MARGERY.
Where shall I put these apples?
ARMSTRONG.
Nay, I’ve the broadest shoulders. Give me a hand; I’ll take ’em.
[Margery helps him to put the basket on his shoulders. Exit, C.
MARGERY.
Dear old dad! We leave our parents, and we return to them; they let us go, and they take us back again! How little we think of their partings, and how much of our own!
[Sits, R.
Enter Sylvester, L. front.
SYLVESTER.