Dan. Growin’ old, lass, growin’ old. It’s one o’ those blessings that allers comes to him that waits long enough. But I don’t grumble, Dorothy. If old age will leave me strength enough to pull at a pipe and empty a tankard—two things thou canst not do for me, Dorothy—why, that’s all I ask. My lass can do the rest.
Dor. As I have been to thee so will I be to the end.
Dan. There’s no saying, Dorothy. Thou’rt comely, lass, and mebbe, ere long, some smart young lad will whip thee from my arms, and carry thee away to t’other side o’ the sunrise. There’s mor’n one within a mile o’ this who’d give his right arm to do it now.
Dor. Nay, thou art unkind. Did I not tend thee when thou wast hale and strong, and shall I desert thee now that thou hast most need of me?
Dan. (with emotion). My lass, Heaven knows I never needed thee more than when thou wast left at my hut fourteen year since. But I’ve news to gladden thee—thine old playmate, Geoffrey Wynyard, is returned from sea, and is now on his road from Norwich to see thee.
Dor. Geoffrey returned? Oh, I am right glad! Oh, indeed, father, I am right glad! Truly thou has brought me fair news. And is he well—and hath he prospered?
Dan. Ay, and growed out o’ knowledge. He was but a long-legged lad when he left, but he’s a man now, and a goodly one, I warrant thee. See to him when he cometh, for he’ll bide here wi’ us. (After a pause.) My darlin’—thou’lt never leave me?
Dor. Never, while I live!
Dan. God bless thee, my child!
[Kisses her and exit.