_Widow._ Well, whatever troubles come upon me in this world, have not I a right to be thankful, that has such good childer left me?--Still it grieves me, and goes to the quick of my heart, Mabel, dear, that your brother here should be slaving for me, a boy that is qualified for better.

_Owen._ And what better can I be than working for my mother--man or boy?

_Mabel._ And if he thinks it no slavery, what slavery is it, mother?

_Owen._ Mother, to-day is the day to propose for the new inn--I saw several with the schoolmaster, who was as busy as a bee, penning proposals for them, according as they dictated, and framing letters and pet.i.tions for Sir William Hamden and Miss O'Hara. Will you go up to the castle and speak, mother?

_Widow._ No, no--I can't speak, Owen.

_Owen._ Here's the pen and ink-horn, and I'll sit me down, if you'd sooner write than speak.

_Widow._ See, Owen, to settle your mind, I would not wish to get that inn.

_Owen._ Not wish to get it! The new inn, mother--but if you had gone over it, as I have. 'Tis the very thing for you. Neat and compact as a nutsh.e.l.l; not one of them grand inns, too great or the place, that never answers no more than the hat that's too big for the head, and that always blows off.

_Widow._ No, dear, not the thing for me, now a widow, and your sister Mabel--tho' 'tis not for me to say--such a likely, fine girl. I'd not be happy to have her in a public-house--so many of all sorts that would be in it, and drinking, may be, at fairs and funerals, and no man of the house, nor master, nor father for her.

_Owen._ Sure, mother, I'm next to a father for her. Amn't I a brother?

and no brother ever loved a sister better, or was more jealous of respect for her; and if you'd be pleasing, I could be man and master enough.

_Widow._ (_laughing_) You, ye dear slip of a boy!

_Owen._ (_proudly, and raising his head high_) Slip of a boy as I am, then, and little as you think of me--

_Widow._ Oh! I think a great deal of you! only I can't think you big nor old, Owen, can I?

_Owen._ No--nor any need to be big or old, to keep people of all sorts in respect, mother.

_Widow._ Then he looked like his father--did not he, Mabel?

_Mabel._ He did--G.o.d bless him!

_Owen._ Now hear me, mother, for I'm going to speak sense. You need not listen, Mabel.

_Mabel._ But it's what I like to listen to sense, especially yours, Owen.

_Owen._ Then I can't help it.--You must hear, even if you blush for it.

_Mabel._ Why would I blush?

_Owen._ Because you won't be able to help it, when I say Mr.

Gilbert.--See!

_Mabel._ Oh, dear Owen! that's not fair. (_She falls back a little._)

_Owen._ Well, mother, it's with you I'm reasoning. If he was your son-in-law--

_Widow._ Hush! that he'll never be. Now, Owen, I'll grow angry if you put nonsense in the girl's head.

_Owen._ But if it's in the man's head, it's not a bit nonsense.

_Mabel._ Owen, you might well say I shouldn't listen to you.

[_Exit MABEL._

_Widow._ There now, you've drove your sister off.

_Owen._ Well, Gilbert will bring her on again, may be.

_Widow._ May be--but that _may be_ of yours might lead us all wrong.

[_She lays her hand on OWEN'S arm, and speaks in a serious tone._

_Widow._ Now, dear, don't be saying one word more to her, lest it should end in a disappointment.

_Owen._ Still it is my notion, 'tis Mabel he loves.

_Widow._ Oh! what should you know, dear, o' the matter?

_Owen._ Only having eyes and ears like another.

_Widow._ Then what hinders him to speak?

_Owen._ It's bashfulness only, mother. Don't you know what that is?

_Widow._ I do, dear. It's a woman should know that best. And it is not Mabel, nor a daughter of mine, nor a sister of yours, Owen, should be more forward to understand than the man is to speak--was the man a prince.

_Owen._ Mother, you are right; but I'm not wrong neither. And since I'm to say no more, I'm gone, mother.

[_Exit OWEN._

_Widow._ (_alone_) Now who could blame that boy, whatever he does or says? It's all heart he is, and wouldn't hurt a fly, except from want of thought. But, stay now, I'm thinking of them soldiers that is in town.

(_Sighs_) Then I didn't sleep since ever they come; but whenever I'd be sinking to rest, starting, and fancying I heard the drum for Owen to go. (_A deep groaning sigh._) Och! and then the apparition of Owen in regimentals was afore me!

_Enter OWEN, dancing and singing,_

"Success to my brains, and success to my tongue!

Success to myself, that never was wrong!"

_Widow._ What is it? What ails the boy? Are ye mad, Owen?

_Owen._ (_capering, and snapping his fingers_) Ay, mad! mad with joy I am. And it's joy I give you, and joy you'll give me, mother darling.

The new inn's yours, and no other's, and Gilbert is your own too, and no other's--but Mabel's for life. And is not there joy enough for you, mother?

_Widow._ Joy!--Oh, too much! (_She sinks on a seat._)

_Owen._ I've been too sudden for her!

_Widow._ No, dear--not a bit, only just give me time--to feel it. And is it true? And am I in no dream now? And where's Mabel, dear?