PS 3539 .U13 H65 ^1910 ■copy 1 PRICE TWENTY-FIVE CENTS f ' HOME TIES BY ARTHUR LEWIS TUBES ^tr4k4^^^ y*V^^*^ ^V^« THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY PHILADELPHIA SHOEMAKER'S BEST SELECTIONS For Reevdin^s and Recit2s.tions Nos. I to 27 Now Issued Pftper Binding, each number, • • • 30 cents Cloth •• .... ... 50 cento Teachers, Readers, Students, and all persons who have had occasion to use books of this kind, concede this to be the best series of speakers published. The different numbers are compiled by leading elocution- ists of the country, who have exceptional facilities for securing selections, and whose judgment as to their merits is invaluable. No trouble or expense is spared to obtain the very best readings and recitations, and much material is used by special arrangement with other publishers, thus securing the best selections from such American authors as Longfellow, Holmes, Whittier, Lowell, Emerson, Alice and Phoebe Gary, Mrs. Stowe, and many others. The foremost Eng^- lish authors are also represented, as well as the leading French and German writers. This series was formerly called "The Elocution- ist's Annual,'* the first seventeen numbers being pub- lished under that title. While the primary purpose of these books is to supply the wants of the public reader and elocution- ist, nowhere else can be found such an attractive col- lection of interesting short stories for home reading. Sold by all booksellers and newsdealers, or mailed upon receipt of price. The Penn Publlshinsr Company ins Arch Street, PhlladelphU HOME TIES A Rural Play in Four Acts BY ARTHUR LEWIS TUBES Author of "FARM FOLKS." "THE HEART OF A HERO." etc. PHILADELPHIA THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 1910 Copyright 1910 by The Penn Publishing Company Horn* T»c_ (QCi.D 22274 Home Ties CAST OF CHARACTERS Martin Winn With me7?tortes of the past Leonard Everett A son of the soil Harold Vincent From New York JosiAH TizzARD Ati umbrella mender Ruth Winn Martinis daughter Alma Wayne Her friend, from the city Aunt Melissa Martin's sister Mrs. Poplin . A widow , with a pension and " symptoms " LiNDY Jane . ., Who ^^ helps around'' SYNOPSIS Act I. — An afternoon in June, between five and six o'clock. The home-coming. Act II. — One month later. Visitors from the city. Act III. — An evening the next week. The party. Act IV. — The following January, six months having elapsed. The wedding announcement, and "Home, Sweet Home." The action of the play takes place in the sitting-room of the Winn homestead, near a small village in the eastern part of New York State. Time of Playing : — Two hours and a half. COSTUMES AND CHARACTERISTICS Martin Winn. A well-to-do "gentleman farmer," of the substantial, fairly educated type. By no means should he be depicted as of the " Rube " variety. Fifty-five to sixty years old, well set, and of a good-natured and sympathetic disposition. He should be neatly dressed, with the air of a prosperous country gentleman. Leonard Everett. A plain but rugged and good-looking country young man, of intelligence and fair education. Wholesome, manly and likeable. He wears a neat but ordinary working suit in first and second acts ; in the third, ** dress up " clothes, neat and in good taste; fourth act, dark winter suit, with overcoat and cap for entrance. Harold Vincent. A handsome, cultured young man, with the manners of a city bred person. Affable, and by no means ** stuck up," but still showing that he has a good opinion of himself and feels somewhat above his surroundings, though not offensively so. In Act II, he wears a white flannel or tennis suit, with straw hat. In Act III, a light summer suit. He should be hand- somely dressed and well groomed, but is not " dudish." JosiAH Tizzard. a little old man, of the quaint humorous type, though not too much exaggerated. About sixty years old. Thin gray hair, chin whiskers, etc. In first two acts he wears a rather dilapidated pair of trousers, colored shirt and linen duster, with old straw hat, and carries a bundle of old umbrellas. Third act, best clothes, neater, but plain and cheap; paper or celluloid collar, gay necktie. Fourth act, cheap winter suit, with ulster, fur or cloth cap with ear-tabs, large tippet and heavy cloth mittens or knitted gloves. Ruth Winn. A pretty, attractive country girl with a gloss of boarding-school and city manners, though entirely without affectation. About eighteen or nineteen years of age. For Act I, a well-made traveling dress of good material, with hat. Act II, light summer cos- tume, with hat. Act III, handsome but not over elaborate summer evening gown. Act IV, plain house dress of dark material. COSTUMES Alma Wayne. About Ruth's age, but of a different type. She has more of elegance and a mild suggestion of aristocratic superiority, though not enough to be offen- sive. Of the rather gay, thoughtless coquettish type, but not a practiced flirt. In Act II, pretty, delicate summer costume or tennis suit, of the best material, with dainty hat. Act III, elegant summer evening gown, with flowers and possibly a few jewels. Just a bit over- dressed in this act, as if to ** show off," but still in good taste. Aunt Melissa. A lovable, sympathetic maiden lady of forty-five or thereabouts. Sweet, refined face, with hair plainly combed. She should under no circum- stances be depicted as a comic "old maid." Plain house dress in first two acts ; in Act III, neat dress of light material, with some adornment, but nothing out of good taste. Act IV, plain house dress. Mrs. Poplin. A quaint comedy character. About sixty years of age, peevish, fussy and inquisitive ; talks very fast. She is rather healthy in appearance, in spite of her constant rehearsals of her varied ailments, which plainly are of her own imagining. Act I, calico dress, with straw hat somewhat overtrimmed, parasol, etc. Act II, about the same. Act III, very gay costume of thin material, with ribbons, cheap jewelry, hair frizzed, etc. In this act she makes an attempt to play the ** grand lady," with comical results. Act IV, winter dress, with wraps and hood. Lindy Jane. Of the "Topsy" variety, twelve to fifteen years old, mischievous and full of fun. Acts I and II, short calico dress, white stockings, woolly wig. Act III, gay dress of cheap material, with short white apron, ribbons tied to pigtails. Act IV, similar to Act I. May be played '* white " if preferred, by dropping the negro dialect. PROPERTIES Vases and a quantity of roses. Good-sized bottle, tied up in white paper. Glass of water. Bundle of old um- brellas. Traveling bags, etc. Letter, stamped, sealed and addressed. Tennis racquets. Family photograph album, with pictures. Small package. Large spoon. Newspapers, one loose and another rolled up and ad- dressed. Wedding announcement in double envelopes, stamped, sealed and addressed. Work-basket. Salt and torn paper, for snow. Broom and dust-pan. Home Ties ACT I SCENE. — The sitting-room of a comfortable farmhouse, plainly but neatly furnished. There is a window, and also door in flat, both open, disclosing a glimpse of the yard, with trees, rose-bushes, and the fields be- yond. It is between five and six o'clock on an after- noon in June. Discover Lindy Jane with a large bunch of roses, which she is arranging in vases on mantel, or shelf, r. Sofa, L. ; table, with family pho- tograph album, etc., r. {As curtain rises. Aunt Melissa enters l. ; goes and looks out of door in flat, toward Vi., anxiously.') Aunt M. They're not in sight yet. Seems so they ought to be here by this time. It's after five o'clock, isn't it, Lindy Jane ? Lindy (without looking round, working with flowers'). Yass'm, 's aftah half-pas'. Ain' dem roses jes* scrump- tious ? Ah done picked 'n' picked. Aunt M. Yes, they're very pretty. But I don't see what keeps 'em. {Still looking off r.) Lindy. Watah. Ah al'ays gives 'em plenty o' watah. Aunt M. No, no ; I mean Martin, and Ruth. Just think, she's been gone over eight months — ever since the first of last September. Dear me, it seems eight years. I don't see 'em yet. Lindy. La sakes, Miss Aunt M'lissy, don't worry. Dey's a-comin' bime-by. Got t' give *em time t' drive way ovah from Harleyville. Mos* five miles. Aunt M. Land, Lindy Jane, it isn't more'n three. Be- sides, the train gets in at a quarter of five, and Oh, here comes Mrs. Poplin. I declare, I don't feel like listening to any of her tales of woe. HOME TIES LiNDY. Wondah what's got hold of 'er now. 'F one thing don' ail 'er, it's anothah. 'Tain't never nothin', with her. (^Stands back and looks at flowers , which she has finished.) Dar, now, dey's all fixed. Guess Miss Roof's bound t' notice 'em, ain' she? Guess she'll know Ah's glad too 't she gwine come back fr'm dat ar board 'em school. Aunt M. I'm going in the kitchen and see to that cake. You see if you can't get rid of Mrs. PopHn. And when you see them coming, you call me. (^Goes L.) LiNDY. Yass'm, Ah will. (^Exit Aunt M., l.) (LiNDY stands admiring flowers y then glances out of door or window to l., as she gathers up a few stray rose leaves and petals which have fallen about. After a slight pause y Mrs. Poplin drags herself in, pausing at door. She puts on a plaintive expression and appears to be nearly overcome.^ Mrs. p. Oh, you there, Lindy Jane ? Do give me a chair, please. Pm jest about tuckered out. Seemed so I never would git this far, I'm so weak ; but I jest had t' go down to the store 'n' git some o' that new medicine. (Lindy has placed rocking-chair l. c. ; Mrs. P. goes and sinks into it.) I feel sure it's jest what I need. Thank you, Lindy Jane. I wonder if you'd get me a drink o' water ; I do feel so weak. Lindy. Suah 'nough Ah will. Mis' Poplin. What ailin' y' now? Mrs. p. (half-weepitig). Oh, dear, Lindy Jane, I d' know, but it's somethin* terrible, I know it is. I do have sech awful spells. I'm afraid it's a tumor. I read an advertisement about this medicine {showing good-sized bottle, wrapped up, which she carries) and it described my sym'toms exactly. I could jest feel 'em, every one, as I read what it said. Yes, I'm afraid it's a tumor ; I'm almost sure it is. 'N' it'll carry me off, I know it will. I can't stand much more. Lindy. Land, but yo' don' look so turr'ble awful bad. Seems t' me mebbe yo' got th' 'maginin's. Mrs. p. The what? I never heard o' them. How do they affect you ? 8 HOME TIES LiNDY. Don* 'feet me nohow. Ah never had 'em. Ah mean, Ah reckon mebbe yo' ain't got things — yo' jes* 'maginin* 'em. Mrs. p. Oh, that's it ? Well, I guess I don't, anything of the sort. I'm sick, if anybuddy ever was. It's all I can do to keep up. I guess when I'm dead and in my grave ( Covers face with hand and snivels.') LiNDY {chuckling to herself ^ slyly). Lan', Mis' Poplin, Ah didn' mean nuffin. Guess Ah'd bettah git yo' dat watah. {Exit L., grinning.) {As soon as alone ^ Mrs. P. visibly brightens up, though still retaining her defected look ; glances curiously about y then resumes her former attitude as, after a pause, LiNDY reenters with a glass of water.) Mrs. p. Thanks, Lindy Jane. You'll have your reward in heaven. {Takes water and drinks two or three S7v allows.) Lindy. La, Ah d' want no rewahd. Watah ain' nuffin. Feel bettah now ? Mrs. p. {handing her the glass). Some, thank you, but I do have sech terrible sinking spells. {Resignedly.) Some day I'll pass away in one of 'em. But the Lord's will be done. [Rocks disconsolately a moment, then seems to forget herself.) Expectin' Ruth home t'-day, ain't they? Lindy. Yass'm. Mr. Winn's done druv over t' Harley- ville, whar de train comes in at, t' meet 'er. Mos' time dey's yuh, raight now. {Looks out of door to r.) 