His Wife.
Yet it hurts me to see his poor, pale face and close-cropped head. He used to have such beautiful curls!
The Man.
Yes, I know, but the doctor was obliged to cut them off to dress the wound. But never mind, my wife; they will soon grow again, more beautiful than ever. Did you save the curls when they were cut off? They ought certainly to have been saved, for there was his dear blood upon them'.
His Wife.
Yes, my beloved one; and I stored them in this casket here—the only, thing of value which we have left.
The Man.
Then you did rightly. We have no cause to fret about our vanished riches, for the boy; will soon be grown up, and able to go and work for us all. Yes, he will soon recover for us what we have lost. I feel quite cheerful again, my wife—quite confident about the future. Do you remember our poor old room with the pink walls, and how the good neighbours brought us sprigs of oak and birch, and how you made a chaplet of leaves for my head, and swore that I was a genius?
His Wife.
Yes; and I swear it now, my darling. Others may have ceased to, appreciate you, but not I.