_Mrs. H._ Oh! he will not! he cannot! And let him rest assured I never would replace my honour at the expense of his. _Bar._ He still loves you. _Mrs. H._ Loves me! Then he must not--No--he must purify his heart from a weakness which would degrade him! _Bar._ Incomparable woman! I go to my friend--perhaps, for the last time! Have you not one word to send him? _Mrs. H._ Yes, I have two requests to make. Often when, in excess of grief, I have despaired of every consolation, I have thought I should be easier if I might behold my husband once again, acknowledge my injustice to him, and take a gentle leave of him for ever. This, therefore, is my first request--a conversation for a few short minutes, if he does not quite abhor the sight of me. My second request is--Oh--not to see, but to hear some account of my poor children. _Bar._ If humanity and friendship can avail, he will not for a moment delay your wishes. _Countess._ Heaven be with you. _Mrs. H._ And my prayers. [_Exit BARON._ _Countess._ Come, my friend, come into the air, till he returns with hope and consolation. _Mrs. H._ Oh, my heart! How art thou afflicted! My husband! My little ones! Past joys and future fears--Oh, dearest madam, there are moments in which we live years! Moments, which steal the roses from the cheek of health, and plough deep furrows in the brow of youth. _Countess._ Banish these sad reflections. Come, let us walk. The sun will set soon; let nature's beauties dissipate anxiety. _Mrs. H._ Alas! Yes, the setting sun is a proper scene for me. _Countess._ Never forget a morning will succeed. [_Exeunt._ SCENE II. _The skirts of the Park, Lodge, &c. as before._ _Enter BARON._ _Bar._ On earth there is but one such pair. They shall not be parted. Yet what I have undertaken is not so easy as I at first hoped. What can I answer when he asks me, whether I would persuade him to renounce his character, and become the derision of society? For he is right: a faithless wife is a dishonour! and to forgive her, is to share her shame. What though Adelaide may be an exception; a young deluded girl, who has so long and so sincerely repented, yet what cares an unfeeling world for this? The world! he has quitted it. 'Tis evident he loves her still; and upon this assurance builds my sanguine heart the hope of a happy termination to an honest enterprise. _Enter FRANCIS with two Children, WILLIAM and AMELIA._ _Fra._ Come along, my pretty ones--come. _Will._ Is it far to home? _Fra._ No, we shall be there directly, now. _Bar._ Hold! Whose children are these? _Fra._ My master's. _Will._ Is that my father? _Bar._ It darts like lightning through my brain. A word with you. I know you love your master. Strange things have happened here. Your master has found his wife again. _Fra._ Indeed! Glad to hear it. _Bar._ Mrs. Haller-- _Fra._ Is she his wife? Still more glad to hear it.