Helm. I am much mistaken, or the lady Eleonora fears not to hear the truth from either wise men or fools—Speak on.

Fool. One day, not long ago, when there came news that our count there was killed in Finland—I, being a fool, was lying laughing, and thinking of nothing at all, on the floor, in the west drawing-room, looking at the count's picture—In comes the Lady Eleonora, all in tears.

Eleon. (stopping his mouth.) Oh! tell any thing but that, good fool.

Helmaar (kneels and kisses her hand). Speak on, excellent fool.

Christina and ladies. Speak on, excellent fool—In came the Lady Eleonora, all in tears.

Fool. In comes the Lady Eleonora, all in tears—(pauses and looks round). Why now, what makes you all so curious about these tears?—Tears are but salt water, let them come from what eyes they will—my tears are as good as hers—in came John Aleftson, all in tears, just now, and nobody kneels to me—nobody kisses my hands—nobody cares half a straw for my tears—(folds his arms and looks melancholy). I am not one of those—I know the cause of my tears too well.

Helm. Perhaps they were caused by my unexpected return—hey?

Fool (scornfully). No—I am not such a fool as that comes to. Don't I know that, when you are at home, the poor may hold up their heads, and no journeyman-gentleman of an agent dares then to go about plaguing those who live in cottages? No, no,—I am not such a fool as to cry because Count Helmaar is come back; but the truth is, I cried because I am tired and ashamed of wearing this thing—(throwing down his fool's cap upon the floor, changes his tone entirely)—I!—who am brother to the man who saved Count Helmaar's life—I to wear a fool's cap and bells—Oh shame! shame!

[The ladies look at one another with signs of astonishment.]

Christina (aside). A lucid interval—poor fool!—I will torment him no more—he has feeling—'twere better he had none.

Eleon. Hush!—hear him!

Aleft. (throwing himself at the counts feet). Noble count, I have submitted to be thought a fool; I have worn this fool's cap in your absence, that I might indulge my humour, and enjoy the liberty of speaking my mind freely to the people of all conditions. Now that you are returned, I have no need of such a disguise—I may now speak the truth without fear, and without a cap and bells.—I resign my salary, and give back the ensign of my office—(presents the fool's cap).

[Exit.]

Christina. He might well say, that none but fools should pay compliments—this is the best compliment that has been paid you, brother.

Eleon. And observe, he has resigned his salary.

Helm. From this moment let it be doubled:—he made an excellent use of money when he was a fool—may he make half as good a use of it now he is a wise man.

Christina. Amen—and now I hope we are to have some more dancing.

[Exeunt.]



ACT II.

SCENE—By moonlight—a forest—a castle illuminated at a distance.—A group of peasants seated on the ground, each with a knapsack beside him.—One peasant lies stretched on the ground.

1st Peasant. Why, what I say is, that the wheel of the cart being broken, and the horse dead lame, and Charles there in that plight—(points to the sleeping peasant)—it is a folly to think of getting on further this evening.

2nd Peasant. And what I say is, it's folly to sleep here, seeing I know the country, and am certain sure we have not above one mile at furthest to go, before we get to the end of our journey.

1st Peasant (pointing to the sleeper). He can't walk a mile—he's done for—dog tired—

3rd Peasant. Are you certain sure we have only one mile further to go?

2nd Peasant. Certain sure—

All, except the sleeper and the 1st Peasant. Oh, let us go on, then, and we can carry the knapsacks on our backs for this one mile.

1st Peasant. You must carry him, then, knapsack and all.

All together. So we will.

2nd Peasant. But first, do you see, let's waken him; for a sleeping man's twice as heavy as one that's awake—Hollo, friend! waken! waken!—(he shakes the sleeper, who snores loudly)—Good Lord, he snores loud enough to waken all the birds in the wood.

[All the peasants shout in the sleeper's ear, and he starts up, shaking himself.]

Charles. Am I awake?—(stretching.)

2nd Peasant. No, not yet, man—Why, don't you know where you are? Ay; here's the moon—and these be trees; and—I be a man, and what do you call this? (holding up a knapsack.)