'Spect 'm ev' minute. Mrs. p. I s'pose Ruth' 11 be too big for her shoes when she gets back, bein' t' boardin' -school 'n' learnin' all them fancy branches they tell about. Been visitin' in New York, too, I hear. Lindy. She won't be no diff'unt, 's mah 'pinion. Ain't no stuck-up-ness 'bout Miss Roof, 's Ah ev' see. Mrs. p. Wal, of course, I ain't sayin' they is, but it don't take much t' spile young folks now-days, once they git notions. Time was when Ruth Winn was like 9 HOME TIES any country gal, 'n' was glad enough t* let Len Everett take her 'round, till folks thought they was go'n' t' make a match of it. But I guess she's lookin' higher, sence she's been t' New York and met a lot o' them, doods. LiNDY. Huh ! Doods. What's them ? Mrs. p. Dressed-up scarecrows, I call 'em, with store clothes on, 'n' smokin' cigarettes. Ever seen one ? LiNDY. Yass'm. Come from the city, don't they, 'n' board ? Mrs. p. That's them. In the summer time. LiNDY. Yass'm. But Ah don't cal'late Miss Roof's gwine have nuffin t' do with none o' dem. (^Enter Aunt M., L.) Does yo'. Miss Aunt M'lissy? Aunt M. What's that ? Oh, good-afternoon, Mis' Poplin. Mrs. p. Good -afternoon, Miss Winn. I jest stopped in on m' way home from the drug store after some new medicine. Aunt M. What's your affliction jest now ? LiNDY. Doods ! Aunt M. Land, what you talkin' about? I guess Mis* Poplin ain't takin' medicine f'r dudes. Lindy. No, 'm. Dem's what she say Miss Roof's been whar dey is, 'n' laks 'em. Mrs. p. I didn't say no sech thing. Don't you pay no 'tention t' her. Miss Winn. What I said was Aunt M. Lindy, you go 'n the kitchen and wash up those cake tins, and if you see them comin' you let me know. Lindy {mischievously ^ going l.). See the cake tins comin' ? Aunt M. No, of course not, you silly thing. Martin and Ruth. They ought to have been here long ago. Lindy {i^., giggling). He! he! Doods! Mrs. p. {rising). Wal, I must be gett'n' along. I had t' stop 'n' rest a few minutes, I'm that weak. That last medicine didn't do me a bit o' good. Aunt M. Let me see, that was for — what was it you had last week ? Mrs. p. Wal, I thought it was liver complaint, but it seems it wasn't. I was sure I had the symptoms it told about on the wrapper, but you never can tell. No, it was worse'n that. I've got a tumor. {Sinks into chair.) Aunt M. You don't say ! When did that come on you ? Mrs. p. Oh, I s'pose that's what's been ailin' me all along, lo H03IE TIES only I didn't know it. Mebbe I'd never 'a' really known, only I happened t' read an advertisement about this medicine {holding up bottle) and it jest described my sym'toms. I'm afraid I ain't long for this world. {Resignedly i with a deep sigh.') Wal, I hope they's peace in the next. Aunt M. 1 wouldn't give up yet a while. There's a lot a things you haven't had yet. Mrs. p. Oh, Miss Winn, don't make fun of me. It ain't no jokin' matter. I suffer somethin' terrible, 'n' you can't imagine how much it costs for medicine. This cost ninety-six cents. (Aunt M. has gone to door, is looking anxiously off to r.) So you're expectin' Ruth home, are y' ? Aunt M. Yes ; Martin drove over to Harley ville to meet her, and I'm expecting *em every minute. Just think, she's been gone the best part of a year. Mrs. p. Yes; I hear she's been visitin' in New York 'n' goin' to operys 'n' things. I s'pose she'll be terrible hifalutin when she gets back, 'n' won't hardly speak t' common folks. Aunt M. {turning to her). How can you talk that way, Mrs. Poplin? You know Ruth isn't that kind, and you've no call t' say such things. Ruth Winn' 11 never snub her old friends, no matter what comes to her. I hope she's been better brought up than that. Mrs. p. Land, I hope you ain't mad. Miss Winn, I didn't mean nothin'. Of course, I know you've been a mother to her, and an own mother couldn't 'a' done no better. I was jest a-thinkin', what with board'n'- school, 'n' New York s'ciety, 'n' all that Aunt M. You needn't have worried. I've had her ever since her mother died, when she wasn't a year old, and she don't know any difference. Mrs. p. Her mother died away, didn't she ? New York, wa'n't it? (Aunt M. turns again to the door ; doesn't answer.) Wal, I ain't tryin' t' pry int' things — that ain't me; but I never could understand why you al'ays made sech a mystery about it, if they wa'n't nothin' y' want t' hide. Everybuddy knew your brother went away from home 'n* got married, 'n' never was seen here agin till he come home a year or so after, sayin' his wife was dead 'n' bringin* the baby f 'r you t' bring II HOME TIES up. You never explained anything more, so of course — wal, folks kind o' wondered. {Partly rises.) Wal, I guess I'd better be goin'. I s'pose you'd ruther not have anybuddy here when Ruth comes. (Sinks back into chair, ) Oh, dear, dear me ! I do feel that weak, I d' know's you'll be bothered with me much longer, Miss Winn. I may never be able t' git this fur from home agin, till I'm carried to m' grave. Aunt M. I guess I wouldn't talk that way. You've lived through a good many things, 'n' I guess you'll live through a good many more. {Looks off to l.) Here comes a friend of yours — an admirer, I might say. Mrs. p. Who is it ? Aunt M. Mr. Tizzard. Mrs. p. Josiah Tizzard ? F'r the land sake, seems so I can't get anywhere I don't meet that man. He tags me around somethin' scandalous. Aunt M. Does he? I s'pose the best way to get rid of him would be to marry him and done with it. Mrs. p. Miss Winn — how you talk ! I don't flatter m'self it's me he's after. He didn't seem quite s' anxious till the gov'ment give me that pension of twenty-four dol- lars a month, 'n' six hunderd back. Aunt M. Well, you know rich widows like you ain't so plenty, and besides, I don't know but that Josiah's quite a match. Mrs. p. What — him ? Nothin' but an umbrella mender ? Huh! Aunt M. Seems to me, between your money and his um- brellas, you'd be sure to have something laid by for a rainy day. (Aunt M. has crossed down to l. c; Mrs. P. does not re- ply^ but gives a sniff of disdain. All of a sudden Josiah Tizzard pokes his head in door or window.^ Josiah. Umbrellas t' mend ? Aunt M. No, Mr. Tizzard, not t'-day. But won't you come in ? Josiah. No, thanks — can't. Got t' jog along. {Sees Mrs. p. for the first time.) Wal — I d' know, mebbe I will. Mrs. p. {grunting scornfully). H'm ! — the idee. 12 HOME TIES Aunt M. Yes, do. (JPlaces a chair r. c.) {Enter Josiah, d. f., frojn l., pausing up c.) JosiAH {as Aunt M. motions to chair'). Thanks, guess I will. {To Mrs. P.) How d' do, Mari' ? (Mrs. P. glares at him savagely^ then turns her head away.) How y' feelin' ? Aunt M. She says she isn't very well. She's got "symp- toms." Josiah. That so, Mari' ? What kind ? I was readin' 'bout some new ones; was comin' over. Thought you might like t' try 'em. Mrs. p. {rising). You c'n set there makin' fun of me, 'f you want t', but it won't do you no good. I sh'd think anybuddy 's bad off as I be deserved pity, 'nstid o' bein' made fun of. You needn't bother y'rself about comin' t' see me, Josiah Tizzard, n'r callin' me by m* first name, nether. That's reserved f 'r them closer t' me 'n you be. {Up c.) Josiah {risings going toward her). I'll git closer, 'f y* say so. Mrs. p. {drawing away). I guess you needn't. When I want y', I'll ask y'. Josiah. 'S that so? Wal, now, I thought the men was 'xpected t' do the pr'posin'. But anyway, so't'sdone. (Aunt M. is up c, looking off ; Mrs. P. and ]osiab, l. c. At this point, Aunt M. becomes excited.) Aunt M. Here they come! They're comin'! {Calls off L.) Lindy — Lindy Jane, here they come ! (Aunt M. rushes off to R.; Lindy runs in l. and follows her, without looking at Mrs. P. or Josiah.) Josiah. What is it? Who's come? Mrs. p. Land, sech a fuss, you might think it was the queen. It's Ruth Winn, back fr'm board'n' -school, 'n' visitin' in New York. {^They go up and look off ; she stands in door, Josiah is close to her and lets his arm gradually steal about her waist. She does not appear to notice.) Josiah. Oh ! Ruth, is it ? Home again ? 13 H03IE TIES Mrs. p. Yes. There she is — see her ? — wavin' her hand. Land, look at that hat. JosiAH. Stylish lookin', ain't she? Mrs. p. Huh ! Fussed up, I call it. Don't look much like a farmer's daughter. {Notices his arniy gets away from hifn.) Josiah Tizzard, what you doin' ? How dast you ? Josiah. Thought I'd embrace the opp'rtunity. Mrs. P. Oh, I'm an opp'rtunity, be I? 'N' you don't b'lieve in wastin' any, do y' ? Josiah. Waistin' one then, wasn't I? (Chuckles.) Eh? Mrs. p. Oh, — h'm ! — think you're smart, don't y' ? {Looks off.') Now, f'r goodness sake, b'have y'self, 'f y' know how. Here they come. I s'pose she'll be 's stuck-up 's ever was. Josiah. Think so? Oh, I d' know. Never seemed t' me Ruth Winn was that kind o* gal. (Again sidling up to her.) Mrs. p. Wal, y' never can tell. {Notices him and gives him a push.) Josiah Tizzard, you behave y'rself. Ain't you got no sense? {He tuffibles over, against chair or table. She disdains him, going to c. d. There is a sound of greetings, laughter, etc., offR. After a slight pause Ruth Winn ejiters c. d. from r., ivith Aunt M., who has an arm about her. They are animated. Lindy follows, with hand-bag, uinbrella, etc.) Ruth. Home again — oh^ to think of it, I'm home again — where you are. Auntie, dear, and with father — yes, and you too, Lindy Jane. I'm so glad to see you all, I don't know how to act. {Sees Mrs. P.) Oh, and there's Mrs. Poplin, too ! {Goes and shakes hands with Mrs. P., cordially.) How are you, Mrs. Poplin? Well, I hope? And Mr. Tizzard ! {Shakes hands with him.) Mrs. p. No, Ruth, I don't think it'll ever fall to my lot t' be well agin. I'm very poorly Ruth. I'm so sorry. I remember when I went away you thought you had — m'm — let me see — was it pleurisy? 