the
moustache isn't at all the right shade. I know I
could catch the exact tone of Eric's moustache if I
were a painter. It's a kind of browny, yellowy,
red-tinted, a sad auburn, with a sea-weedy wash about it.
Under the nose it suggests one of our daybreak skies,
and there, where the ends droop, a sunset of Turner's.
Dear old Eric! _(kisses locket)_

_(There is a knock at the door L.,; Kate hastily closes
the locket and glances at clock.)_

It's late! _(aloud)_ Who is it?
_(The door opens, L., and Christiana enters, knitting
stocking.)_

{Chris.} Gilbert Hythe and Gunnion, with a box
of clothes for the girl, _(down by settee L.)_

_(Gilbert and Gunnion enter--Gil. carrying a very
diminutive wooden trunk; he places the box down
L. C., and doffs his hat. Gil. still has his gun with
him; he goes up to bureau.)_

{Gun.} Good-night to you, Squire. Gilbert Hythe's
been so kind as to lend me a hand with this blessed
box. _(pointing to box)_ My child's wardrobe, Squire,
scraped together by the sweat of my brow.

{Kate.} Sit down, Gilbert. _(Gilbert puts his gun
down L., of bureau and gets to R., of it, standing)_
Take Felicity's wardrobe upstairs into Felicity's
room, Mr. Gunnion. _(Gun. goes to take box--Chris.
down L.)_

{Chris.} Excuse me, Squire, but before Gunnion
goes I should like you to make note of the ale
_(Gun. drops box)_ that's been drawn from the new cask.
The ale was in my keeping and it's due to me for
you to know of the loss.

{Gun.} _(on his knees--to Chris.)_ Drat you for a
mischievous hussy! Why, your own flesh and blood
helped me to drive the tap in with a mallet, and
drank double what I did.

{Chris.} More shame for an old man to lead a
poor boy astray!

{Kate.} _(shaking her finger at Gun.)_ Oh! Mr.
Gunnion, how could you!

{Gun.} _(rises--gets nearer table)_ Well, Squire,
it's not a thing I've done afore, and it's not a thing
I'm like to do again.

{Kate.} Come, come, that's all right.

{Gun.} And I've paid the penalty precious dear.
I've had my yead under the pump from four o'clock
till past sunset, and wettin' my yead is a thing I
dursn't do.

{Kate.} Oh, dear!

{Gun.} As for the drop o' drink, I was druv to it
by grief.