Rach. (_Crosses l. with a toss of her head.) I’m sure I don’t want ‘em there at all. (_Picks up buckets near door l. down stage.) Mrs. R. Ah, thee wouldn’t ha’ the lad theer wi’out ‘em! Go and do as I tell ‘ee. [Rachael hits Ichabod with bucket. Exeunt Rachael and Ichabod l. door down stage.] Mrs. R. The lad will enjoy it all the more if thee cook it for un. Ah. and he do enjoy his food too. It do me good to see un eat. Deb. He does you a lot of good that way, doesn’t he, aunt? Mes. R. (_Laughing.’_) Ah, yes, he be like his father wur before him, a rare trencher man. Ah, but they’re better than those as doesn’t eat much, but sits a-turning and a-smelling, and a-grumbling at everything that’s set before them, for all the world like an overfed turkey cock trying to eat potato peelings. Thee wean’t ha’ much trouble looking arter un when I’m gone. Deb. (_Goes to fireplace R._) Oh, aunt, how naughty you are, always talking of being “gone,” just as if you were an old woman. Mrs. R. No, no, lass, I bean’t talking of being gone now. I’ve many a year before me yet, please God. But it must come sometime, thee knaws, and I like to think that when it do there’ll be someone to gie the lad his bit of food, and look arter un loike--and, Lord, a man do want a power of looking arter to be sure. Deb. (_At fire R. making it up._) I think that’s why we love ‘em, aunt, because they’re so helpless. Mrs. R. (_Cross to l._) Ah, maybe it is. There must be summut to account for it. Deb. And I suppose they be like the poultry. They get fond of us because we feed them. He does say I’ve got a good hand for cooking, aunt. Mrs. R. (_Cross to r._) Ah, yes, lass. It be a light hand for the kitchen and a cool hand for the dairy. It will make a good hand for a farmer’s wife. (_Takes Deborah’s hand at table R._) Deb. I don’t think Allen will want a farmer’s wife, aunt. Mrs. R. Lord, whose wife should a farmer want, then? Deb. (_Pokes fire r._) I don’t think Allen wants to be a farmer at all. He says he wants to be a somebody, not a nobody. Mrs. R. Well, bean’t a farmer somebody? Deb. Somebody, aunt, but not a somebody. Allen wants to be in the world, you know, aunt. Mrs. R. Well, and he be in the world sure, ain’t he? Sure I think I ought to know. (_Cross to l._) Deb. No, not in the world he means, aunt. Not in the great world as they call it. Mrs. R. Ah! he be in God’s world, that ought to be big enough for un. (_Cross to r._) Deb. (_A little spitefully._) Yes, aunt, but it’s not select enough. There’s all sorts of common people in God’s world. Allen wants to be in the big world of lords and ladies and big folk up in London. He says it’s being buried alive down here; that he wants to be among the stir and bustle.