_John._ Please, miss, the gipsy won’t go without seeing you.
_Jane._ You mistake, John, it must be one of the visitors he wishes to
see.
_John._ No, miss, he must be something not right, for he described you
wonderful. What shall I tell him?
_Jane._ That I will go, by all means. He may be in want of something;
it’s only those who have felt privation themselves who ever think that
there is such a thing in the world as want.
_John._ If you like, miss, I’ll wait in the hall, and if he frightens
you, call out and I’ll see if the ditch water agrees with his gipsy
stomach.
_Jane._ No, John, return to the kitchen; I am not in the least afraid.
[_Exit Jane_, L. H.
_John._ Oh, Lord! the mysteriousness gets thicker than ever. Not content
with having a ghost in the house, we must have a gipsy now. I wish the
fellow would tell me my fortune. No I don’t; for I’d rather not know it,
if it’s at all shy; and in the natural course of events I don’t see any
other chance for poor me. I only wish I was married and settled out of
this nest of hobgoblins. That there Grace would make a good sort of wife
for a chap, she’s so chary with her syllables, and that’s a good point.
I wonder where she is? it’s nice and dark and romantic; just the time to
whisper soft nonsenses. I’ve a great mind to find her. I will too. I’ll
just take a glass of strong beer, and open my heart to her like a house
a-fire.
GRACE _appears at_ D. _in_ F. _with plate, &c._
_Grace._ That inquisitive fool here. I’ll soon get rid of him.
(_Re-enters door. A groan heard._)
_John._ Good gracious, what’s that? I’ll swear I heard a groan in that
room. (_Goes towards door._) Pshaw! the keyhole’s stuffed up. (_A crash
of crockery and loud laugh._) The ghost! the ghost! oh, lord!
[_Exit hastily_, R. H.
_Enter_ GRACE.
_Grace._ It’s well for us he’s such a coward. Now to relieve his terror.
John, what’s the matter?
[_Exit_ R. H.