14 HOME Tins Mrs. p. I don't quite remember, but I think I did have the sym'toms Aunt M. Mis' Poplin always has symptoms, Ruth. My, but you're looking well. Ruth. Of course I am. And now that I am back in this pure country air — why, I shall eat you out of house and home. You'd better replenish the larder, Lindy Jane. Lindy Cl.). Yass'm, Missy Roof, we's got plenty o' lard. Ruth (who is looking about, now goes up and sees the roses y smelling theni). Oh, what a lot of beautiful roses — giving me such a sweet welcome. Auntie, dear, did you fix them ? Aunt M. No, it was Lindy Jane. Ruth. Lindy, you're a dear. They are just beautiful, and so prettily arranged. Lindy {immefisely pleased). La, Missy, do y' t'ink so? He ! he ! (Exit l., chuckling gleefully.') (Mrs. p. has reseated herself l. c. Aunt M. is r.; Ruth looking at roses.) Mrs. p. I s'pose you've been havin' a grand time, what with your learnin' s' much, 'n' goin' to all them op'rys and things ? I heard you was visitin' in New York. RtJTH {still up stage). Oh, yes; I was there nearly three weeks, and had the best time. But I'm glad to get home, for all that. *' I love the dear old farm," as the song says. JosiAH. Met lots of fine folks, I dare say. Probably got a new beau. Ruth. Oh, Mr. Tizzard ! Aunt M. I guess she's been too busy to think about beaux, and got too much sense. (Ruth, showing some confusion, turns to R. Mrs. P. has again risen and gone to c. J osiau follows her.) Mrs. p. Land, Josiah Tizzard, seems t' me your mind don't run t' nothin' but love makin'. (Ife makes a motion to take her arm ; she jerks away from him.) B'have y'rself. Wal, I really must be goin'. I didn't mean t' stay s* long, only I felt that weak I had t' have a rest. (Goes up, followed by Josiah.) Good-bye, 15 HOME TIES Ruth. I hope you'll come over 'n' see me — soon — 'cause if y' wait very long I may not be there. Ruth {turning to her). Why, Mrs. Poplin, are you going away? Mrs. p. Wal, they's no tellin'. {DoUfully.) I may take a long journey. Aunt M. Where you think you're goin' ? Mrs. p. {folding her hands and rolling up her eyes, sol- emnly'). I hope I've lived so it'll be to a better land, where they ain't no sorrow 'r sickness. JosiAH. Not even sym'toms? (Mrs. p. gives him a withering look ; Aunt M. smiles to her self y turning away ; Ruth pretends to take it all seriously.) Ruth. Why, Mrs. Poplin, I hope it isn't as bad as that? Mrs. p. Wal, y' never can tell, but my sym'toms are ter- rible bad. {Going.) Good-day, Miss Winn. You come over too, when y' git time. Aunt M. Thanks, Mis' Poplin, I will. JosiAH {having taken his hat and ufnbrellas, sticks close to Mrs. p.). I'm a-goin' right your way, Mari'. Mrs. p. {drawing back, looking at him with disdain over her shoulder, as she goes to d. f.). Oh, you be? Wal, y' needn't put y'rself out. H'm ! {She tosses her head, marches off to r., ignoring him. He follows, looking back with a sly wink at Aunt M., jerkifig his head sideways toward Mrs. P., as he fol- lows her. Ruth goes up and looks after them, laugh- ing; Aunt M. is l. c.) Ruth. Aren't they funny? Do you think she will ever have him ? Aunt M. Wouldn't be surprised. I take it he's one of the " symptoms " that she can't get rid of. Ruth {coming down). Poor Mrs. Poplin, with her " symp- toms." Aunt M. Well, I'm glad they're gone. Now maybe we can get a chance to talk a little ourselves. Come and sit down, Ruthie dear, and let me have a good look at you. {She sits on sofa, Ruth beside her J) Yes, you are my own little girl still {looking in her face search- i6 HOME TIES tng/y), the same — and yet, seems to me — isn't there something in your eyes that wasn't there before? I don't know just what — only Ruth {laughing^ a bit uneasily). Why, Aunt Melissa, what do you mean ? I don't see how they could be any different — only happier, perhaps, after such a winter, and — ^getting home again — and Aunt M. M'm — no, it isn't only that. Ruthie, dear, haven't I been the same as a mother to you ? Ruth. Why, of course you have, you dear, sweet soul ; no girl ever had a better mother than you have been to me. Aunt M. Then tell me all a girl would tell her mother. Don't you think you ought to do that ? Ruth. Of course, and I — I always have, and — will — only, I just got here, and there has not been much oppor- tunity, you know. I have so much to tell that I don't know where to begin. Aunt M. {risings going to mantel aiid getting letter). This came for you, dear, to-day. Ruth {taking letter^ with a sudden flash of joy ^ which she cannot conceal). Oh! Thank you. Aunt M. You never used to get such letters, Ruthie — in a man's handwriting, too. And from New York. Ruth {looking at letter). N-no, of course not; I hadn't been away, then, and made new friends, and {Suddenly very serious, goes to Aunt yi.^ putting her arms about her.) Auntie, you don't think I have done anything wrong, do you — or that I could ? Aunt M. No, of course I don't, but I don't want you t' get too high notions, dear, and so wrapped up in city folks and their ways that you can't be contented here any more. If you do, I'll be sorry we ever let you go away and have what they call "advantages." But there, we won't talk about it now. You just got home, and, as Mis' Poplin says, *' don't hail trouble when we see it going by and ask it to stop in." {Goes up c.) Ruth {putting letter back in envelope). But you frighten me. Trouble — as if I — oh. Auntie, tell me — do you really think I could change like that, or ? Aunt M. Goodness me, no; I'm so excited, with your coming back, and all, that I don't know what I say. {Looks off.) Here comes your father. I must go out and see if Lindy Jane hasn't most got supper ready. 17 HOME TIES (Aunt M. goes l. Ruth goes to d. f., meets Martin Winn, who enters from r.) Martin {taking Ruth in his arms). Here we are — my little girl and I, home again, and I feel — I feel as if I could never let her go away again, now I've got her back. Ruth. Now, you dear old daddy, don't you begin to think about anything like that. Why, I've just got home, and — and I'm not going away again for a long, long time. {She drops the letter. Martin picks it up.) Martin {glancing at letter). My, getting letters already — from New York, too. Who's it from? Ruth. Why, from — a friend of mine. Martin. In New York ? Ruth. Yes. Martin. Thought you just left there ? Seems so they're mighty quick about writing to you. Didn't waste any time. Found it waiting here, didn't you? Ruth. Why, yes, father, he {Pauses, confused.) Martin. Oh, it's a *' he " ! Who is it ? Ruth. Mr. Vincent, father. I'm sure you'd like him. Martin. How long have you known him ? Ruth. Why, I met him first last December when I went home with Alma Wayne for the Christmas holidays. She's my roommate, you know, and she knows him. He's a gentleman, father — and so handsome, and pol- ished. I am sure you will like him. Martin. Oh, I will? Then I'm likely to see him? Ruth. Some time, perhaps. Oh, father, he is so hand- some, and so refined, and — I — I Martin. Look here, little one, do you mean you're in love? Ruth. Oh, father ! Martin. This is no time to hide things, little girl. The world is big, and there's all sorts o' people in it. You've been out into it; not far, nor to see much, — but I take it two weeks in New York is equal to a life- time in a place like this, when it comes to finding out what the world's like, and what kind of folks there is i8 H03IE TIES in it. I'm afraid — I'm afraid my little girl has begun to find out. Ruth. Why, father, how you talk ! I'm sure it was a great advantage to spend two or three weeks in New York, to see and hear so much, and to meet such peo- ple. Alma Wayne's father is rich, and they have ele- gant friends. Martin. Elegant friends are not always the best nor the safest for a little girl from the country to know. ( Takes hold of her shoulders gently, and turns her to him, look- ing into her face.') Ruth, tell me — tell your old daddy — did that man make love to you ? {She drops her eyes, blushing.) And you let him — you told him {Pauses, hut looks straight at her, lifting her face to his, and waiting for an answer.) Ruth. Yes — yes, I told him I love him, for I do — I do ! Oh, father, how could I help it ? He is so grand, so noble. I know he is, father, I know it, and — he — he is coming here soon — to see me — to see you, and {Buries her face against his arm, weeping.) Martin. There, there, little one, don't let's feel this way about it. I'm sorry, because I — I know — I know what comes from things like this, and I hadn't ought to let you go away, but I wanted you to be educated and I hoped — oh, well, we won't worry. I'll see him, and maybe — maybe — it'll come out all right. Ruth {looking up, hopefully). Yes, yes, father, it will ; I know it will. When you see him, and know him, I am sure you will have no more fear. Martin. All right. Now you run along and get fixed up a little for supper, because it's 'most ready, and — I 'most f'rgot, there's somebuddy out there waiting to see you. Ruth {she has started r., now pauses, turning). To see me ? Who ? Martin. Why, an old friend of yours — Len Everett. Ruth. Leonard Everett — oh, yes — Len. {Goes up to c.) Is he out there — waiting all this time? Why didn't you bring him in ? Martin. He wouldn't come. Bashful, I guess. Said for 19 HOME TIES me to find out, and I'm blessed if I didn't forget. Bet he's chafing Hke an old horse in fly time. Ruth. Well, 1 don't wonder. You call him in, while I go and tidy up, and tell him I'll be right down. I shall be very glad to see Len again, (r.) Martin {looking out c, the?i at her, speaking Just as she is about to exit r.). Ruth. Ruth (turnings in door). Yes, father. Martin. What — about — him ? Ruth. About — him ? Leonard Everett ? Martin. Yes — Leonard Everett. Do you think it'll be treating him just right ? You know, before you went away — well, it was sort of understood Ruth {coming part way back to c). I — I know. But there was nothing definite — nothing ever said that should make him think he had a claim on me. Martin. He thinks he has. He's built a new house — he's planned, and thought — I'm afraid it's going to go pretty hard with Len. Ruth. Oh, I'm so sorry. I like him — I — but I couldn't have Len ; I don't love him, not that way, and I never told him so. He has no right to think I am treating him badly. {She exits hurriedly y r. Martin looks after her, shaking his head sadly ; goes and looks off to r., beckoning with his hand, Just as Aunt M. enters l.) Aunt M. Land sakes, Martin, are you never coming to supper? It's been ready for ten or fifteen minutes. Where's Ruth ? Martin {without looking around). Gone to tidy up a bit. {Motions off.) Aunt M. Who you motioning to ? Martin. Len Everett. He's waiting to come in. But she says she don't want to see him. Melissy, we made a mistake. It's all happened, just as we might have known it would. It's got into her brain, just as it did her mother's. Aunt M. Oh, Martin ! No ! Martin. Yes, it has. She's seen it — the city — the great, gay city, with its lights and its consuming fires. There it is — waiting — calling — ready to dazzle their eyes and turn their brains, and lure them on to destruction. It HOME TIES wants our sons, our daughters, our little ones — to de- vour — the way a wolf wants a lamb to devour it ! Aunt M. Oh, Martin — don't talk that way — don't ! It hasn't got our Ruth. She's safe. We've got her back here with us, now, and we'll keep her. She's safe here — with us — Martin. We'll keep her, we won't let her go away again, and she'll forget. She'll forget, Martin, in a little while. Martin. Her mother didn't forget. They won't let her. They'll come here and take her away. He's coming — she said so. Oh, why didn't I keep her here, and not let her go away ? I might have known — I might have known ! (He sinks into chair by tahky sadly. Leonard Everett appears in c. d.) Aunt M. Here's Len, Martin — Leonard Everett. Come in, Len. Len. {coming part way down c). Thanks, Miss Winn. I saw you wave to me, Mr. Winn, so I came along. I — I thought Ruth was here. {Looks around.') Martin {without turning, his chin resting 07i hand, arm on table). She was, a minute ago. She went up-stairs. Aunt M. Set down, Len. She'll be right down, I guess. We're just going to have supper, and I want you to stay and eat with us. (l.) Len. Oh, no, thank you. Miss Winn; I'll come over again. I just wanted to see Ruth a few minutes, and welcome her home. I won't stay this time. lAisDY {putting head if I h.). Suppah's ready. {Disappears.) Aunt M. Pshaw ! I guess you will. I'm going to put on another plate. {Exit, L.) Martin (rising). Sit down, Len. You might's well stay. Len. Well, you see, I'm afraid it would seem like intrud- ing. I don't think you want strangers when you have a family reunion. Martin. I guess you're not a stranger, Len — here. Len. No, of course not — that way. But — well, what about Ruth? Do you think she'd want me? You sec, Mr. Winn, I've got a kind of a — well, a queer feeling — as 21 HOME TIES if maybe Ruth won't feel toward me the same as she used to. She only wrote