Hol. You cried—the man jumped from the table pale with fright, but when he saw it was nothing, he pretended to laugh, and beat the scissors very hard to console you—my child, my child—that man, do you remember him?
Con. My father. (She falls in his arms. They embrace and kiss each other with strong feeling.)
Hol. She said it right then! You heard. Said it finely, eh? suiting the word to the action, the action to the word. She may keep the part now.
Fle. And are you still bent on departing?
Hol. Departing! What do you mean, departing?
Fle. Why, just now, you talked of—
Hol. Ah! just now—just now she had not said, “My father.”
Con. And do I indeed embrace my father, that best protector from the world’s assaults. Oh! I have often dream’d of this, but the bright reality, with its vivid flashes of childhood’s memories, seem to endow me with a new existence of filial love and pleasure.
Hol. You hear, you hear, did I not tell you she was a genius. My good genius! One touch of nature has restored a child to a father’s heart. “One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.”