Mary. Yes, gentlemen; that makes my poor husband so uneasy—that we should come in our old days to die in a workhouse. We have lived better, I assure you—but we were turned out of our little farm by the great farmer near the church; and since then we have grown poorer and poorer, and weaker and weaker, so that we have nothing to help ourselves with.
John (sobbing). To die in a parish workhouse—I can hardly bear the thought of it! But God knows best, and we must submit!
Harf. But, my good people, have you no children to assist you?
John. Our children, sir, are all dead except one that is settled a long way off, and as poor as we are.
Beau. But surely, my friends, such decent people as you seem to be, must have somebody to protect you.
Mary. No, sir; we know nobody but our neighbours, and they think the workhouse good enough for the poor.
Harf. Pray, was there not a family of Harfords once in this village?
John. Yes, sir, a long while ago—but they are all dead and gone, or else far enough from this place.
Mary. Ay, sir, the youngest of them, and the finest child among them, that I’ll say for him, was nursed in our house when we lived on the old spot near the green. He was with us till he was thirteen, and a sweet-behaved boy he was; I loved him as well as ever I did any of my own children.
Harf. What became of him?