Charles. A knapsack, I say, to be sure:—I'm as broad awake as the best of you.

2nd Peasant. Come on, then; we've a great way further to go before you sleep again.

Charles. A great way further! further to-night!—No, no.

2nd Peasant. Yes, yes; we settled it all while you were fast asleep—You are to be carried, you and your knapsack.

[They prepare to carry him.]

Charles (starting up, and struggling with them). I've legs to walk—I won't be carried!—I, a Swede, and be carried!—No! No!—

All together. Yes! Yes!

Charles. No! No!—(he struggles for his knapsack, which comes untied in the struggle, and all the things fall out.)—There, this comes of playing the fool.

[They help him to pick up the things, and exclaim,]

All. There's no harm done—(throwing the knapsack over his shoulder).

Charles. I'm the first to march, after all.

Peasants. Ay, in your sleep!

[Exeunt, laughing.]

Enter CATHERINE'S two little Children.

Little Girl. I am sure I heard some voices this way—suppose it was the fairies!

Little Boy. It was only the rustling of the leaves. There are no such things as fairies; but if there were any such, we have no need to fear them.

Little Boy sings.

I.

Nor elves, nor fays, nor magic charm, Have pow'r, or will, to work us harm; For those who dare the truth to tell, Fays, elves, and fairies, wish them well.

II.

For us they spread their dainty fare, For us they scent the midnight air; For us their glow-worm lamps they light, For us their music cheers the night.

Little Girl sings.

I.

Ye fays and fairies, hasten here, Robed in glittering gossamere; With tapers bright, and music sweet, And frolic dance, and twinkling feet.

II.

And, little Mable, let us view Your acorn goblets fill'd with dew; Nor warn us hence till we have seen The nut-shell chariot of your queen:

III.

In which on nights of yore she sat, Driven by her gray-coated gnat; With spider spokes and cobweb traces, And horses fit for fairy races.

IV.

And bid us join your revel ring, And see you dance, and hear you sing: Your fairy dainties let us taste, And speed us home with fairy haste.

Little Boy. If there were really fairies, and if they would give me my wish, I know what I should ask.

Little Girl. And so do I—I would ask them to send father home before I could count ten.

Little Boy. And I would ask to hear his general say to him, in the face of the whole army, "This is a brave man!" And father should hold up his head as I do now, and march thus by the side of his general.

[_As the little Boy marches, he stumbles.]

Little Girl_. Oh! take care!—come, let us march home:—but stay, I have not found my faggot.

Little Boy. Never mind your faggot; it was not here you left it.

Little Girl. Yes, it was somewhere here, I'm sure, and I must find it, to carry it home to mother, to make a blaze for her before she goes to bed.

Little Boy. But she will wonder what keeps us up so late.

Little Girl. But we shall tell her what kept us. Look under those trees, will you, whilst I look here, for my faggot.—When we get home, I shall say, "Mother, do you know there is great news?—there's a great many, many candles in the windows of the great house, and dancing and music in the great house, because the master's come home, and the housekeeper had not time to pay us, and we waited and waited with our faggots; at last the butler—"

Little Boy. Heyday!—What have we here?—a purse, a purse, a heavy purse.

Little Girl. Whose can it be? let us carry it home to mother.

Little Boy. No, no; it can't be mother's: mother has no purse full of money. It must belong to somebody at the great house.

Little Girl. Ay, very likely to dame Ulrica, the housekeeper, for she has more purses and money than any body else in the world.

Little Boy. Come, let us run back with it to her,—mother would tell us to do so, I'm sure, if she was here.

Little Girl. But I'm afraid the housekeeper won't see us to-night.

Little Boy. Oh, yes; but I'll beg, and pray, and push, till I get into her room.

Little Girl. Yes; but don't push me, or I shall knock my head against the trees. Give me your hand, brother.—Oh, my faggot! I shall never find you.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE—Catherine's Cottage.

CATHERINE, spinning, sings.

I.

Turn swift, my wheel, my busy wheel, And leave my heart no time to feel; Companion of my widow'd hour, My only friend, my only dow'r.

