Lucy. What an odd idea! And do you propose to send it?
Alice. No, indeed; that is, if I can possibly prevent it. But she believes it has already gone. Dear me! I wish I could find a way to frighten her into health again.
Lucy. That’s just what you must do. If you will be guided by me, her cure can be effected. You remember our “Private Theatricals” last winter, and what fun we had. Let us turn our practice then to profit now. There’s Jenny Carter and Susie Dean all ready for any harmless sport, I know. You leave this to me, and I’ll send your mother a few samples of the new school she so much admires.
Alice. Oh, capital! capital! But are you quite sure you can carry out this scheme?
Lucy. Sure. Remember what Richelieu says about “the bright lexicon of youth,” and leave all to me. Good-by; I must run and see the girls. Set your heart at rest; we’ll have your mother well before she knows it herself. Good-by. (Exit, L.)
Alice. Good-by. I have great faith in Lucy. And I do hope this scheme of hers will be a success. Perhaps it is wrong to deceive poor mother; but that advertisement once inserted in the papers, we should have no peace day or night. Here she comes. Poor mother; she works very hard to keep up her sickness. I can hardly refrain from laughing to see her bright, rosy face, and the utter lassitude of her body.
(Enter Mrs. Languish, R., supported by Aunt Midget, very slowly.)
Aunt M. Keerful, Angelina; keerful, my child. Remember you’re a drefful sick woman; drefful sick.
Mrs. L. (Sinking into easy chair, C.) Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I know—I am. I know—I am weaker—and weaker—every—day. My camphor-bottle—aunt Midget—fan me—my child. (Aunt M. applies camphor, and Alice fans Mrs. L.)
Alice. Don’t you feel any better, mother?