to me two or three times all last winter, and the last letter, soon after Christmas, wasn't just the kind a fellow expects from the girl he — to tell the truth, I've felt ever since as if I was going to lose the one thing in all this world I want most. Am I, Mr. Winn — am I ? Martin. That's for you to find out, Len. What you want most in all the world is worth fighting for, seems to me, and as long's there's a fighting chance, I wouldn't give her up, boy. Len. Then you think ( Takes his hat from chair, goes up.) I see. You don't need to tell me. She's met somebody else. Well, what else could I expect ? It was only natural. (In c. d., not noticing Ruth, who appears r., and stands looking at hitn.') Tell her I was asking for her, that I (^Sees Ruth.) Oh ! I {Turns y about to go out. ) Ruth {entering, going up to c). Len — why, Len — aren't you going to speak to me ? (He pauses, turns, looking at her. She holds out her hand.) Aren't you glad to see me ? Len. Why, of course I am. {Takes her hand, shakes it warmly.) Glad ? I should say so. It's like seeing the sun come out again, after days of darkness. Ruth {He forgets himself, bends toivard her. She draws away from him, kindly, but in a way that he under- stands. He straightens up.) Oh, excuse me, 1 — I must be going now. Martin. You'd better stay to supper, Len. Ruth. Why, yes, Len, of course — stay. Len. I — I don't think I can, very well, I (Martin quietly exits, l.) Ruth. Wouldn't you stay to please me ? Len. If I thought it would — yes, of course. Do you really want me to? Ruth. Why, of course I do. We are old friends, Len, and I'm very glad to see you again. I've been gone a long time. Len. a long time? It's been ages to me. I've counted the weeks, the days, almost the minutes, till it was time 22 HOME TIES for you to come home, and now — well, it isn't much as I expected it was going to be. Ruth. I don't know what you expected, Len, but if — if it was more than — than the best of friendship, I'm — I'm sorry — but you had no right to expect more than that. Len. No right, Ruth ? You tell me that, after all the years I've thought something else, and you've let me? Why, ever since I was a little boy, and you was a tiny bit of a girl, I've thought of you, and never of any other girl. It was always you, when we walked to school together and I carried your books and your dinner pail ; it was you when we began to go to parties, and you always let me take you home — or from church — and seemed glad to have me. Didn't I talk about the time you would be my wife, and Ruth. Len — no ! — it never came to that Len. And when I began to earn money, and save all I could, it was for you. Then I grew up, and got along, and saved more, and got enough to build a house — a home — and last fall as soon as you went away, I began to build it, to surprise you, and now it's done, and — and you — oh, Ruth, you don't mean it ! You don't mean that you won't have me — that you have found somebody else away off there where you have been — in the city — that you don't love me — and won't (^He pauses, looking at her pleadi7igly ; she stands with drooping head. There is a slight pause, as he waits for an answer, thefi holds out his arms, as if about to take her into them. She draws away, gently, but mea?tingly, looking up at him, with a sad, wistful face.') Ruth. Oh, Len, I am so sorry if — if you have misunder- stood — if you think I ever meant anything more than friendship. I like you — I always have, and always will, as one of the best friends I ever had — as a brother — but — oh, Len, I'm sorry you feel so about it, but it can't — it can't be — anything more. Len. You mean, Ruth ? You mean Ruth. Yes, Len. {She bows her head, he looks at her a moment, as if scarcely 23 HOME TIES comprehending the truth of her words y then, with an expression^ 7iot of anger ^ but of sadness and resigna- iionj turns and goes slowly off to L., without looking back. Ruth starts, as if to call him back, but pauses, and after looking after him, in a dejected manner, brightens, takes letter fro?n her pocket, opefts it, reads a moment, flushed with happiness, then, rapturously kissing the signature, goes slowly toward L., as the curtain falls.) CURTAIN 24 ACT II SCENE. — Same as Act /, the middle of an afternoon one month later. Alma Wayne, wearing a handsome stwtmer costume^ with haty is discovered seated on the arm of a chair y L. c, smilingly regarding Harold Vincent, whoy in a jaunty tennis or outing suit, with straw hat in one hand and tennis racquet in the other y stands c. Alma. Yes, I certainly am puzzled this time, Harold Vin- cent. As a rule, I can read you like an open book, but I must admit I don't see why you are hanging around here. What's your little game this time? Harold. Game? I don't know what you mean. There's no ''game " about it. Aren't you here? I might ask what your game is. Alma. Why, I'm here visiting Ruth Winn. She asked me to come for a couple of weeks or so, and I thought I'd see what real '* rural felicity " is like. And lo and behold, when I arrive, here you are, Johnny-on-the- spot. If I didn't know better, and you hadn't arrived first, I might think you were following me. As it is, well, there's but one conclusion — it's the little country maid. Have I struck it? Harold. Of course you have, and you know it. You knew last winter, at your house, that I was in love with her. I told you so. Alma. Oh, fudge! I've seen you "in love," as you call it, with too many. It was I, once. You have the most elastic heart I ever saw. Harold {throwing hat on table or chair'). See here. Alma, I don't want you to interfere. If you go and spoil it, I'll never forgive you. I know, I've had fancies for plenty of girls, gay city flirts who were no more serious than I was, but Ruth Winn isn't that kind. She has made me realize what real love is. I think I have a chance, and I mean to win Alma. Win Winn ? 25 E03IE TIES Harold {takifig his haty and starting to go out c). You may joke all you please, but I'm in earnest. Alma. All right. Then I'll help you — or at least, I won't hinder you, if you mean the right thing. But your past record with girls is none too much in your favor, and when it comes to a sweet, innocent, unsuspecting young thing like Ruth Winn — well, none of your chorus girl tactics with her, that's all. Harold {laughing lightly'). I don't know as you are just the one to set yourself up as a model of constancy. I've known you to flirt, and — what about that stalwart village swain, Mr. Everett? I've seen you casting a few alluring smiles in his direction, the last day or so. Alma. Poor fellow, he needs them. And while you're talking about him, let me tell you something. If you aren't mighty careful, you'll have him to reckon with. Harold. Oh, — him ! Alma. Yes — him ! Be careful, that's all, and remember — << a word to the wise " {He is in d. f., she l. c. Enter Lindy, l.) Lindy. Oh, 'scuse me. {Regarding Alma with great ad- miration.) Ah was look'n' fo' Miss Aunt M'lissy, 'n* didn' know yo'-all was yuh. Alma. I think she went to the village. ( With mock po- liteness.) This is Mr. Vincent, Miss Lindy Jane. Harold {smiling condescendingly). How do you do. Miss Lindy Jane ? Glad to meet you. Lindy. Is y' ? Thanks. {To Alma.) Reckon 'e's one o' dem what dey calls '^doods," ain't 'e? Alma {laughing). I reckon he is. Eh, Harold ? (Harold is at first inclined to show anger , hut smiles^ then laughs good-?iaturedly and goes out to L. Lindy goes tip and looks after him, admiringly.) Lindy. Yass'm, he sutt'n'ly am scrumptious-lookin'. Don't wondah Miss Roof laks 'im. Alma. Do you think she does, Lindy Jane? LiNDV. T'ink? Ah knows it. She's all et up wiv um. Jcb' can't t'ink o* nuftin 'r nobuddy else. Don* won- 26 HOME TIES dah. Yo' 'n' him sutt'nly do look lak yo' was raight out o' one o' dem fashion books. Alma. Oh, Lindy ! LiNDY {looking her over). Wal, yo* does, suah 'nough. Jes' look at dem fixin's. Ah could stan' yuh 'n' nevah take mah eyes off yo' fo* a week. Alma. Thank you, Lindy, but I'm afraid that would hardly do. Miss Winn might send me home as a nuisance, if I interfered with your duties in that way. (^Glances off c.) There's somebody at the door, Lindy. Lindy {looking). Yass'm, dat's Mis' Poplin. Reckon she's got some mo' sym't'ms t' tell about. {Goes to D. F. and admits Mrs. P., who, as she sees Alma, at first brightens up with curiosity and admira- tion, then puts on a doleful look and sinks into the chair f r. c, which Lindy offers her.) Alma. Good-afternoon, Mrs. Poplin. How are you feel- ing to-day ? Mrs. p. Very poorly, thank you, miss. {Puts hand on left side.) I've got sech a pain here. I'm afeared it's go'n' t' turn out t' be appendiceetus. I'm sure I've got the sym'toms. Alma. Oh, I hope not. I hardly think it's that, for ap- pendicitis comes on the right side. Mrs. p. {a bit nonplussed, but not to be caught, changing hands to other side). M'm — yes, of course, I know it does. It extends over. I felt it first on the left, 'n' now it's gone over to the right. Oh, I'm sure it's the sym'toms. I read 'em all up. Lindy. Ah bet it is. Mis' Poplin she knows 'em all — dem sym't'ms. Alma. It doesn't seem to me you ought to be ouf, if you are coming down with appendicitis. It's very serious, you know, and you may have to have an operation. Mrs. p. Oh, good land, don't say that ; it would surely be the end of me. I d' know, though, but it would be jest 's well. Ain't much good o' livin' al'ays sick, 's I be, 'n' I guess it's jest 's well t' go sudd'n. {Rises feebly.) Where's Miss Winn, Lindy? I come overt' see 'f I could borrow her hot water bottle. Lindy. She's went to de sto', but Ah guess she be back 27 HOME TIES soon. Yo' come out 'n d' kitchen 'n' Ah'll see 'f Ah can't find it. (^Goes l.) Mrs. p. (^following slowly). Thanks, Lindy Jane, I will. (^Exit Lindy, l. Mrs. P. pauses l., turns and looks at Alma, who has gone up to d. f.) Visitin' Ruth, ain't y' ? Alma. Yes. Mrs. p. I heard she had stylish friends in the city. You're the one she staid with in New York, ain't y' ? Alma. Yes, she visited me a week at Christmas time, and again in May, after we left school. I am very fond of Ruth. She's a lovely girl. Mrs. p. I guess you ain't the only one 't thinks so. That Mr. Vincent seems t' be shinin' up to her consid'able. Poor Len Everett's had t* take a back seat. I never say much about other folks' affairs — it ain't me — but I can't help sayin' this much, that I don't think Ruth Winn's treat'n' Len Everett exactly right, shakin' him f r that city feller what's puttin' on sech style, boardin' at the hotel 'n' all — after they'd be'n as good 's en- gaged f'r years — 'r at least lett'n* folks around here take it f'r granted they would be. But that comes fr'm goin' to the city 'n' seein' style, 'n' gitt'n' notions. Of course, it ain't none o' my business, 'n' it ain't me t' interfere, but I should think, after the way her mother Alma. Ruth's mother? Mrs. p. Yes. They say she was a city girl — 't any rate, he went away 'n' married her, 'n' nobuddy around here knows who she was, 'r anything about her. Of course, I ain't sayin' they was anything wrong, but folks always thought Josiah {suddenly thrusting head in door or window). Um- brellas t' mend ? (Alma starts ; Mrs. Y. jumps, pretending to be faint.) Mrs. p. Goodness — oh ! — mercy sakes alive {Sees JosiAH.) Oh, it's you, is it, Josiah Tizzard? I might 'a' knowed. You give me sech a start, I de- clare, I'm that faint (Sinks into chair.) Alma {going to her). Shall I call somebody? Mrs. p. {recovering). No, thanks ; it ain't nothin' much, 28 EOBIE TIES only y* see, I'm that weak. I think my heart's affected JosiAH {who has efitered, now coming down to L. c). Hope it's love, Mrs. p. What's that ? Love ? H'm ! I guess if it is, it ain't f'r you. Land, Josiah Tizzard, ain't you never go'n' t* give me a minute's peace? {To Alma.) He jest tags me up the hull time. Alma. Is he one of your ** symptoms '* Mrs. p. Huh ! guess he is. D' know but he'll be the death o' me, too. (Rises.) Ain't no operation 's I know of that'll cure me o' him. (l.) Alma. Oh, yes, there is. Mrs. p. I'd like t' know what. I'd try it. Alma. Why — marriage. Mrs. p. Ma — o-o-h, — h'm ! Wal, I guess (Tosses her heady with a disdainful look at Josiah, and exits y L.) Josiah. Good f'r you, miss. That's what I b'en a-gitt'n' at f'r the last five years ; but she won't listen t' me. Alma. So you're courting her, are you? Josiah. Hev b'en f'r a long time. Don't seem t' make much headway, though. Widders are stubb'rn critters. Alma. Well, there's nothing like patience, and I think you'll win in the end. Josiah. Do y', miss? Alma. Yes, I do. I see the "symptoms." Josiah. Glad y' do. If you could make out marryin* me was a disease, I cal'late she'd have me. Wal, I must jog along. {Up c.) Ain't got no umbrellas y' want mended, hev y' ? Alma. No, not just at present, thank you ; but if I should have, I'll let you know. Josiah {in d. f.). Thanks. Guarantee a fust-class job. 