Kate. So; now may I speak?
Larry. Aye, do be telling me—but stop every now and then, that I may point your story with a grammatical kiss.
Kate. Oh, hang it! you'll be for putting nothing but periods to my discourse.
Larry. Faith, and I should be for counting—[Kisses.]—four.—Arrah! there, then; I've done with that sentence.
Kate. You remember what caused me to stay behind, when you embarked for America?
Larry. Aye, 'twas because of your old sick mother. And how does the good lady? [Kate weeps.] Ah! well, Heaven rest her soul.—Cheerly, cheerly. To be sure, I can't give you a mother; but I tell you what I'll do, I'll give your children one; and that's the same thing, you know. So, kiss me, Kate. Cheerly.
Kate. One day, as I sat desolate in my cottage, a carriage broke down near it, from which a young lady was thrown with great violence. My humble cabin received her, and I attended her till she was able to resume her journey.
Larry. My kind Kate!
Kate. The sweet young lady promised me her protection, and pressed me to go with her. So, having no mother—nor Larry to take care of——
Larry. You let the pigs and praties take care of themselves.