II.

Thy lengthening thread I love to see, Thy whirring sound is dear to me: Oh, swiftly turn by night and day, And toil for him that's far away.

Catherine. Hark! here come the children. No, 'twas only the wind. What can keep these children so late?—but it is a fine moonlight night—they'll have brave appetites for their supper when they come back—but I wonder they don't come home.—Heigho! since their father has been gone, I am grown a coward—(a knock at the door heard)—Come in!—Why does every knock at the door startle me in this way?

Enter CHARLES, with a knapsack on his back

Charles. Mistress! mayhap you did not expect to see a stranger at this time o' night, as I guess by the looks of ye—but I'm only a poor fellow, that has been a-foot a great many hours.

Cath. Then, pray ye, rest yourself, and such fare as we have you're welcome to.

[She sets milk, &c., on a table. Charles throws himself into a chair, and flings his knapsack behind him.]

Charles. 'Tis a choice thing to rest one's self:—I say, mistress, you must know, I, and some more of us peasants, have come a many, many leagues since break of day.

Cath. Indeed, you may well be tired—and where do you come from?—Did you meet, on your road, any soldiers coming back from Finland?

Charles (eats and speaks). Not the soldiers themselves, I can't say as I did; but we are them that are bringing home the knapsacks of the poor fellows that have lost their lives in the wars in Finland.

_Cath. (during this speech of Charles, leans on the back of a chair. _Aside_) Now I shall know my fate.

Charles (eating and speaking). My comrades are gone on to the village beyond with their knapsacks, to get them owned by the families of them to whom they belonged, as it stands to reason and right. Pray, mistress, as you know the folks here-abouts, could you tell me whose knapsack this is, here, behind me? (looking up at Catherine.)—Oons, but how pale she looks! (aside). Here, sit ye down, do. (Aside) Why, I would not have said a word if I had thought on it—to be sure she has a lover now, that has been killed in the wars. (Aloud) Take a sup of the cold milk, mistress.

Catherine (goes fearfully towards the knapsack). 'Tis his! 'tis my husband's!

[She sinks down on a chair, and hides her face with her hands.]

Charles. Poor soul! poor soul!—(he pauses.) But now it is not clear to me that you may not be mistaken, mistress:—these knapsacks be all so much alike, I'm sure I could not, for the soul of me, tell one from t'other—it is by what's in the inside only one can tell for certain. (Charles opens the knapsack, pulls out a waistcoat, carries it towards Catherine, and holds it before her face.)—Look ye here, now; don't give way to sorrow while there's hope left—Mayhap, mistress—look at this now, can't ye, mistress?

[Catherine timidly moves her hands from before her face, sees the waistcoat, gives a faint scream, and falls back in a swoon. The peasant runs to support her.—At this instant the back door of the cottage opens, and ALEFTSON enters.]

Aleft. Catherine!

Charles. Poor soul!—there, raise her head—give her air—she fell into this swoon at the sight of yonder knapsack—her husband's—he's dead. Poor creature!—'twas my luck to bring the bad news—what shall we do for her?—I'm no better than a fool, when I see a body this way.

Aleft. (sprinkling water on her face.) She'll be as well as ever she was, you'll see, presently—leave her to me!

Charles. There! she gave a sigh—she's coming to her senses.

[Catherine raises herself.]

Cath. What has been the matter?—(She starts at the sight of Aleftson.)—My husband!—no—'tis Aleftson—what makes you look so like him?—you don't look like yourself.

Aleft. (aside to the peasant.) Take that waistcoat out of the way.

Cath. (looking round, sees the knapsack.) What's there?—Oh, I recollect it all now.—(To Aleftson) Look there! look there! your brother! your brother's dead! Poor fool, you have no feeling.

Aleft. I wish I had none.

Cath. Oh, my husband!—shall I never, never see you more—never more hear your voice—never more see my children in their father's arms?

Aleft. (takes up the waistcoat, on which her eyes are fixed.) But we are not sure this is Christiern's.

Charles (snatching it from him). Don't show it to her again, man!—you'll drive her mad.