'M goin* t' the village f'r a spell. Stop on m' way back 'n' see 'f Miss Winn's got any work t' be done. Good-day, miss. Much erbleeged. {Exit to L. Alma stands looking after hiniy smiling?) (Enter Ruth, r.) Ruth. Hello, Alma. Waiting for me ? 29 HOME TIES Alma {turning). Yes, and I began to think you never were coming. But I have been sufficiently amused. Mr. Tizzard has been here, and his inamorata, Mrs. Poplin. Ruth. Then you couldn't have lacked for entertainment. I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, but I was bathing my head. I have been having a terrible headache. Alma. I don't wonder. I should think a girl with two such ardent suitors would have a headache. Ruth. Alma ! Alma. Well, it's true. That Mr. Everett really seems to be in desperate straits, and as for Harold Vincent — well, I declare, he out-Romeos Romeo. Ruth. Was he here ? Alma. Here ? Of course he was here, and dying to see you, as usual. Do you — excuse me, dear, but you know I mean well, even if I do seem to meddle. May I say something ? {They are down c, or sitting on sofa^ l.) Ruth. Why, of course you may, Alma. Didn't we prom- ise to confide in each other, and have no secrets ? Alma. Ah, yes, but that was before love entered into the game. It's Harold Vincent I want to know about, Ruth. Do you love him ? Ruth. Love him ? You know I do, love him with all my heart. You knew it last winter, when I first met him. 1 loved him then — at first sight — I love him now, more than ever — more and more ! Alma. Goodness, and you out- Juliet Juliet. It is serious, indeed. Has he — m'm — asked you to Ruth. N-no. Alma. But if he does, you mean to say Ruth. ''Yes." Alma. Then may you be happy. But I had hoped that — well, that it would be different. Ruth. You think I am not good enough for him — that I am beneath him. Alma. No — oh, no, not that. Quite to the contrary, I — but, there, I'm getting to be a regular mischief-maker, and I'd better mind my own business. If your head is better, let's go out and have a game of tennis. Romeo is out there, on nettles because his Juliet doesn't appear, so let us hie ourselves hither and end his suspense. 30 HOME TIES Ruth {stniling). If you will stop your nonsense, and not say such things where anybody can hear you. Alma. All right ; I promise. {UpinD.Y.) Come along. Ruth. But I'll have to run up-stairs and get my hat. The sun is very bright, (r.) Alma. Well, we'll be out there waiting for you. (^Exil Ruth, r. Alma, about to go out, 7?ieets Aunt M., who enters C. d. from l., looking somewhat more seri- ous than usual.) Aunt M. Oh, good- afternoon. Miss Wayne. Ruth here? Alma. She just went up after her hat. We are going to have a game of tennis. Aunt M. Well, before she comes down, I want to ask you something. I s'pose it'll seem like meddlin', but you know I brought her up, and have been like a mother to her. Alma. Yes, Miss Winn. (Harold heard laughing, off.) Aunt M. Well, I'm worried about that city fellow. Is he — do you think he means anything by coming here ? Alma. Yes. I think he means to win Ruth, if possible. Aunt M. And you think it is — that she Alma. I think she cares for him. Aunt M. Thinks she does. But I tell you what, I believe it's Len Everett she really loves, after all. Alma. Miss Winn ! Aunt M. {looking r.). I may be crazy, but for an old maid I think I've got a pretty good idea of such things. That Mr. Vincent is good-looking, and all that, but I don't believe he's steady. It's only natural, seems to me, that he'd get tired of any girl, after a while, and — well, it'd kill me if Ruth's heart was broken, too, like her — but there, I'm rattling on, and to almost a perfect stranger. Only I thought — it kind of occurred to me, that, being a city girl and all, you might not object to being kind of extra nice to — to Len Everett, you see — as if you — well, was kind of taken with him, and maybe — there, I guess you think I'm pretty bold. Alma {at first puzzled, then afnused, finally struck by the brightness of the idea). Oh — why — Miss Winn, I — 31 HOME TIES candidly, I don't think I'd mind flirting a little bit, and — well, the fact is, it would be worth while to make an impression on Mr. Everett, and in such a good cause, too. I'll — yes, I'll do it. That is, — try ! Aunt M. Good. Of course, you may find Len Everett kind of offish just at first, he's that cut up about Ruth, but he's more than flesh and blood if he can help brightening up a bit when you give him a few smiles. Alma. Dear me, I'm afraid you think me a sad coquette. Aunt M. {smiling). M'm — well, I don't know about the "sad" part. Alma. Oh, Miss Winn, how unkind. What have I done Aunt M. Nothing, my dear, I was just trying to tease you. All I meant was, I don't see how any man could resist you, once you went to work — but there, I guess I'm making it worse. I hope you're not offended. Alma. Mercy, no ; you have paid me quite a compliment. But I'll tell you what, I think you might follow my lead with good results. Aunt M. Me? I don't see what you mean by that. What could I do? Alma. Oh,— flirt ! Aunt M. What — me ? For goodness' sake, who with ? Alma. Mr. Tizzard. Aunt M. Josiah Tizzard ? Are you crazy ? What for ? Alma. For the same reason you want me to smile on Mr. Everett, to make somebody jealous and help Mr. Cupid along. Aunt M. Cupid ? Well, of all things ! Make who jeal- ous? Alma. Mrs. Poplin. Don't you understand? Make her think you favor Mr. Tizzard, and see if she doesn't make up her mind she wants him, as soon as she thinks you are trying to cut her out. Aunt M. Me ? — cut out Mrs. Poplin — with Josiah Tiz- zard ? I wouldn't have him if he was the only man under the sun. Alma. I don't suppose you would, but poor soul, he's get- ting desperate, and I think it's your duty to help him along. And if you make her jealous Aunt M. But I wouldn't know how to begin. I never flirted in my life 32 JffOME TIES Alma. Oh, that will be all right. All you have to do is watch me. If necessary, I could give you a few private lessons. You might find it useful to know how some time. Aunt M. Well, if you ain't a case. I always heard that city girls — but I guess I'm a little too old to begin flirt- ing Alma. Nothing of the sort. It's your duty. Think of poor Josiah. Aunt M. I declare, I don't know but it would be fun. I'll do it. Only I'm afraid it'll get me talked about — me flirting, at my time of life. Alma. But you needn't do it in public, only on the quiet. And think in what a good cause it is. Poor Mr. Tizzard ! Aunt M. I'm not so sure but what I'd be doing him a bigger favor by marrying her to somebody else Alma. Or marrying him yourself ? Aunt M. What— me ? Of all things ! If that's the way you're going to look at it Alma. No, of course not. I was only joking. {Enter Ruth, r., with hat. Alma looks at Aunt M., smiling^ and holds up a finger^ warningly,') Ruth. I'm ready. Sorry I was so long, but I stopped to brush my hair. (^Goes upy followed by Alma.) Com- ing out, auntie ? Aunt M. No, not now. I've got something else to do. (Ruth goes out c. d. to r. Kima. pauses in exit.) Alma. Oh, by the way, Mrs. Poplin is in there. I believe she has discovered some new symptoms and wants to tell you about them. Aunt M. What now, I wonder ? Alma. Oh, just a little touch of appendicitis. Now, don't forget. Miss Winn — and if you get stuck, watch me. (Alma laughs and exits to r. Aunt M. looks after her a moniefit, shaking her head, then smiling to herself. She goes l. , and is about to exit, when Martin enters c. D. from L. She comes back to C, as he speaks.') Martin. Well, Melissa. 33 HOME TIES Aunt M. Yes, Martin. Martin. He's come after her. Aunt M. Now, Martin, don't begin to take it that way, right at first. He seems to be a nice sort of fellow, and I don't believe he means anything that ain't right. Besides, it may not come to anything. Maybe it's the best thing in the world for them all to be here t'gether, where it can work itself out for the best. Martin. For the best? With that city fellow that she's all wrapped up in, here to take her away from us ? I just met him out there, and he said he wanted to speak to me in private — got something he wants to say to me. Don't you suppose I know what it is? Oh, but it's come like a thunderclap, just as it did that other time Aunt M. Martin ! Why, what do you want to take it so seriously for ? If you tell him no — send him away, and tell her — she'll give him up Martin. But I tell you, Melissa, she's bewitched, just the way her mother was. It's not only him, it's the city — the world — and he's the opportunity for her to get to them. He — with his face like (Turns away, overcome,') Aunt M. Like — why, Martin, what do you mean ? — like who? Martin. Him ! — like the man who — the man I ought to have killed, but didn't. Yes, he looks like that man — as he did then, when he turned my poor Clara's head — dazzled her eyes and her brain with his soft ways, his fine promises, and took her away from me — her husband. Yes, I ought to have killed him, but I didn't, because of her, and the little one— the poor, motherless little one, who has never dreamed that her mother wasn't all that a mother should be. And I let him live, and now — now another, looking like him, with the same handsome face and the same soft, win- ning ways, comes and wants to take that baby — my child — and hers — away from me. No, he shan't, I say —he shan't ! t {They have beefi down c. At the beginning of this speech Aunt M. sinks into a chair, listening with surprise and growing alarm. Martin stands c, speaking with 34 H03fE TIES suppressed excitement, until near the end of his speech ^ when he reaches a high pitchy finally going up to d. f., as if to rush out, I ut pauses in exit, looking off to r.) Aunt M. Martin, oh, Martin — don't ! Don't bring it all up again. Martin. He brought it up — that face ! There he is, out there, smilin' at her, and she at him. Aunt M. (rising, going up and trying to calm him^. But, Martin, he hasn't done anything, except love our Ruth and want her — and how can we blame him for that ? He hasn't carried her away, or done anything wrong. He's come here — to ask you — to Martin {looking off, calmer, but still greatly agitated). With that face — the face of — that other Aunt M. But what of that ? It only happens so, and — why, Martin, you don't think that — that he Martin. I don't know — it might be — stranger things have happened Aunt M. But it isn't the same name. His name was — it wasn't Vincent. Martin. No, I know it wasn't, but for all that — oh, I don't know — I — but I mean to find out. Yes, I'll ask him. I'll ask him who his father was, and I'll make him tell me the truth. Aunt M. Wait, Martin ; there may be another way. What if she didn't really love him so much, after all — if it was only a kind of infatuation, and we could make her see that it's Len Everett that she cares for. Wouldn't that be better than — the other way? Martin. What — do you think we could do that? She hardly looks at Len; she doesn't want him. It's that other one, I tell you, and I may have to — yes, if it comes to it, I'll tell her Aunt M. Martin — not Martin. Yes — the truth about her mother. Aunt M. Oh, Martin, you wouldn't do that — you couldn't Martin. To save her, I could — I would. But I'll see him first, and find out. Aunt M. But you'll be careful, Martin — you'll be careful? {She is by his side, trying to soothe him, urging him away from door, down R. c, whe7i Mrs. P. appears l.) 35 HOME TIES Mrs. p. Oh, 'xcuse me. 