Mary.  Travellers on the road, seeking a bit of rest.

[Jeremy continues to look them all over in silence.

Mary.  How be things going at the Mill to-day, Jerry?

Jeremy.  Powerful bad.

Mary.  O I am grieved to hear of it.  What has happened?

[Lubin and Isabel lean forward, listening eagerly.

Jeremy.  ’Tis a pretty caddle, that’s all.

Mary.  The mistress isn’t took ill? or Miss Kitty?

Jeremy.  I almost wish they was, for then there wouldn’t be none of this here marrying to-morrow.

Mary.  What has upset you against the wedding, Jerry?

Jeremy.  One pair of hands baint enough for such goings on.

Mary.  ’Tis three you’ve got up there.

Jeremy.  There you’re mistook.  Th’ idle wench and the lad be both away—­off afore dawn to the Fair and took their clothes along of they.  I be left with all upon me like, and ’tis too much.

Mary.  What shall you do, Jerry?

Jeremy.  I’ll be blowed if I’m agoin’ to do anything.  There.

Mary.  But you’ll have to stir yourself up and deck the house and set the table and wait upon the visitors and look to the traps and horses and all, Jerry—­seeing as you’re the only one.

Jeremy.  I’ll not.  I’m not one as steps beyond my own work, and master do know it too.

Mary.  Then how are they going to manage?

Jeremy.  I’m out to find them as’ll manage for them. [Turning sharply to Lubin.] Be you in search of work, young man?

Lubin.  I—­I count as I’ve nothing particular in view.

Jeremy. [Turning to Isabel.] And you, wench?

Isabel. [Faintly.] I’ve gone from the place where I was servant.

Jeremy.  Then you’ll come along of me—­the both of you.

Isabel. [Shrinking.] O no—­I couldn’t go among—­among strangers.

Jeremy.  I never takes no count of a female’s vapours.  You’ll come along of me.  You’ll curl the mistress’s hair and lace her gown and keep her tongue quiet—­and you [turning to Lubin] my man, will set the tables and wait upon the quality what we expect from Bristol town this dinner-time.

Lubin. [Angrily.] I never waited on man nor woman in my life, and
I’ll not start now.

Jeremy.  You will.  I’m not agoin’ a half mile further this warm morning.  Back to the Mill you goes along of me, the two of you.

Mary. [Looking fixedly at Isabel.] This is a chance for you, my dear.  You’ll not find a better.

Jeremy.  Better?  I count as you’ll not better this’n.  Good money for your pains—­victuals to stuff you proper, and cider, all you can drink on a summer’s day.  I count you’ll not better that.