Aleft. (aside.) Let me alone; I know what I'm about. (Aloud) 'Tis certainly like a waistcoat I once saw him wear; but perhaps—

Cath. It is his—it is his—too well I know it—my own work—I gave it to him the very day he went away to the wars—he told me he would wear it again the day of his coming home—but he'll never come home again.

Aleft. How can you be sure of that?

Cath. How!—why, am not I sure, too sure?—hey!—what do you mean?—he smiles!—have you heard any thing?—do you know any thing?—but he can know nothing—he can tell me nothing—he has no sense. (She turns to the peasant.) Where did you get this knapsack?—did you see—

Aleft. He saw nothing—he knows nothing—he can tell you nothing:—listen to me, Catherine—see, I have thrown aside the dress of a fool—you know I had my senses once—I have them now as clear as ever I had in my life—ay, you may well be surprised—but I will surprise you more—Count Helmaar's come home.

Cath. Count Helmaar!—impossible!

Charles. Count Helmaar!—he was killed in the last battle, in Finland.

Aleft. I tell ye, he was not killed in any battle—he is safe at home—I have just seen him.

Cath. Seen him!—but why do I listen to him, poor fool! he knows not what he says—and yet, if the count be really alive—

Charles. Is the count really alive? I'd give my best cow to see him.

Aleft. Come with me, then, and in one quarter of an hour you shall see him.

Cath. (clasping her hands.) Then there is hope for me—Tell me, is there any news?

Aleft. There is.

Cath. Of my husband?

Aleft. Yes—ask me no more—you must hear the rest from Count Helmaar himself—he has sent for you.

Cath. (springs forward.) This instant let me go, let me hear—(she stops short at the sight of the waistcoat, which lies in her passage).—But what shall I hear?—there can be no good news for me—this speaks too plainly.

[Aleftson pulls her arm between his, and leads her away.]

Charles. Nay, master, take me, as you promised, along with you—I won't be left behind—I'm wide awake now—I must have a sight of Count Helmaar in his own castle—why, they'll make much of me in every cottage on my road home, when I can swear to 'em I've seen Count Helmaar alive, in his own castle, face to face—God bless him, he's the poor man's friend.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE—The housekeeper's room in Count HELMAAR'S Castle.

ULRICA and CHRISTIERN.

CHRISTIERN is drawing on his boots.—Mrs. ULRICA is sitting at a tea-table making coffee.

Mrs. Ulrica. Well, well; I'll say no more: if you can't stay to-night, you can't—but I had laid it all out in my head so cleverly, that you should stay, and take a good night's rest here, in the castle; then, in the morning, you'll find yourself as fresh as a lark.

Christiern. Oh! I am not at all tired.

Mrs. Ulrica. Not tired! don't tell me that, now, for I know that you are tired, and can't help being tired, say what you will—Drink this dish of coffee, at any rate—(he drinks coffee).

Christiern. But the thoughts of seeing my Catherine and my little ones—

Mrs. Ulrica. Very true, very true; but in one word, I want to see the happy meeting, for such things are a treat to me, and don't come every day, you know; and now, in the morning, I could go along with you to the cottage, but you must be sensible I could not be spared out this night, on no account or possibility.

Enter Footman.

Footman. Ma'am, the cook is hunting high and low for the brandy-cherries.

Mrs. Ulrica. Lord bless me! are not they there before those eyes of yours?—But I can't blame nobody for being out of their wits a little with joy such a night as this.

[Exit Footman.]

Christiern. Never man was better beloved in the regiment than Count Helmaar.

Mrs. Ulrica. Ay! ay! so he is every where, and so he deserves to be. Is your coffee good? sweeten to your taste, and don't spare sugar, nor don't spare any thing that this house affords; for, to be sure, you deserve it all—nothing can be too good for him that saved my master's life. So now that we are comfortable and quiet over our dish of coffee, pray be so very good as to tell me the whole story of my master's escape, and of the horse being killed under him, and of your carrying him off on your shoulders; for I've only heard it by bits and scraps, as one may say; I've seen only the bill of fare, ha! ha! ha!—so now pray set out all the good things for me, in due order, garnished and all; and, before you begin, taste these cakes—they are my own making.