'M I interferin' ? Aunt M. No, Mrs. Poplin, of course not. Did Lindy find the hot water bottle for you ? Mrs. p. (coming to c). Yes, thanks, she did. (Shows small package which she carries.^ I'm goin' t' fill it with ice-cold water and hold it on my side. They says that's good f 'r appendiceetus. Do you think it is, Mr. Winn? Martin {who has gone r., about to go out^ now turns). Why, have you got that now ? Mrs. p. I've got the sym'toms, but I hope this'll help it. Oh, Mr. Winn, I You can't imagine how I suffer. Martin. No, I guess my imagination isn't quite so strong as yours. (Exit J R.) Mrs. p. My ! ain't he short? (Goes to R. and sits.) Aunt M. (c). Martin isn't very well, I guess. You mustn't mind him. Mrs. p. Oh, I don't. The men are all alike. But it seems t' me he looks kind o' worried about somethin'. I hope it ain't about Ruth 'n' her city beau. Of course, I ain't pryin' — that ain't me — but, land, I've got eyes, 'n' a person can't help seein' things. (Turns and looks out c. D.) Playin' that long tennis game, ain't they? I don't see Len Everett out there. Aunt M. Why, no, of course not. I — I don't think he plays lawn tennis. Besides, Len hasn't been over to- day. I guess he's busy. Mrs. p. Mebbe he is. 'T any rate, I guess they wouldn't think he was good enough t' play with them. Len ain't what you'd call stylish, but for my part, as to bein' a good husband' — 'specially for a girl like Ruth, who — but there, I guess you think I'm meddlin', and that ain't me. Only, y' know, nat'rally I take a sort of an interest in Ruth, knowin* her so well, 'n' her father 'n' you, 'n' all. I hope you understand how I feel about it. Miss Winn ? Aunt M. Why, of course ; only I wouldn't imagine too much, if I was you. Seems to me you need all your imagination for your "symptoms." Mrs. p. D' y' mean that for a slur ? Wal, even if y* do, 36 HOME TIES I f rgive y'. It's my lot t' be misunderstood, 'n' not git sympathy. Mebbe when I'm gone, folks '11 believe I really was sick. (^Covers her face with handy sniveling.) Aunt M. I didn't mean anything, Mrs. Poplin. I was only joking. (Rises.) Why, here comes Len Everett now. Mrs. p. You don't say. I wonder what he wants ? Aunt M. Oh, I guess he just ran over. (Goes to c. d., meets Len., who enters from l.) How d' do, Len? Len. Good-afternoon, Miss Winn. {To Mrs. P.) How do you do, Mrs. Poplin ? Mrs. p. Good-afternoon. Len. I wanted to see Mr. Winn a minute, Miss Winn. Is he here ? Aunt M. Yes, Len, I'll call him. {Exity R.) Mrs. p. {she has risen, is now up c, looking off ). I was jest sayin' t' Miss Winn, Len, 't I wondered if you didn't ever play long tennis. Len. (down r.). Tennis ? No. I have better use for my time than tossing a ball back and forth in the air. Life is too short for that sort of thing. Mrs. p. Yes, life is so uncertain. I guess I realize that, the condition I'm in. But they seem t' think it's all they is. Ruth and that city feller seem t' be pretty thick. Goin' t' let him cut you out, Len ? Len. I don't know what you mean, Mrs. Poplin. Mrs. p. Land, I guess you do. You needn't think you can fool me, Len Everett. I've known you ever sence you was a baby, 'n' Ruth Winn, too, 'n' I c'n see what's goin' on here 's plain 's I want to. (He makes a gesture of remonstrance.) Oh, you may deny it, but I've got eyes, 'n' a little common sense, I hope. If I was you, I wouldn't act like a fool 'n' give up so easy, the very first thing. Len. Mrs. Poplin Mrs. p. There now, don't git mad. I'm goin' t' say what I think, b'cause I know it's f 'r your good, 'n' if you don't like it, well, sometimes the bitterest pill 't's the 37 H03IE TIES hardest t* swaller is what we need the most. If you let that city feller carry off Ruth Winn, without givin* him a tussle for it, you ain't the man I al'ays took y' for. Len. Indeed ? You are plain spoken and no mistake, Mrs. Poplin. But, seeing you have taken it upon yourself to run my affairs, please tell me what you think I ought to do. Mrs. p. Be a man, that's what, 'n' not a ninny. My opinion is that Ruth Winn knows you're worth a hun- derd o' that feller any day, only he knows how t' make love, 'n' you don't. She's kind o' took with him, 'n' the idee o' city life, 'n' all that, but she ain't his kind, 'n' — say, Len, I've got an idee. Len. I should say so — quite a number of them. What's the latest ? Mrs. p. (^getting close to hmi^ speaking confidentially ^ with a glance out c). You make up to that city girl. Len. (^getting away from her). What ? Mrs. p. Oh, I ain't crazy. I jest thought it might be worth tryin' t' make Ruth Winn jealous a little, 'n' see what comes of it. Len. Jealous? She doesn't care enough for me for that. Mrs. p. I've heard 't love's blind, 'n' I declare, you prove it. You couldn't see through a barn door wide open, where y'r own happiness is concerned. I hate t' see a man give up s' easy. Look at Josiah Tizzard. Why, they ain't no gett'n' red o' him. I've declared a thou- sand times I wouldn't have him, but I may have t*, after all, t' stop his actions. Then look at you. You say you love Ruth, 'n' let on you can't live without her, 'n' then the very first dude 't comes along, you up 'n' let him have her, without s* much 's putt'n' in a pre- vious claim. Len. But, Mrs. Poplin, you don't understand. I am only thinking of Ruth's happiness. Mrs. p. Yes, 'n' lett'n' y'r own go t' smash. B'sides, I ain't s' sure but if y'r thinkin' of her happiness, you'll try t' keep that city feller from gitt'n' her, 'stid of step- pin' aside 'n' makin' the way clear for him. Ain't it ever occurred t' you that mebbe it's you she likes best after all, only he's kind o' dazzled her — him 'n' the city 'n' all — and Len. No — no. I wish I could think that. 38 ffOdlE TIES Mrs. p. Wal, anyhow, make an effort. Carry on a bit with that city girl, 's I said, 'n' see how Ruth takes it. Len. I wouldn't stoop to such a thing. Mrs. p. Huh! "All's fair in love 'n' war," I've heard say, 'n' I don't see 's there'd be anything stoopin' about it. Supposin' you think it over. (She goes l.) I declare, I f 'rgot t' ask Miss Winn t' borrow some mustard. I want t' try a mustard paste on m' side, 'f this hot water bottle don't do no good. I'll go 'n' ask her now. (l.) Better think it over, Len. Remem- ber, " all's fair " {£xtf, L.) (^He stands c, looking after her, at first showing some an- noyance, then smiling to himself knowingly, with a slight sideways motion of his head, as if thinking, ** Well, I don't know ; it might be worth trying.V He ponders a moment longer, then starts up c. , with a sud- den air of '^ I'll do it f As he is about to exit c. Alma runs in, gaily, carrying a ten?iis racquet. He comes back to r. c, she to c.) Alma. Good-afternoon, Mr. Everett. In here all by your- self? Why don't you come out and join us? Don't you ever play tennis ? Len. No. But — I wish I did. Alma. Well, I don't see anything to hinder your learning. Just at the present moment, however, I'm simply per- ishing for a drink. Would you mind seeing if Lindy will bring me some water ? Len. Not at all. (^Goesi.. Calls off. ^ Lindy — Lindy Jane. Lindy ( reading newspaper. A piano or organ is heard off R., and a sweet voice, supposed to be that of Ruth, is singing a sympathetic song. Martin looks upfront paper, smiles, glances R., then lays paper on lap and looks toward Aunt M. Martin. Singing again. Sounds good, doesn't it ? Aunt M. Yes, it does. Quite like old times, before — be- fore she went away. Martin. She doesn't hear from him very often, does she, now? Aunt M. No ; I don't believe she has for — why, I guess it must be two or three months. She never says much about it, but the last letter she got she told me she wasn't going to answer it. Martin. It doesn't seem to be breaking her heart, after all. Aunt M. No. To tell the truth, I don't think she cares so very much. I guess she begins to see that he isn't all there is, and I wouldn't be surprised if — well, haven't you noticed anything ? Martin. As if I could help noticing. And now to hear her singing again {Rises.) I begin to feel as if I had my own little girl back, just as she used to be. {Goes up and looks out of window.) It still keeps on snowing. It must be getting pretty deep. Aunt M. Yes, it must. {Enter Lindy, l., enveloped in a large shawl, on which there is snozv. She shakes off snow, stamping her feet and rubbing her hands.) Lindy. M-ra-m, 's awful col'. Ah's mos* friz. Aunt M. I don't wonder. Where you been in all this snow ? First you know, you'll be sick. Lindy. Jes' out sweep'n'. Ah laks it. 'Tain't go'n' make dis chile sick. Ah ain't no Mis' PopHn. 60 BOME TIES Aunt M. She ain't Mis' Poplin now, I guess, since she married Josiah Tizzard. LiNDY. '* Mr. Tizzard likes the gizzard " Aunt M. Lindy Jane ! LiNDY. He ! He ! " Wondah 'f he out 'n all de blizzard." Martin. I declare, Lindy Jane's getting to be a poet. (Laughs.) Give us another verse, Lindy Jane. {He has come down.) Aunt M. I should think you'd better scold her for making fun of folks, instead of encouraging her in it. {To Lindy.) You'd better get the broom and dust-pan and clean up that snow. Lindy. Yass'm. (l.) ''The wind she blew, 'n' the snow she snew " Aunt M. You hurry. Lindy. . Yass'm. "An' Lindy Jane, away she flew " {Laughs merrily and runs off l.) Aunt M. Isn't she a case ? I d' know what's got into her. {The singing off r. has stopped.) There, she's stopped singing. I wish Len *d come over. Martin. Still think there's hope for Len, do you? Aunt M. Yes, I do. At any rate, I hope so. I believe 'twas him she really loved, all the time. {There is a knock on D. F.) There's somebody knocking. See who 'tis, Martin. (Martin goes and ope?is door. There is a rush of wind and a whirl of snow, as Josiah and Mrs. P., very much wrapped up and covered with snoWj hurry in. She has his arm and appears solicitous of his comfort. Aunt M. rises and goes up to them.) Mrs. p. Here we be. Aunt M. Well, I declare, you must be crazy. {Goes and looks out of window.) Why, it's snowing like every- thing. Mrs. p. Yes, I know 'tis. But Josiah would come. Said we must come 'n' tell you about our trip. {She is helping him off with tippet, coat, etc.) Dear me, Josiah, I hope you ain't caught cold. You know your rheumatiz Josiah. 