[Clara pushes up both her sleeves, and holds out her arms towards George.

George. [Pointing to the scar.] There ‘tis—­there’s where th’ old gander have left his mark.

The children. [Getting up.] Where, where!  O do let us see!

[They run round to where Clara stands and look eagerly at the mark on her arm which she shews to them.

Thomas.  George, my lad, you baint th’ only one as can play fox.

Emily.  Don’t you be so set up as to think as you can, Thomas.  For a more foolish figure of a goose never was cut.  A man might tell when ’twas his own sister, if so be as he had his full senses upon him.

Thomas.  Never you mind, Emily.  What I says to George is, he baint th’ only fox.  How now, my lad?

George.  I don’t see what you be driving at, master.

Thomas. [Slyly.] What about that bit of blue ribbon, George?

Clara.  Yes, Thomas.  Ask Georgie if he will give it back to me.

George. [Stepping forward till he is by Clara’s side.] No, and that I will not do.  ’Tis little enough as I holds, but what little, I’ll keep it.

Clara. [To George.] Those words are like a frail bridge on which I can stand for a moment.  Georgie, do you remember the days when you used to lead me by the hand into the deep parts of the wood, lifting me over the briars and the brambles so that I should not be hurt by their thorns?

George.  Hark you here, Clara.  This once I’ll speak.  I never had but one true love, and that was a little maid what would run through the woods and over all the meadows, her hand in mine.  I learnt she the note of every bird.  And when th’ evening was come, us would watch together till th’ old mother badger did get from out of her hole, and start hunting in the long grasses.

Clara. [Taking George’s hand.] Then, Georgie, there was no need for the disguise that I put upon myself.

George.  Do you think as the moon can hide her light when there baint no cloud upon the sky, Clara?

Clara.  Georgie, I went in fear of what this gold and silver might raise up between you and me.

Thomas.  That’s all finished and done with now, my maid.  If I’d a hundred sisters, George should have the pick of them, he should.

Emily.  Thank you.  Thomas.  One of your sisters is about enough.

Luke. [Who has been sitting with Joan’s hand in his.] Hark you here, mistress.  There’s many a cloudy morning turns out a sunshiny day.  Baint that a true saying, Joan?

Joan. [Looking up radiantly.] O that it is, dear Luke.

Lord Lovel.  Miss Clara, it seems that there is nothing more to be said.

Emily.  And that’s the most sensible thing as has been spoke this long while.  Thomas, your sister favours you in being a poor, grizzling sort of a muddler.  She might have took up with this young man, who has a very respectable appearance.