Christiern (aside). 'Tis the one-and-twentieth time I've told the story to-day; but no matter. (Aloud) Why, then, madam, the long and the short of the story is—

Mrs. Ulrica. Oh, pray, let it be the long, not the short of the story, if you please: a story can never be too long for my taste, when it concerns my master—'tis, as one may say, fine spun sugar, the longer the finer, and the more I relish it—but I interrupt you, and you eat none of my cake—pray go on—(A call behind the scenes of Mrs. Ulrica! Mrs. Ulrica!)—Coming!—coming!—patience.

Christiern. Why, then, madam, we were, as it might be, here—just please to look; I've drawn the field of battle for you here, with coffee, on the table—and you shall be the enemy.

Mrs. Ulrica. I!—no—I'll not he the enemy—my master's enemy!

Christiern. Well, I'll be the enemy.

Mrs. Ulrica. You!—Oh no, you sha'n't be the enemy.

Christiern. Well, then, let the cake be the enemy.

Mrs. Ulrica. The cake—my cake!—no, indeed.

Christiern. Well, let the candle be the enemy.

Mrs. Ulrica. Well, let the candle be the enemy; and where was my master, and where are you—I don't understand—what is all this great slop?

Christiern. Why, ma'am, the field of battle; and let the coffee-pot be my master: here comes the enemy—

Enter Footman.

Footman. Mrs. Ulrica, more refreshments wanting for the dancers above.

Mrs. Ulrica. More refreshments!—more!—bless my heart, 'tis an unpossibility they can have swallowed down all I laid out, not an hour ago, in the confectionary room.

Footman. Confectionary room! Oh, I never thought of looking there.

Mrs. Ulrica. Look ye there, now!—why, where did you think of looking, then?—in the stable, or the cockloft, hey?—[Exit Footman.]—But I can't scold on such a night as this: their poor heads are all turned with joy; and my own's scarce in a more properer condition—Well, I beg your pardon—pray go on—the coffee-pot is my master, and the candle's the enemy.

Christiern. So, ma'am, here comes the enemy full drive, upon Count Helmaar.

[A call without of Mrs. Ulrica! Mrs. Ulrica! Mrs. Ulrica!]

Mrs. Ulrica. Mrs. Ulrica! Mrs. Ulrica!—can't you do without Mrs. Ulrica one instant but you must call, call—(Mrs. Ulrica! Mrs. Ulrica!)—Mercy on us, what do you want? I must go for one instant.

Christiern. And I must bid ye a good night.

Mrs. Ulrica. Nay, nay, nay,—(eagerly)—you won't go—I'll be back.

Enter Footman.

Footman Ma'am! Mrs. Ulrica! the key of the blue press.

Mrs. Ulrica. The key of the blue press—I had it in my hand just now—I gave it—I—(looks amongst a bunch of keys, and then all round the room)—I know nothing at all about it, I tell you—I must drink my tea, and I will—[Exit Footman]. 'Tis a sin to scold on such a night as this, if one could help it—Well, Mr. Christiern, so the coffee-pot's my master.

Christiern. And the sugar-basin—why here's a key in the sugar-basin.

Mrs. Ulrica. Lord bless me! 'tis the very key, the key of the blue press—why dear me—(feels in her pocket)—and here are the sugar tongs in my pocket, I protest—where was my poor head? Hers, Thomas! Thomas! here's the key; take it, and don't say a word for your life, if you can help it; you need not come in, I say—(she holds the door—the footman pushes in).

Footman. But, ma'am, I have something particular to say.

Mrs. Ulrica. Why, you've always something particular to say—is it any thing about my master?

Footman. No, but about your purse, ma'am.

Mrs. Ulrica. What of my purse?

Footman. Here's your little godson, ma'am, is here, who has found it.

Mrs. Ulrica (aside). Hold your foolish tongue, can't you?—don't mention my little godson, for your life.

[The little boy creeps in under the footman's arm; his sister Kate follows him. Mrs. Ulrica lifts up her hands and eyes, with signs of impatience.]