'Tain't goin* t' hurt me none ; don't you fret. 6i HOME TIES Martin. When did you get back ? Mrs. p. Yestiddy. We had a grand time. Was in New York three days, 'n' seen all the sights. On the go the hull time. {Enter Lindy, l., with broom and dust-pan. She looks at them^ gigglings as she starts to sweep up snow.) JosiAH. How do, Lindy Jane ? Lindy. How do, Mistah Poplin ? Mrs. p. What's that ? Huh, I guess he ain't changed his name, has he ? Lindy. T'ought yo' -all's mah'ied. Mrs. p. We be. But it's me that ain't Mis' Poplin, you little goose. Lindy. Oh ! dat's it. He ! he ! {She has fiiiished sweeping ; now takes things off \..y gig' gling.) Mrs. p. She ain't got any too much sense, has she? {She places JosiAH in a chair ^ r. q,.^ fussing over him.) The idee o' callin' you " Mr. Poplin," Josiah. JosiAH. Guess she thought mebbe you's the boss. Mrs. p. Now, Josiah ! He don't mean anything. Miss Winn. He has his own way in everything. {She sits by Josiah, r. c. Martin is r.. Aunt M., l.) Martin. He certainly had his own way in winning you, Mrs. Poplin — excuse me, I mean Tizzard. Josiah. That's once, 'f I never have it ag'in. Aunt M. Nothing like perseverance, is there, Josiah ? Mrs. p. Perseverance? Makin' a nuisance of y'rself, I call it. My land, I had t' marry him t' git red of him. He jest pestered me till I took him. Josiah. She meant t' take me the hull time. Guess I knew. Mrs. p. Huh ! You needn't flatter y'rself. Wal, any- how, I'm took, so I might's well make the best of it. Aunt M. So to speak, after having everything else, you thought you'd have a husband ? Mrs. p. Yes, and I declare, I don't have time t' think of all my other ailments. It's him, now, I'm worryin' about. 62 HOME TIES JosiAH. Yes, she's transferred her "symptoms" t' me. xMrs. p. Wal, he ain't very well, Josiah ain't, 'n' I have t' take good care of him. I'm so afraid he's caught cold, comin' out in all this snow, but he would come. Do you think you hev, Josiah ? Josiah. No, I ain't. Wish you'd let up on me bein' sick. Mrs. p. Land, you needn't snap me up b'fore folks, 'n' us jest married. If you're sorry you took me {Begins to sfiivel.') Josiah. I ain't sorry. Guess it took me long enough git- t'n' y*, t* be sorry this quick. Mrs. p. (J)oo-hooing). Yes, my money ain't all gone yet. Josiah. She's always flinging that out. Martin. Money ? Hope you catch it, Josiah. Josiah. I s'pose I'll never hear the last of it. Mrs. p. But you'll see the last of it, if it keeps goin* at the rate it has. {To Martin.) I paid all the 'xpenses of our trip, 'n' it cost somethin' awful. Aunt M. I suppose you saw everything worth seeing, didn't you ? Josiah. I reckon we did. We went Mrs. p. {instantly brightening up and interrupting hint). Yes, we went everywhere 'n' took it all in. I wish you could see some of the things we did. Miss Winn. {She talks to Aunt M., while Josiah ttirns to Martin, and they carry on the conversation i?iter jnitte fitly ^ Josiah never being able to complete a sejttence.) They've got railroads that run up in the air and under the ground, 'n' some of the buildin's are s' high 't, I declare, I don't believe that Tower of Babel 't tells about in Script're would 'a' be'n half way to the top. They put y' inside of a little room about the size of one of our clothes-presses, 'n' the first y' know they scoot y' up till y' think they're never goin' t' stop, 'n' there y' are. I declare, I thought sometime 't we was goin' t' pay a visit to the man in the moon. Josiah {to Martin). Say, ever be'n t' one of them shows where all the girls come out 'n' do the skirt dance with- out the skirts, and where Mrs. p. {to Aunt M.). Yes, what d' you think? — Josiah would go to one o' them scand'lous performances. I told him if they found it out t' home here, we'd git 63 H03IE TIES *< churched." But, land, he was like a colt let loose. Wa'n't no holdin' him, once he got started. JosiAH. When they fust begun t' come out, I thought they'd f rgot t' put on their clothes, but b' gosh, the hull durn caboodle of 'em was dressed the same way Mrs. p. {turning to Josiah, reprovingly). "Undressed," I call it. Josiah Tizzard, ain't you got nothin' but them brazen things t' talk about? {To Aunt M. again.') We went to the Eden Muzee place, where the folks 're all made o' wax. Kings 'n' queens 'n' all sort o' people standin' around as natural 's life, 'n' nothin' but dummies. Y' ought t' seen Josiah. I caught him try t' flirt with a wax lady sett'n' on a bench. Josiah. You needn't say nothin'. {To Martin.) She asked a wax p'liceman Mrs. p. I knew he was wax the hull time. I jest done that t' give you somethin' t' crow about. ( To Aunt M. again.) I never knew Josiah was so green. He tried t' put a letter in one o' them fire-alarm boxes. Josiah {to Martin). What d' you think Mari' done? Thought I looked sick, so she see a sign up "Mani- cure," 'n' went in t' git me some medicine. Thought it meant a place t' cure sick men Mrs. p. Why, the — i-dee ! I didn't, neither. I jest thought mebbe they could tell me where t' find a drug store. Josiah really ain't well. Mis' Winn. His heart's weak, 'n' I think he has sym'toms {Organ or piano music heard agaitiy off r.) Why, there's music. Is it Ruth playin' ? Aunt M. Yes. Mrs. p. Wal, I'm glad t' hear it. Looks like she was gitt'n' over her disappointment about that Mr. Vincent. Terrible the way he shook her, ain't it? But I wa'n't s'prised a mite. You can't depend on them city folks. I guess Ruth's jest 's well off, though — 'r better. I al'ays kind o' wondered, Mr. Winn, 't you let her go away t' school, 'n' all like that, after what happened. Of course, you never come right out 'n' told what did happen, but folks was led to s'spect things. I think it's terrible the way folks will talk 'n' try t' fig're out other folks' business. For my part, I don't believe in meddlin' 'n' pryin' int' things that don't concern me — that ain't me — but as for some — wal, they ain't satisfied 64 E03IE TIES without they know all that's goin' on. {During this speecii, Martin Jias risen and gone up R. ; Aunt M. exits L., and Josiah falls asleep^ nodding. By the time she has concluded^ Martin also exits y R., and when she pauses she looks aromid and sees only Josiah. She Jumps up, shakes him.) Josiah, — for the land's sake, wake up ! Ain't you ashamed o' y'rself, goin' t' sleep visitin' at the neighbors? I d* know what Mr. and Miss Winn 'II think. They're both gone. 1 wonder where they went. {The music off R. has stopped.) I don't call it very polite. I guess we'll go. {She hustles him about and prepares to get their things.) Josiah. I d' want t' go. Jest come. Mrs. p. Wal, I guess you will, — treatin' us this way. I guess I know when I'm wanted, 'n' when I know I ain't, I don't stay long — it ain't me (lAaiyv pokes head in l.) LiNDY. Miss Winn says come out *n' she'll give you a cup o* tea. {Disappears.) Mrs. p. Oh, — tea ! Huh, I guess after — wal, I d* know but we will, 'cause I really think you need it, Josiah. It'll warm you up fr the walk home. Josiah. Tea? Wal, I s'pose it's better 'n nothin'. {She is attempting to aid him^ as they go L., but he shakes her off impatiently.) Let me alone, Mari' ; I ain't sick. {Enter Ruth, r. ) Ruth. Good-evening, Mr. and Mrs. Tizzard. Let me congratulate the bride and groom. {She goes and shakes hands with them.) Josiah. Thanks. Same to you. Mrs. p. Josiah, — she ain't married. Josiah. I mean, ''many of 'em." Mrs. p. Wal, if you ain't Ruth. Never mind, Mrs. Poplin, I know what he means. Mrs. p. " Poplin " ? Land, I guess you're mixed, too. Josiah. ''Poplin!" No,— "Tizzard." {Exity L.) 65 HOME TIES Ruth. Why,-— of course. Forgive me. Just home from your tour, I hear. Mrs. p. Yes. Was t' New York. Ain't that a grand place? You was there, *n' of course you know. Thought one spell you'd go there t* live, didn't y' ? But I hear that's all off. Don't you ever hear from that Mr. Vincent any more ? Ruth. Why — yes, I have had several letters from him. Mrs. p. Very lately ? Ruth. N-not just — no, not very lately. (She is embar- rassed; tries to change the subject, goi?ig l.) Where is Aunt Melissa ? I thought she was here. Mrs. p. {she has been l. ; now gets between Ruth and the door, so that Ruth is compelled to remain^. No, she went out in the kitchen. Lindy Jane says she's makin' us some tea. Seems t' me you ain't lookin* quite s' well — kind o' pindlin'. Wal, it ain't t' be wondered at. I s'pose you been worryin' about him, but I wouldn't. He ain't worth it, if he's shook you the way I hear he has Ruth. Mrs. Tizzard — I — please don't Mrs. p. Oh ! hurts, does it ? Excuse me. I didn't mean anything. I wouldn't hurt y'r feelin's for the world, 'r have you think I was tryin' t' find out things. No, in- deed, — that ain't me. But sometimes the truth hurts, and the medicine that's best for us ain't al'ays the pleasantest t* take. (Enter Martin, r.) Now, if I was you, I wouldn't give him another thought. The truth is — 'r seems t' be — *t he's got tired o' y*, and shook y* for another, so Martin {coming forward ; Mrs. P., seeing him, pauses, a bit taken aback). Ruth, dear. Mrs. p. Oh, it's you, Mr. Winn? I was jest tellin' Ruth it seems t' me she ain't lookin* very well. I shouldn't be s' prised if she needs some medicine. If y' do, Ruth, I've got a circular about a new kind, 'n' judgin' from y'r looks 'n* all, it seems t' describe your sym't'ms. It's called — there, I f'rgit the name, but I kept the cir- cular. Ruth. Thank you, Mrs. Tizzard, but I am quite well. I don't need any medicine. Mrs. p. Glad if y' don't, but y' look's if y' did. Wal, I must go out in the kitchen. Miss Winn's makin' some 66 HOME TIES tea. I hope y' don't think I was interferin', 'cause that ain't me. {Exit, L.) Martin. You mustn't mind what she says, Ruthiedear; she's simply a gossip, with nothing to do but talk. Ruth. I know, father ; but still it — hurts — to know that people are talking about me, and saying that I have been "thrown over." Martin. Is that what hurts the worst, Ruth, — what people say? Ruth. Y-yes, I think it is. Somehow, I — I don't quite understand it — but I don't seem to care so much as I did — as much as it seems I ought to — about — about — him. Martin. I'm glad of that, dear. It is all for the best. He is not our kind — or we are not his — and it is all for the best. You have suffered, and it may not all be over yet, but I thank heaven you have been spared something that might be a thousand times worse. Ruth. Perhaps, — I don't know Martin. How thankful I am that you are still with us, in the shelter of home, with the home ties still unbroken, and that you are still my own dear little girl, with a sad heart, perhaps, but with those who really love you and will do all in their power to make you happy again. {Takes her in his arms, kissing her.) Ruth. But I am not so unhappy, father. No, sad as I feel, and hard as it has been to think that one I loved is not all I thought him to be — I — somehow, I don't seem to care — not so much as I thought I should. It is all like a dream, and I still have you, — you, and others whose love will never fail me. Martin. What — what about Len Everett, Ruth ? Is there hope for him ? Ruth. Len — Len Everett? Why, he doesn't care any- thing about me, now. How could he, after I — after all that has happened ? He went away, and Martin. Yes, I know. But he