Mary. Ay, you had always a kind heart of your own. I always used to think our dear Ned would some time or other prove a blessing to us.
Harf. You must leave this poor hut, that is not fit to keep out the weather, and we must get you a snug cottage in this village or some other.
John. Pray, my dear sir, let us die in this town, as we have always lived in it. And as to a house, I believe that where old Richard Carpenter used to live in is empty, if it would not be too good for us.
Harf. What, the white cottage on the green? I remember it; it is just the thing. You shall remove there this very week.
Mary. This is beyond all my hopes and wishes!
Harf. There you shall have a little close to keep a cow—and a girl to milk her, and take care of you both—and a garden well stocked with herbs and roots—and a little yard for pigs and poultry; and some good new furniture for your house.
John. O, too much—too much!
Mary. What makes me cry so, when so many good things are coming to us?
Harf. Who is the landlord of this house?
John. Our next neighbour, Mr. Wheatfield.