_Peter._ Did the stars there tell you all this? wonderful!
_Nelly._ Yes, and a great deal more. But first promise me, if your fate is no sordid one, you will not yourself be sordid; for now comes the great secret. Money, sir, money for the prophetess. Suppose, now, I should prove you a gentleman of ten thousand a year; what would you give me then?
_Peter._ Give you! another guinea--perhaps two. (_Holding up his purse._) Ten thousand a year! I would give you the whole purse.
_Nelly._ (_laying hold of one end of the purse._) Then listen to me--you were changed at nurse. You are the son of Sir Gilbert Etheridge of the Hall!
_Peter._ The son of Sir Gilbert Etheridge! and changed by the nurse!
_Nelly._ Why don't you clasp your hands, turn up your eyes, and thank the stars, that have gained for you your patrimony?
_Peter._ So I will (_Clasps his hands, and lets the purse go, Nelly pockets it._) But what nurse changed me?
_Nelly._ Why, Mrs Bargrove to be sure, who nursed you, and put her own son in your place.
_Peter._ Infamous old woman! but how is this possible?
_Nelly._ There again I can assist you. Did you never hear of a girl called Nelly Armstrong?
_Peter._ To be sure--she nursed my sister, that is, she nursed Lucy Bargrove. A sad reprobate was Nelly----
_Nelly._ Reprobate in your teeth, young man! Speak of that person with the utmost respect; for 'tis she that will appear and divulge the whole. She was the accomplice of Mrs Bargrove; but you must lose no time; challenge Mrs Bargrove, and she may confess all. Then hasten to Lady Etheridge, and flinging yourself into her arms, sob out upon her bosom that she is your mother.
_Peter._ Excellent! it will be quite moving. I think a white handkerchief looks most interesting.
_Nelly._ I hope, when your honour comes to your property, you won't forget the gipsy woman.
_Peter._ Forget you, good woman! no, that I won't. You shall have a right of encampment here, and permission to rob any tenants upon the estate. Leave me.
[_Exit Nelly, curtseying several times to the ground._
_Peter solus_ (_strutting up and down_). Well, I knew that I was a gentleman born, I knew I was (_rubbing his hands_). Why, what a shameful trick of the old woman. But I'll make her confess directly. And then--and then--I'll pardon her; for she has been very kind to me, that's certain. Sir Peter Etheridge with ten thousand a year! O! it will sound well. "Pray," says the traveller from London to one of my tenants, "whose superb mansion is that?" "Sir Peter's." Ha! ha! ha! "And that fine equipage?" "Sir Peter's." He! he! he! "And that beautiful lady all over jewels?" "Sir Peter's." Ho! ho! ho! Lucky, lucky Sir Peter! Hum! ha! I'll turn old Bargrove off for his impudence--that's decided; and I must cease to be cheerful and familiar. Melancholy--melancholy is your only gentlemanlike bearing, as Shakespeare says. [_Exit._]