If the housen of your great folks in town are larger, and a got more chambers than ours, I can tell 'em those within lead sadder lives—Here Annette and I are happier than a king and queen—one branch the more, if we are cold, keeps out the wind and the rain—If we are warm, one branch the less lets in the air to fan us—and, when the sun scorches up the leaves, away trudge I, as I did this morning, to the wood, and bring home a new house upon my back—Annette will be struck all of a heap when she comes home, to see how gay we look

Ah, there she is! I'll work away without seeming to mind her.

Here I am—I am quite out of breath!

You have been a good while gone!

I am sure I run as fast as ever I could.

Yes, you have made yourself all in a heat—what did you run so fast for?

Oh, that was only as I come back again—when I leave you I go slow enough—Oh! dear, how fine we are!

Not very fine, Annette; but it will be main pretty when thou art within it.

Ah! Lubin, how glad I was to come back to thee!—En't we much happier than the people in town?

Happier!—a thousand times; on the finest days in all the year they shut themselves up in a parcel of quarries; Is it not true that our cabin is prettier than their fine prisons which they call palaces?

For my part, I wonder they don't come, in the fine weather, and live, two and two, in a little hut, as we do—Have you seen, Lubin, their carpets they are so fond of?—Lord, they en't a quarter so pretty as a bed of daisies!

And, Annette, hast thee observed how they try to make their walls look like the country, by sticking a parcel of pictures about them?—They say, too, it costs them a mint of money; if that's the case, I am sure they are great fools, for our pictures here are ten times handsomer; and we have them for nothing.

Dear me! t'other day, when I carried some milk to my lord's. I heard a band of musick too—Lord, Lubin, what a terrible noise! I could not help saying, if they wanted musick, why did not they come and hear our nightingales?

Well said, Annette!

Ah! but, dear Lubin, I met that nasty Bailly again; and he says he'll come and scold thee for loving me so much.

Oh! he will, will he▪—I'll give him as good as he brings—'tis a plaguy strange thing they can't let us alone—I'cod, in our village, the folks no sooner see two people happy, but they try to make them as miserable as they can.

Indeed he frightens me out of my wits—I can't tell thee what a heap of stuff he says—that we are cousins; and that we love one an­other—I am sure I thought all we did was out of good-will; but he shewed me, as plain as could be, that it was all love, and that love is a terrible thing.

Never mind them, Annette,—we'll be happy in spight of them—I'll go and see that the sheep don't stray from the valley—and then you shall hear what I'll say to Mr. Bailly.

I don't care if they won't let me love Lubin, I'll never love any body, especially after being to him as I am.—Poor soul, what pains he takes for me, and then we have neither kin nor kind!—and as I often says, who should love us if we don't love one another?

E'nt you ashamed of yourself?

Lord! you frightened me out of my wits.

Are these the lessons of your late mo­ther?—The poor woman!

Why what's the matter with you?—You are always in a passion.

Did she instruct you to listen to the men?

Oh Lord! I never does any such thing.

And Lubin, you baggage, Lubin!

How!—How's this, you have granted him then—

Every thing, I can assure you—I should be sorry indeed if Lubin and I had any thing to refuse one another.

What confidence!—And pray tell me, the first time this misfortune happened to you, did it not thunder and lighten? Did not the sun hide itself?

Oh no, 'twas the finest day I ever saw in all my life.

But do you know what a crime you have been guilty of?

I don't know what a crime is—But for what has happened, I can safely swear, 'twas all done out of love and kindness; and not out of malice the least bit in the world.

You are cousins, I tell you.

Well, suppose we are?

Suppose you are! Why in that consists the crime.—My Lord is hunting hard by, he must be made acquainted with this affair.—Lord! Lord! What will this world come to?

Dear me, I am all in a twitter—What wickedness have poor Lubin and I been guilty of? For after all we have done no harm to any body.

What's the matter, Annette?—You are crying.

Oh Lubin, the Bailly has been here, and he says that we have been guilty of a crime—Do you knowwhat a crime is, Lubin?

A crime!—Yes, a crime is a very wicked thing—'Tis a crime to take away a life, but I never heard 'twas a crime to give it.—The Bailly is an old fool, and does not know what he says.

I am sure he is a wicked man to come here and make me all in a tremble.—I could cry my eyes out!—The poor child will hate its mother, the Bailly told me so—and we have been guilty of a sin.

What sin, my dear Annette?

Ay, ay, we may think, but 'twill be no easy matter to find any harm we have done;—hang it, Annette, let them talk till their hearts ach, and let us love one another in spight of them.

The Bailly said my Lord was a coming this way, and he'd acquaint him with it.

Wounds, Annette, I desires no better!—My Lord is kindness itself, that every body [Page 19] knows, and we should be the first unfortunate folks that went away from him with heavy hearts.

Dear Lubin! I shan't be able to look at him.

Never fear.

Here comes the Bailly—I'll hide myself.

Oh, ho, you are come, Mr. Bailly.

O you vile wretch! how dare you look me, or any other honest man, in the face, after abusing the lost Annette?

Vile wretch, in your teeth, Mr. Bailly.—Annette is not lost, she is in our cabin—'tis you, with your meddling, has vexed her, and put a heap of stuff in her head.

What, you pretend you have not robb'd her of what ought to be dearest to her in the world?

Me!—of what?

Of what!—her innocence, and her honour!

I tell you I love her more than my life; and if I have done her any wrong, here I stand to make it good—Marry us! who hinders you?—I'cod we desires no better.

'Tis impossible! and you must be sepa­rated for ever.

You are a wicked man to propose such a thing, Mr. Bailly; who's to take care of An­nette and her innocent child?—me be separated from her—you shall kill me first, I can tell you that.

The law will oblige you to it.

The law shall do no such thing.

Oh the little impudent rascal, how he rails against the law!

Oh the great wicked men, to want me to leave Annette! Come here, Annette.

Here comes my Lord; we shall hear what you'll say to him.

I shan't be afraid to tell him the truth, any more than you. Come here, Annette, don't be asham'd; here is his Honour's Lordship.

Your Lordship is acquainted with the af­fair, and here and please you are the criminals.

My Lord, if it shall please you, I'll tell you the long and the short on't. The Bail­ly here says, that we must be married to have children, and that we can't be married, because we are cousins; and so, that being, we are guilty of a great sin; and that all the world will cry out shame of us; and that if any harm happens in the country, we shall be the cause of it.—In short, and please your Lordship's honour, the Bailly gives us to the Devil; and so, as a body may say, we recommend ourselves to your Lord­ship.

My children, the Bailiff is right—But comfort yourselves, and tell me ingenuously the whole truth.

There! did not I tell you his Lordship [Page 22] would be kind to us? Speak to his honour, An­nette.

And so, my Lord, you see what has happened; and if I have done any harm, I shall die with shame.

Pray don't let Annette die, my Lord—I should die too, and that would be a pity.—If you could but have seen how we lived together before this Old Bailly came and frighten'd us so, Nothing was ever so gay—All that vexes us is, he says my child won't know its father nor mo­ther, and that it will reproach us with its birth.

'Twill reproach me in my grave then.

They really interest me—Don't afflict yourselves, you are not criminal, you are only unfortunate: if you were rich, you might obtain a permission to love and be united: 'tis not just that, because you are poor, you should be de­nied so equitable a desire.—I'll take this matter upon myself, and the week shall not pass before I procure a dispensation from the church, to re­ward your innocence and affection as it deserves.