I shouldn’t trouble about that. I’d open my fan and take no notice if I were you. JOAN. I do feel so awkward like in speech with Farmer Thomas, mistress. And with the children, too. CLARA. Come, you must take heart and throw yourself into the acting. Try to be as a sister would with Thomas. Be lively, and kind in your way with the children. JOAN. I tries to be like old Madam Lovel was, when I talks with them. CLARA. That cross, rough mode of hers sits badly on any one young, Joan. Be more of yourself, but make little changes in your manner here and there. JOAN. [_With a heavy sigh_.] ’Tis the here and the there as I finds it so hard to manage. JESSIE. [_Running in breathlessly_.] A letter, a letter for Aunt Clara. [CLARA _involuntarily puts out her hand_.] No, Joan. I was to give it to Aunt Clara herself. I’ve run all the way. [JOAN _slowly takes the letter_, _looking confused_. JESSIE. Will you read it now, Aunt? JOAN. Run away, little girl, I don’t want no children worriting round me now. [_Suddenly recollecting herself and forcing herself to speak brightly_.] I mean—no, my dear little girl, I’d rather wait to read it till I’m by myself; but thank you very kindly all the same, my pet. JESSIE. O, but I should like to hear the letter read, so much. JOAN. Never mind. Run along back to mother, there’s a sweet little maid. JESSIE. I’d sooner stop with you now, you look so much kinder, like.