Come to the fire.

THE CHILD.

I'll sit upon your knee,
For I have run from where the winds are born,
And long-to rest my feet a little while.

[_She sits upon his knee._

BRIDGET BRUIN.

How pretty you are!

MAURTEEN BRUIN.

Your hair is wet with dew!

BRIDGET BRUIN.

I'll chafe your poor chilled feet.

MAURTEEN BRUIN.

You must have come
A long long way, for I have never seen
Your pretty face, and must be tired and hungry;
Here is some bread and wine.

THE CHILD.