(She weeps.)
Perhaps he’s even dead! Ah, woe!—
Had I a certificate to show!
MARGARET (comes)
Dame Martha!
MARTHA
Margaret! what’s happened thee?
MARGARET
I scarce can stand, my knees are trembling!
I find a box, the first resembling,
Within my press! Of ebony,—
And things, all splendid to behold,
And richer far than were the old.
MARTHA
You mustn’t tell it to your mother!
’Twould go to the priest, as did the other.