has come back, Ruth. He came last night, and I have seen him. He does care for you, Ruth. Ruth. He — he told you so? Martin. Yes, Ruth, he told me, and {There is a 67 HOME TIES knock on D. F.) Oh, — there's somebody knocking. I'll see who it is. (Gods up.) Perhaps it's Len, now. Ruth. Then I will go and — and have a cup of tea. I {Exit, L.) (Martin opens door, admitting Len.) Martin. Well, well, — speaking of angels ! How are you, Len ? Come in. Len. {enteringy brushing off snow). Thanks, Mr. Winn. Quite a snow-storm, isn't it ? Martin. Seems to be. {Opens the door a crack and glances out.) Well, I should say it was. Doesn't seem to hinder folks coming out, though. Mr. and Mrs. Tizzard are here, too. Here, let me have your coat. Len. No, thanks, I'll lay it over here. It's kind of wet. {Lays coat and hat on chair , up r.) So the bride and groom are here, eh ? I heard they were back from their "tower," as Josiah calls it. What's the latest symp- toms with the Mrs. ? Martin. " Husbanitis," I guess. She's transferred her ailments to him ; spends most of her time trying to make him think he's sick. {They have come down.) Sit down, Len. We'll go out in the kitchen in a min- ute. The folks are out there. (Len. sits r., Martin, c.) It's good for sore eyes to see you. You've been terri- bly distant of late. Len. Have I? I didn't mean to be. Only, — well, Mr. Winn, I guess you know how I felt. Sort of a delicate matter with me. But I was over last night, as you know. And now I'm here again. Martin. That's often, that is, after being gone two months. Didn't you like the West? Len. Can't say that I did. It's all right, but— well, I might as well be fair and square about it — I was home- sick. Simply had to come back. You see, I'd never been away before for any length of time, nor so far, and — well, 1 always was a kind of a home boy, and when yon wrote that you hadn't sold my new house yet Martin. Didn't try to sell it. Len. You didn't? I asked you to. Martin. I know you did, but you didn't mean it. Been sorry if I had. 68 HOME TIES Len. I don't understand. I have no use for it. Martin. Pshaw ! How do you know you haven't? Len. {rising). Why, Mr. Winn, what do you mean ? Martin. Oh, nothing, only that it would be a shame to sell a nice new house like that for what you can get for it now. Be worth more in a few years. (Rises, go- ing L.) Coming to have a cup of tea ? It seems they're having a sort of tea party out in the other room. Len. Thanks, I'm not very strong for tea, but I wouldn't mind going in and saying how-d'-do to the folks. By the way, I stopped in the post-office, and thought I might as well bring your mail along. (Goes up R., gets overcoat, takes a fiewspaper arid a good- sized letter, stamped and addressed, from pocket.) Martin. Glad you did. {Takes paper and letter.) Much obliged. Oh, this letter's for Ruth. Guess I'll let you give it to her, yourself. I'll send her in. {Hands the letter back to Len. and goes l.) Len. {who has taken the letter mechanically). No — you take it. Here. (Martin smiles, refuses to take letter, and exits L. Len. stands a moment, looking after hifn, then at letter. There is a slight pause, then Ruth enters l. She seems somewhat ejfibarrassed whefi she sees him, but shows pleasure.) Ruth. Why, Len, how do you do? I am very glad to see you. {They shake hands.) Len. Thank you, Ruth. I am well, and — glad to see you, too. It's quite a while, isn't it ? Ruth. Yes. I heard you were over last night. But I guess you didn't want to see me — very much. Len. Oh, — I guess you know better than that. There never was the time I didn't want to see you — and never will be. Ruth {blushingly). Thank you, Len. It's kind of you to say it, and I — I can say the same of you. Len. {advancing a step toward her). Can you, Ruth? Ruth. Why, yes, of course. {Starts l.) I'll get you a cup of tea. 69 HOME TIES Len. No, don't — please. I don't want any tea. I — oh, I almost forgot. I have a letter for you. {Hands her the letter.') Ruth. Thank you. {Glances at it, starting slightly.') It's — it's from New York. (He turfis away. She looks at him almost pleadingly, as if about to speak, falters, then fitially goes over to him, putting her hand on his arm.) But it's not from — him — Len. He — he doesn't write to me any more. {Glances up at him, shyly.) And I don't care, Len, — I — I don't want — him — to. Len. Ruth — you — you mean ? {He advances a step toward her, with a look of joyful sur- prise and expectancy ; she offers no resistatice, and he seems about to take her in his arms when Lindy sud- denly thrusts her head in L,, and at the sou fid of her voice they turn from each other slightly, assuming a more matter -of fact air.) Lindy. Want some te-e-ea ? {Disappears.) Ruth. Why — yes, of course — tea; — I forgot. Will you have some, Len ? Len. No. We weren't speaking of tea, Ruth. You were saying — it was about the letter — and {Enter Mrs. P., l., quickly, again interrupting them.) Mrs. p. Wal, I declare, here's Len Everett — with Ruth. {Looks off L., and calls.) Here's Len Everett. {Enter Aunt M., l.) Aunt M. Why, Len, how d' do? I'm glad to see you. Thought you was never coming over. {Goes and shakes ha?tds with him.) Len. Thanks, Miss Winn. I'm glad to see you, too, and to be home again. I have found out that there's no place like home. Mrs. p. Ain't you goin' t' shake hands with me, too, Len ? {Goes up to him.) Len. {taking her hand). Why, of course I am, Mrs. — er — Tizzard. 70 H03IE TIES Mrs. p. Yes, that's it. Len. And my sincere congratulations. Where's the happy bridegroom ? (^Enter Josiah, l., followed by Martin.) Mrs. p. Here he is. Here's Len Everett, Josiah. Josiah. How d' do, Len ? Len. {as they shake hafids). Well, thank you, Josiah, and hope I see you the same. Josiah. Yes, thank y* Mrs. p. He ain't, s* very. If he didn't keep doct'rin' Josiah. Huh ! ain't nothin' ails me but too much coddlin', 'n' too many pesky ^'sym't'ms." Mrs. p. {sniveling). Yes, that's all the thanks I git f'r takin' sech good care of him, 'n* payin' all the doctor's bills. Josiah. Y' needn't bring that up. Mrs. p. Wal, it's true. Boo-hoo ! {She goes up r., followed by Ruth, who pretends to com- fort her. Martin stands L., looking on, amused; Len. ^«^ Josiah are c. Aunt M., r. c.) Len. So you're married, Josiah ? Congratulations. Josiah. Thanks. Same t' you, 'n' many of 'em. Aunt M. Land, he isn't married — yet. Josiah. <' Yet "—he ! he ! Thinkin' of it ? Eh, Len ? Len. M'm — well, I don't know, Josiah. There's always hope, you know. Josiah. Sure. That's how I looked at it, 'n' finally I got her. Martin. You're a first-rate example in perseverance, Josiah. I guess Mrs. Poplin can testify to that. Mrs. p. ''Poplin" agin. Martin. Oh, excuse me — Tizzard. {Enter Lindy, l.) Aunt M. Lindy, is the fire burning in the other room ? Lindy. Reckon 'tis, 'm. Ah'Ugo 'n' see. {Crosses to r.) Aunt M. You build it up good, 'cause we're all coming in there. {To the others.) Thought maybe we'd have a little music. I'll play on the organ, and we'll all sing. 71 HOME TIES Martin (^crossing to r.). Good. Supposing we do. (^Exit LiNDY, R.) Aunt M. (r.). Come on, then. I guess it's warm in there. (They all go r., except Len., who remains c, and Ruth, who is up ^.') JosiAH. Comin', Mari' ? Mrs. p. {joinifig hint). Yes ; but I hope it ain't chilly in there, Josiah. You know, your rheumatiz JosiAH. I guess we'll resk it. Come along. (^He ushers her off r. She looks back, sentimentally, first at Len., then at Ruth, smiling knowingly. They are followed by Aunt M. and Martin, who nods at Len. encouragingly. Ruth stands up r., looking out of window, 7iot noticing the others. There is a pause, during which Len. looks at Ruth, starts up, as if about to speak, hesitates, then finally starts, goes toward her. Just as he is about to speak, Lindy puts head in r.) Lindy. Come on 'n' sing. {Disappears.^ {The organ off R. begins softly to play ^^ Home, Sweet Home.'^ Ruth, who previously had laid the letter on table, has taken it up and now mechanically tears open the envelope. She is r., by table; Len. c. He watches her, as she takes from the envelope another, which is not sealed, glancitig at it with a show of surprise. She opens the other envelope, taking out an invitation ; looks at it, in a half dazed manner, as its sigfiificance slowly dawns upon her, leaning against table.) Len. Ruth — what {She holds out the paper to him, with her head partly turned the other way. He takes it, reading, with some be- wilderment.) Ruth. Read it — aloud. Len. {reading). " Mr. and Mrs. Edward Beecher Wayne announce the marriage of their daughter, Alma Louise, to — Harold — Cranston — Vincent " {He pauses, 72 HOME TIES looking at Ruth, who staiids imth averted face.') Ruth ! {She does ?iot reply, a?id there is a mojiienf s silence^ except for the nmsic off r., voices now beittg heard softly singing * ' Home, Sweet Home. ' ' Len. goes up by windoiv, looking out. After a pause, he turns, looks at Ruth, 7vho has her back to hif?i, then speaks.) Ruth, — Ruth — do you care — so — so very much ? Ruth {looking at him). No, Len. I — I don't think I ever did — really. Len. {pausing, with a look half fear, half hope ; then tak- ing a step toward her, holdifig out his hand). Ruth — see ! {Glafices out of window.) Ruth {goitig up, letting him take her hand. He leads her to window). Yes, Len. Len. Look — over there. It has stopped snowing, and I can see it in the moonlight. Ruth. What, Len ? — see what ? Len. My house. Shall it be — can it be — our {He hesitates, looking at her with great tenderness.) Ruth {going close to him). Yes, Len, our — '* Home, Sweet Home." {His arm steals about her, and he draws her to him, kiss- ins^ her, and they stand looking out of windo7v. The singing continues tmtil after the curtain falls.) CURTAIN 73 Practical Elocution By J. W. Shoemaker, A. M^ 300 pages Cloth, Leather Back, $1.25 This work is the outgrowth of actual class-room experience, and is a practical, common-sense treat- ment of the whole subject. It is clear and concise, yet comprehen- sive, and is absolutely free from the entangling technicalities that are so frequently found in books of this class. Conversation, which is the basis of all true Elocu- tion, is regarded as embracing all the germs of speech and action. Prominent attention is therefore given to the cultivation of this the most common form of human expression. General principles and practical processes are pre- sented for the cultivation of strength, purity, and flexibility of Voice, for the improvement of distinct- ness and correctness in Articulation, and for the development of Soul power in delivery. The work includes a systematic treatment of Ges- ture in its several departments of position, facial expression, and bodily movement, a brief system of Gymnastics bearing upon vocal development and grace of movement, and also a chapter on Methods of Instruction, for teachers. Sold by all booksellers, or sent, prepaid, upon re- One copy del. to Cat. Div. OCT 12 i9to g Company r«et, Phlladolphla J^\% ^»^ Do you want to be an Orator Do you want to be a Teacher of Elocution Do you want to be a Public Reader Do you want to improve your conversation Do you want training in Physi- cal Culture Do you want to increase your power in any direction A CATALOGUE GIVING FULL INFORM A- MATION AS TO HOW ANY OF THESE AC- COMPLISHMENTS MAY BE ATTAINED WILL BE SENT FREE ON REQUEST The National School of Elocution and Oratory Temple Building Philadelphia LIB A ifiiHSii 018 482 095 A 4