Zoe. No; but you, aunty, you are wise—you know every plant, don't you, and what it is good for?
Dido. Dat you drink is fust rate for red fever. Is de folks head bad?
Zoe. Very bad, aunty; and the heart aches worse, so they can get no rest.
Dido. Hold on a bit, I get you de bottle.
[Exit, L. R.
Zoe. In a few hours that man, my master, will come for me; he has paid my price, and he only consented to let me remain here this one night, because Mrs. Peyton promised to give me up to him to-day.
Dido. [Re-enters with phial.] Here 'tis—now you give one timble-full—dat's nuff.
Zoe. All there is there would kill one, wouldn't it?
Dido. Guess it kill a dozen—nebber try.
Zoe. It's not a painful death, aunty, is it? You told me it produced a long, long sleep.