_Ash._ Sue, we do wish to give thee a bit of admonishing and parent-like conzultation. _Susan._ I hope I have ever attended to your admonitions. _Ash._ Ees, bless thee, I do believe thee hast, lamb; but we all want our memories jogg'd a bit, or why else do parson preach us all to sleep every Zunday--Zo thic be the topic--Dame and I, Sue, did zee a letter gi'd to thee, and thee--bursted into tears, and lock'd un up in thic box--and then Dame and I--we--that's all. _Susan._ My dear father, if I concealed the contents of that letter from your knowledge, it was because I did not wish your heart to share in the pain mine feels. _Ash._ Dang it, didn't I tell thee zoo? [_To his wife._ _Dame._ Nay, Tummas, did I say otherwise? _Susan._ Believe me, my dear parents, my heart never gave birth to a thought my tongue feared to utter. _Ash._ There, the very words I zaid? _Susan._ If you wish to see the letter, I will shew it to you. [_She searches for the key._ _Dame._ Here's a key will open it. _Ash._ Drabbit it, hold thy tongue, thou wold fool? [_Aside._] No, Susan. I'll not zee it--I'll believe my child. _Susan._ You shall not find your confidence ill-placed--it is true the gentleman declared he loved me; it is equally true that declaration was not unpleasing to me--Alas! it is also true, that his letter contains sentiments disgraceful to himself, and insulting to me. _Ash._ Drabbit it, if I'd knaw'd that, when we were cudgelling a bit, I wou'd ha' lapt my stick about his ribs pratty tightish, I wou'd. _Susan._ Pray, father, don't you resent his conduct to me. _Ash._ What! mayn't I lather un a bit? _Susan._ Oh, no! I've the strongest reasons to the contrary! _Ash._ Well, Sue, I won't--I'll behave as pratty as I always do--but it be time to go to the green, and zee the fine zights--How I do hate the noise of thic dom'd bunch of keys--But bless thee, my child--dan't forget that vartue to a young woman be vor all the world like--like--Dang it, I ha' gotten it all in my head; but zomehow--I can't talk it--but vartue be to a young woman what corn be to a blade o'wheat, do you zee; for while the corn be there it be glorious to the eye, and it be called the staff of life; but take that treasure away, and what do remain? why nought but thic worthless straw that man and beast do tread upon. [_Exeunt._ SCENE IV. _An extensive view of a cultivated country--A ploughed field in the centre, in which are seen six different ploughs and horses--At one side a handsome tent--A number of country people assembled._ _Enter_ ASHFIELD _and_ DAME. _Ash._ Make way, make way for the gentry! and, do ye hear, behave pratty as I do--Dang thee, stond back, or I'll knack thee down, I wool. _Enter_ SIR ABEL, _and_ MISS BLANDFORD, _with Servants._ _Sir Abel._ It is very kind of you to honour our rustic festivities with your presence.