{Gil.} The son of old Robjohns, the fiddler, and a reporting man on the "Mercury." {Kate.} Well, Master Robjohns, how's your father? _(sits R.)_ _(Rob. comes down L., C., nervously.)_ {Rob.} _(with a dialect)_ Father's respects, and he's ill a-bed with rheumatics, and he hopes it'll make no difference. {Kate.} Who's to play the fiddle to-morrow night for the harvest folks? {Rob.} Father wants _me_ to take his place. I'm not nearly such a good fiddler as father is, and he hopes it'll make no difference. {Kate.} Your father has played at every harvest feast here for the last five and twenty years--is he very ill? {Rob.} Father's respects, and he's as _bad_ as he can _well_ be, and he hopes it'll make no difference. {Kate.} Good gracious! Gilbert, have you sent the doctor? {Gil.} The doctor's busy with an invalid at the White Lion at Market-Sinfield--a stranger. {Kate.} No stranger has a right to all the doctor. _(rises and stands by table R., making notes in book)_ All right, Master Robjohns, you shall play the fiddle to-morrow night. {Rob.} Thank'ee, Squire. {Kate.} Christie! {Gil.} Christie! {Chris.} _(from within L.)_ Yes! {Kate.} Give Master Robjohns something to drink. {Chris.} _(appearing at the door)_ Yes, Squire. _(She retires.)_ {Kate.} And give my love--the Squire's love--to father, and tell him to keep a good heart. {Rob.} Thank'ee, Squire. But father sends his respects, and thinks he's a dead 'un, and hopes it'll make no difference. _(Rob. goes over to L. meeting Chris., who gives him a mug of milk and retires. Rob. sits L., and drinks on form.)_ {Kate.} _(sits on stone C., sharply to the Shabby Person, who is up stage)_ Now then, sir, what do you want? {S. P.} _(who is evidently addicted to drink)_ I--oh yes. _(to Gil.)_ Is this Miss Verity? {Gil.} That is the Squire, _(behind Squire a little to her L.)_ {S. P.} The Squire! {Gil.} The Squire in these parts is the person who owns Verity's lands. Miss Verity chooses to be regarded as the Squire, and to be called so. _(passes behind Squire)_