Mrs. P. Why, George, I never suspected this!
George. I did, aunt, I confess, but—
Mrs. P. And you hesitated from motives of delicacy?
Scud. No, ma'am; here's the plan of it. Mr. George is in love with Zoe.
George. Scudder!
Mrs. P. George!
Scud. Hold on now! things have got so jammed in on top of us, we ain't got time to put kid gloves on to handle them. He loves Zoe, and has found out that she loves him. [Sighing.] Well, that's all right; but as he can't marry her, and as Miss Dora would jump at him—
Mrs. P. Why didn't you mention this before?
Scud. Why, because I love Zoe, too, and I couldn't take that young feller from her; and she's jist living on the sight of him, as I saw her do; and they so happy in spite of this yer misery around them, and they reproachin' themselves with not feeling as they ought. I've seen it, I tell you; and darn it, ma'am, can't you see that's what's been a hollowing me out so—I beg your pardon.
Mrs. P. O, George,—my son, let me call you,—I do not speak for my own sake, nor for the loss of the estate, but for the poor people here; they will be sold, divided, and taken away—they have been born here. Heaven has denied me children; so all the strings of my heart have grown around and amongst them, like the fibres and roots of an old tree in its native earth. O, let all go, but save them! With them around us, if we have not wealth, we shall at least have the home that they alone can make—