Bridget. Tak’ a sate, Miss Lucy, if ye plaze, while I spake to the young misthress. It’s glad she’ll be to see yer, for it’s a hape of throuble we have here ony how.
Lucy. Trouble, Bridget! Why, what’s the matter?
Bridget. Shure, mam, it’s all along of the misthress; she’s too sick intirely, and is failin’, and failin’, and failin.’
Lucy. Mrs. Languish sick? I am sorry to hear that.
Bridget. Oh! indade, and indade she is. Ivery breath she draws is nearer and nearer her last.
Lucy. What seems to be the matter?
Bridget. An’ shure, ma’m, I dont know, except that she’s failin’, and failin’, and failin’; an’ its sorry the day whin she fell ill; she’s the kindest and bist misthress in the world. (Crying.) Oh, musha, musha! Oh, dear! Oh, dear!
Lucy. Well, well, Bridget, be calm, and hope for the best.
Bridget. Faith, and that’s what I’m doin’. Oh, here comes Miss Alice, the poor disconsilite orphan. (Exit, L.)