Mrs. G. Speak, Helen.
Helen. I cannot go with you, mother.
Mrs. G. Helen?
George. Not go with us?
Mrs. G. Helen, do you know what you are saying?
George. You are in jest, Helen; or else you are mad,—before another sunset the British army will be encamping here.
Helen. Hear me, mother. A message from the British camp came to me last night,—
Mrs. G. The British camp?—Ha!—ha! Everard Maitland! God forgive him.
Helen. Do not speak thus. It was but a few cold and careless lines he sent me,—my purpose is my own.
Mrs. G. And—what, and he does not know?—Helen Grey, this passes patience.