Hannah. Yes, indeed; a poor, hard-working woman was Marcy Hartshorn: the best washer and ironer in the place; and such a cook! Her pies would make your mouth water. And turnovers! the young ones would cry for them. O, dear! such a pity she threw herself away on that drunken sot—Jim Hartshorn. Why, when he died—
John. Hush, mother, hush!
Hannah. Dear me! I forgot. But it always makes me mad when I think—(sniffs). Bless me! What’s that? (Sniffs.) I smell something.
Jarius. Jes’ so—gin and sugar.
Hannah. It’s my pies a-burning, as sure as I live! And I here gossiping. O, dear! there’s a whole ovenful spoiled by my neglect! (Exit, L.)
John. Don’t mind her, Ned. She didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. She’d do anything in the world for you.
Ned. I know she would. Heaven bless her! You see, Mr. Jordan, liquor has left a stain on my family name; and I’m not likely to be friendly with it.
Jarius. Jes’ so. Stick to the last request, young feller, and you’ll wipe it out. And if ever you want a friend, don’t forget the undersigned, Jarius Jordan, for you’ll find him on hand, like a picked-up dinner.
John. There; that job’s done. Here, Will, drop that jug. It’s a leetle strong to-day. Put on your coat, and take these shoes to Mrs. Douglas.