Miss P. Brother, you are so blinded by your foolish fondness, that you cease to perceive what is for his benefit—’tis happy for you, there is a person to direct you, of my superior discernment.
Enter Little Pickle.
Little P. Did you send for me, aunt?
Pick. Child, come hither, I have a great secret to disclose to you, at which you will be much surprised.
Little P. A secret, sir!
Miss P. Yes, and one that requires your utmost courage to hear—you are no longer to consider that person as your father, he is not so—Margaret, who nursed you, has confessed, and the thing is sufficiently proved, that you are not his son, but hers—she exchanged you when an infant for my real nephew, and her conscience has at last compelled her to make the discovery.
Little P. I another person’s child!—impossible!—ah! you are only joking with me now, to see whether I love you or not, but indeed (to Pickle) I am yours—my heart tells me I am only only yours.
Pick. I am afraid you deceive yourself—there can be no doubt of the truth of Margaret’s account; but still assure yourself of our protection—but no longer can you remain in this house, I must not do an injury to my own child—you belong to others—to them you must now go.
Little P. Yet, sir, for an instant hear me—pity me—ah too sure I know (to Old Pickle) I am not your child—or would that distress which now draws tears of pity from a stranger, fail to move nature in you.
Miss P. Comfort yourself, we must ever consider you with compassion and regard—but now you must begone—Margaret is waiting without to receive you.