ALLEN. To-morrow! Oh, nonsense, mother.
MRS. R. Nonsense! Why, bless the lad, thee wouldn’t have me away on Saturday. Why, who’d pay the wages, and see to everything?
ALLEN. Why, there’s Rogers there, ain’t there?
MRS. R. Ah, why thee might just as well leave the key of the stable in charge o’ the old bay mare, as trust him to look arter anything, except his own inside.
ALLEN. (After a pause.) Mother! (Rises, goes to Mrs. R. r.) What do ye want to go back at all for, and work and worry yourself to death? Let me take a little house up here in London for thee and Deb, and then we can all be together.
MRS. R. (Aghast.) And leave the farm?
DEB. (Turning round.) Oh, Allen!
ALLEN. Why not? You’ve worked hard enough, mother—give the farm up and enjoy yourself.
MRS. R. Enjoy myself! Away from Woodbarrow
Farm! Why, lad, thy father wur born there and brought me home there—and he died there, and thee wur born there—and there be the pigs and the poultry! (Begins to cry.)