Mother. That would be a clew to Moselle's parentage.
Vermont. It will come to me some day. Till then, the little one has a daddy in old Vermont.
Mother. And a mother in me.
Vermont (holds out hand). Widder, put it there. (They shake hands.) I've heard tell of some wimmen that banked all their affections in one buzzum, and, when the proprietor of that bank went prospecting among the stars, kept gathering the same kind of gold-dust for the final deposit. I reckon, widder, you're one of that kind. And when you jine your pardner, Tom Merton, pure ore will be scarce in Nevada.
Mother. Ah, Vermont, what a pity you're a bachelor! You'd make such a good father.
Vermont (confused). Well, yes, jes' so. (Aside.) What will she say when she sees the kid?
Mother. And such a good husband! When I look at you, it seems as if I had my dear old man back again. Poor Tom! (Puts apron to her eyes.)
Vermont (looks at her, scratches his head). Poor old gal! (Puts arm around her waist.) Cheer up, widder: it's only a little while, and you'll hear his voice calling—
Silas (appearing on run). Say, dad, where's my paint-pot?
Vermont. The kid! (Runs off R. 2 E. Mother screams, and runs into cabin.)