Mrs. G. My child! Helen, Helen! Why do you stand there thus?
Helen. Mother—
Mrs. G. Nay, do not stay to speak. There—throw this mantle around you. Where is your hat?—not here!—Bridal gear!
(George enters.)
George. On my word! Well, well, stand there a little longer, to dress those pretty curls of yours, and —humph—there's a style in vogue in yonder camp for rebels just now; we'll all stand a chance to try, I think.
Helen. George!—George Grey!—Be still,—be still.— We must not think of that. It was a dream.
George. Is my sister mad?
Helen. Mother—
Mrs. G. Speak, my child.
Helen. Mother—my blessed mother,—(aside.) 'Tis but a brief word,—it will be over soon.