t her hand to the MOTHER). I think I must go.
Good-bye, and thank you.
MOTHER (taking her hand and patting it). Wait a moment, dear.
TALKER (continuing his speech)--noble lady to whom I have not yet
referred. I will not hide from you the fact that she plays upon the
fiddle with an elegance rarely to be heard. It is the earnest wish of
(swelling his chest) my future wife and myself that she should take up
her abode with us.
FIDDLER. It's very kind of you, but I don't think--
DAUGHTER (coming across). Mother, she's going to stay with us; she
promised.
MOTHER. It's sweet of you to ask her, dear, but I think it would be much
more suitable that she should live with _us_.
SINGER. We should love to have her, and she could come and see you
whenever she liked.
MOTHER. I was going to suggest that she should live with us and come and
see _you_ sometimes.
TALKER (who has been thinking deeply). I have it! What say you to this?
For six months, making in all twenty-six weeks of the year, she shall
live, reside, dwell, or, as one might say, take up her habitation with
us; whereas for the other six months--(They have been so busy discussing
the future of the FIDDLER that they have not noticed that she is no
longer there. Suddenly the sound of the fiddle is heard.) What's that?
[The FIDDLER comes in, wearing her cap now with the red feather in it.
She is playing a wild song, a song of the road. She is content again.
She goes up the room, and as she passes them she gives them a little
bend of the head and the beginnings of a grave smile. She goes out
of the door, still playing; she is still playing as she goes past the
windows. They follow her with their eyes. When she is gone they still
listen until the music dies in the distance.]
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of First Plays, by A. A. Milne
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