No corpse lies here that it should be so dark.
(Girl, moving as in a trance, lights candles with a brand from the fireplace. Often she glances expectantly at the window. The place is fully illumined.)
What ails the hussy?
Father
‘Tis a crazy lark
Sings in her head all day. Don’t be too rough.
Come twenty winters, ‘twill be still enough,
God knows!
Mother
(At the fireplace.)