Bessie (_Whispering_). Don't. (_Struggles a little. Released, stands
averted_.)

Harry. No offence. (_Stands, back to audience, looking at H.'s
cottage_.)

Bessie (_Alone in front; faces audience; whispers_). My voice--my
figure--my heart--my face....

(_A silence. B. 's face gradually lights up. Directly H. speaks,
expression of hopeful attention_.)

Harry (_From railings_). The old man seems to have gone to sleep waiting
for that to-morrow of his.

Bessie. Come away. He sleeps very little.

Harry (_Strolls down_). He has taken an everlasting jamming hitch round
the whole business. (_Vexed_.) Cast it loose who may. (_Contemptuous
exclamation_.) To-morrow. Pooh! It'll be just another mad today.

Bessie. It's the brooding over his hope that's done it. People teased
him so. It's his fondness for you that's troubled his mind.

Harry. Aye. A confounded shovel on the head. The old man had always a
queer way of showing his fondness for me.

Bessie. A hopeful, troubled, expecting old man--left alone--all alone.