Mrs. Ulrica (aside). Now I had settled in my head that their father should not see them till to-morrow morning.

Little Girl. Who is that strange man?

Little Boy. He has made me forget all I had to say.

Christiern (aside). What charming children!

Mrs. Ulrica (asid). He does not know them to be his—they don't know him to be their father. (Aloud) Well, children, what brings you here at this time of night?

Little Boy. What I was going to say was—(the little boy looks at the stranger between every two or three words, and Christiern looks at him)—what I was going to say was—

Little Girl. Ha! ha! ha!—he forgets that we found this purse in the forest as we were going home.

Little Boy. And we thought that it might be yours.

Mrs. Ulrica. Why should you think it was mine?

Little Boy. Because nobody else could have so much money in one purse; so we brought it to you—here it is.

Mrs. Ulrica. 'Tis none of my purse. (Aside) Oh! he'll certainly find out that they are his children—(she stands between the children and Christiern). 'Tis none of my purse; but you are good, honest little dears, and I'll be hanged if I won't carry you both up to my master himself, this very minute, and tell the story of your honesty before all the company.

[She pushes the children towards the door. Ulric looks back.]

Little Boy. He has a soldier's coat on—let me ask him if he is a soldier.

Mrs. Ulrica. No—what's that to you?

Little Girl. Let me ask him if he knows any thing about father.

Mrs. Ulrica (puts her hand before the little girl's mouth). Hold your little foolish tongue, I say—what's that to you?

[Exeunt, Mrs. Ulrica pushing forward the children.]

Enter, at the opposite door, THOMAS, the footman.

Footman. Sir, would you please to come into our servants'-hall, only for one instant: there's one wants to speak a word to you.

Christiern. Oh, I cannot stay another moment: I must go home: who is it?

Footman. 'Tis a poor man who has brought in two carts full of my master's baggage; and my master begs you'll be so very good as to see that the things are all right, as you know 'em, and no one else here does.

Christiern (with impatience). How provoking!—a full hour's work:—I sha'n't get home this night, I see that:—I wish the man and the baggage were in the Gulf of Finland. [Exeunt.]

SCENE—The apartment where the COUNT, ELEONORA, CHRISTINA, &c., were dancing.

Enter Mrs. ULRICA, eading the two children.

Christina. Ha! Mrs. Ulrica, and her little godson.

Mrs. Ulrica. My lady, I beg pardon for presuming to interrupt; but I was so proud of my little godson and his sister, though not my goddaughter, that I couldn't but bring them up, through the very midst of the company, to my master, to praise them according to their deserts; for nobody can praise those that deserve it so well as my master—to my fancy.

Eleonora (aside). Nor to mine.

Mrs. Ulrica. Here's a purse, sir, which this little boy and girl of mine found in the woods as they were going home; and, like honest children, as they are, they came back with it directly to me, thinking that it was mine.

Helmaar. Shake hands, my honest little fellow—this is just what I should have expected from a godson of Mrs. Ulrica, and a son of—

Mrs. Ulrica (aside to the Count). Oh, Lord bless you, sir, don't tell him—My lady—(to Christina)—would you take the children out of hearing?

Eleon. (to the children). Come with us, my dears.

[Exeunt ladies and children.]

Mrs. Ulrica. Don't, sir, pray, tell the children any thing about their father: they don't know that their father's here, though they've just seen him; and I've been striving all I can to keep the secret, and to keep the father here all night, that I may have the pleasure of seeing the meeting of father and mother and children at their own cottage to-morrow. I would not miss the sight of their meeting for fifty pounds; and yet I shall not see it after all—for Christiern will go, all I can say or do. Lord bless me! I forgot to bolt him in when I came up with the children—the bird's flown, for certain—(going in a great hurry).

Helmaar. Good Mrs. Ulrica, you need not be alarmed; your prisoner is very safe, I can assure you, though you forgot to bolt him in: I have given him an employment that will detain him a full hour, for I design to have the pleasure of restoring my deliverer myself to his family.

