{As the little Boy marches, he stumbles.}
Little Girl. Oh! take care!—come, let us march home:—but stay, I have not found my faggot.
Little Boy. Never mind your faggot; it was not here you left it.
Little Girl. Yes, it was somewhere here, I’m sure, and I must find it, to carry it home to mother, to make a blaze for her before she goes to bed.
Little Boy. But she will wonder what keeps us up so late.
Little Girl. But we shall tell her what kept us. Look under those trees, will you, whilst I look here, for my faggot.—When we get home, I shall say, “Mother, do you know there is great news?—there’s a great many, many candles in the windows of the great house, and dancing and music in the great house, because the master’s come home, and the housekeeper had not time to pay us, and we waited and waited with our faggots; at last the butler—”
Little Boy. Heyday!—What have we here?—a purse, a purse, a heavy purse.
Little Girl. Whose can it be? let us carry it home to mother.
Little Boy. No, no; it can’t be mother’s: mother has no purse full of money. It must belong to somebody at the great house.
Little Girl. Ay, very likely to dame Ulrica, the housekeeper, for she has more purses and money than any body else in the world.