Enter Peter.
Pet. Pooh! pooh!—never tell me.—I'm a clever lad, for all father's crying out every minute, "Peter," and "stupid Peter!" But I say, Peter is not stupid, though father will always be so wise. First, I talk too much; then I talk too little; and if I talk a bit to myself, he calls me a driveller. Now, I like best to talk to myself; for I never contradict myself, and I don't laugh at myself, as other folks do. That laughing is often a plaguy teazing custom. To be sure, when Mrs. Haller laughs, one can bear it well enough; there is a sweetness even in her reproof, that somehow—But, lud! I had near forgot what I was sent about.—Yes, then they would have laughed at me indeed.—[Draws a green purse from his pocket.]—I am to carry this money to old Tobias; and Mrs. Haller said I must be sure not to blab, or say that she had sent it. Well, well, she may be easy for that matter; not a word shall drop from my lips. Mrs. Haller is charming, but silly, if father is right; for father says, "He, that spends his money is not wise," but "he that gives it away, is stark mad."
Enter the Stranger, from the Lodge, followed by Francis.—At sight of Peter, the Stranger stops, and looks suspiciously at him. Peter stands opposite to him, with his mouth wide open. At length he takes off his hat, scrapes a bow, and goes into the Hut.
Stra. Who is that?
Fra. The steward's son.
Stra. Of the Castle?
Fra. Yes.
Stra. [After a pause.] You were—you were speaking last night—
Fra. Of the old countryman?
Stra. Ay.