Mrs. Ulrica. Oh! that will be delightful!—Then you'll keep him here all night!—but that will vex him terribly; and of all the days and nights of the year, one wouldn't have any body vexed this day or night, more especially the man, who, as I may say, is the cause of all our illuminations, and rejoicings, and dancings—no, no, happen what will, we must not have him vexed.

Helmaar. He shall not be vexed, I promise you; and, if it be necessary to keep your heart from breaking, my good Mrs. Ulrica, I'll tell you a secret, which I had intended, I own, to have kept from you one half hour longer.

Mrs. Ulrica. A secret! dear sir, half an hour's a great while, to keep a secret from one when it's about one's friends: pray, if it be proper—but you are the best judge—I should be very glad to hear just a little hint of the matter, to prepare me.

Helmaar. Then prepare in a few minutes to see the happy meeting between Christiern and his family: I have sent to his cottage for his wife, to desire that she would come hither immediately.

Mrs. Ulrica. Oh! a thousand thanks to you, sir; but I'm afraid the messenger will let the cat out of the bag.

Helmaar. The man I have sent can keep a secret—Which way did the Lady Eleonora go?—Are those peasants in the hall? [Exit Count.]

Mrs. Ulrica (following). She went towards the west drawing-room, I think, sir.—Yes, sir, the peasants are at supper in the hall. (Aside) Bless me! I wonder what messenger he sent, for I don't know many—men I mean—fit to be trusted with a secret. [Exit.]

SCENE—An apartment in Count HELMAAR'S Castle.—ELEONORA.— CHRISTINA.—Little KATE and ULRIC asleep on the floor.

Eleon. Poor creatures! they were quite tired by sitting up so late: is their mother come yet?

Christina. Not yet; but she will soon be here, for my brother told Aleftson to make all possible haste. Do you know where my brother is?—he is not among the dancers. I expected to have found him sighing at the Lady Eleonora's feet.

Eleon. He is much better employed than in sighing at any body's feet; he is gone down into the great hall, to see and reward some poor peasants who have brought home the knapsacks of those unfortunate soldiers who fell in the last battle:—your good Mrs. Ulrica found out that these peasants were in the village near us—she sent for them, got a plentiful supper ready, and the count is now speaking to them.

Christina. And can you forgive my ungallant brother for thinking of vulgar boors, when he ought to be intent on nothing but your bright eyes?—then all I can say is, you are both of you just fit for one another: every fool, indeed, saw that long ago.

[A cry behind the scenes of "Long line Count Helmaar! Long live the good count! long live the poor man's friend!"]

Christina (joins the cry). Long live Count Helmaar!—join me, Eleonora—long live the good count! long live the poor man's friend!

[The little children waken, start up, and stretch themselves.]

Eleon. There, you have wakened these poor children.

Ulric. What's the matter? I dreamed father was shaking hands with me.

Enter Mrs. ULRICA.

Little Kate. Mrs. Ulrica! where am I? I thought I was in my little bed at home—I was dreaming about a purse, I believe.

Mrs. Ulrica. Was it about this purse you were dreaming?—(shows the purse which the children found in the wood)—Come, take it into your little hands, and waken and rouse yourselves, for you must come and give this purse back to the rightful owner; I've found him out for you—(Aside to Christina and Eleonora). And now, ladies, if you please to go up into the gallery, you'll see something worth looking at.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE—A hall in Count HELMAAR'S Castle.—Peasants rising from supper in the back scene.

1st Peasant. Here's a health to the poor man's friend; and may every poor man, every poor honest man—and there are none other in Sweden—find as good a friend as Count Helmaar.

Enter CHARLES, eagerly.

Charles. Count Helmaar! is he here?

Omnes. Heyday! Charles, the sleeper, broad awake! or is he walking in his sleep?

Charles. Where's Count Helmaar, I say?—I'd walk in my sleep, or any way, to get a sight of him.

1st Peasant. Hush! stand back!—here's some of the quality coming, who are not thinking of you.

[The peasants all retire to the back scene. Count HELMAAR, CHRISTINA, and ELEONORA, appear, looking from a gallery. Enter ALEFTSON and CATHERINE at one door, Mrs. ULRICA at the opposite door, with CHRISTIERN, followed by the two children.]

Cath. (springs forward.) Christiern! my husband! alive!—is it a dream?

Christiern (embracing her). Your own Christiern, dearest Catherine.

[The children clap their hands, and run to their father.]

Ulric. Why, I thought he was my father; only he did not shake hands with me.

Kate. And Mrs. Ulrica hid me hold my tongue.

Christiern. My Ulric! my little Kate!

Mrs. Ulrica. Ay, my little Kate, you may speak now as much as you will.—(Their father kisses them eagerly.)—Ay, kiss them, kiss them; they are as good children as ever were born—and as honest: Kate, show him the purse, and ask him if it be his.

Kate. Is it yours, father?—(holds up the purse).

Christiern. 'Tis mine; 'twas in my knapsack; but how it came here, Heaven knows.

Ulric. We found it in the wood, father, as we were going home, just at the foot of a tree.

Charles (comes forward). Why, mayhap, now I recollect, I might have dropped it there—more shame for me, or rather more shame for them— (looking back at his companions)—that were playing the fool with me, and tumbled out all the things on the ground. Master, I hope there's no harm done: we poor peasant fellows have brought home all the other knapsacks safe and sound to the relations of them that died; and yours came by mistake, it seems.

Christiern. It's a very lucky mistake; for I wouldn't have lost a waistcoat which there is in that knapsack for all the waistcoats in Sweden. My Catherine, 'twas that which you gave me the day before I went abroad—do you remember it?

Charles. Ay, that she does; it had like to have been the death of her—for she thought you must be dead for certain when he saw it brought home without you—but I knew he was not ead, mistress—did not I tell you, mistress, not to give way to sorrow while there was hope left?

Cath. O joy! joy!—too much joy!

Aleft. Now are you sorry you came with me when I bade you?—but I'm a fool!—I'm a fool!

Ulric. But where's the cap and coat you used to wear?

Kate. You are quite another man, uncle.

Aleft. The same man, niece, only in another coat.

Mrs. Ulrica (laughing). How they stare!——Well, Christiern, you are not angry with my master and me for keeping you now?—but angry or not, I don't care, for I wouldn't have missed seeing this meeting for any thing in the whole world.

Enter Count HELMAAR, ELEONOKA, and CHRISTINA.

Christina. Nor I.

Eleon. Nor I.

Helmaar. Nor I.

The Peasants. Nor any of us

Helmaar (to little Ulric). My honest little boy, is that the purse which you found in the wood?

Ulric. Yes, and it's my own father's.

Helmaar. And how much money is there in it?

[The child opens the purse, and spreads the money on the floor.]

Ulric (to Mrs. Ulrica). Count you, for I can't count so much.

Mrs. Ulrica (counts). Eight ducats, five rixdollars, and let me see how many—sixteen carolines[2]:—'twould have been pity, Catherine, to have lost all this treasure, which Christiern has saved for you.

[Footnote 2: A rixdollar is 4s. 6d. sterling; two rixdollars are equal in value to a ducat; a caroline is 1s. 2d.]

Helmaar. Catherine, I beg that all the money in this purse may be given to these honest peasants. (To Kate) Here, take it to them, my little modest girl. As for you and your children, Catherine, you may depend upon it that I will not neglect to make you easy in the world: your own good conduct, and the excellent manner in which you have brought up these children, would incline me to serve you, even if your husband had not saved my life.

Cath. Christiern, my dear husband, and did you save Count Helmaar's life?

Mrs. Ulrica. Ay, that he did.

Cath. (embracing him.) I am the happiest wife, and—(turning to kiss her children)—the happiest mother upon earth.

Charles (staring up in Count Helmaar's face). God bless him! I've seen him face to face at last; and now I wish in my heart I could see his wife.

Christina. And so do I most sincerely: my dear brother, who has been all his life labouring for the happiness of others, should now surely think of making himself happy.

Eleonora (giving her hand to Helmaar). No, leave that to me, for I shall think of nothing else all my life.

THE END