An Irish Cabin.—The Kitchen.
Widow LARKEN. On one side of her, MABEL at needle-work; on the other side, OWEN her son enters, bringing in a spinning-wheel, which he places before his mother.
Owen. There, mother, is your wheel mended for you.
Mabel. Oh, as good as new, Owen has made it for you.
Widow. Well, whatever troubles come upon me in this world, have not I a right to be thankful, that has such good childer left me?—Still it grieves me, and goes to the quick of my heart, Mabel, dear, that your brother here should be slaving for me, a boy that is qualified for better.
Owen. And what better can I be than working for my mother—man or boy?
Mabel. And if he thinks it no slavery, what slavery is it, mother?
Owen. Mother, to-day is the day to propose for the new inn—I saw several with the schoolmaster, who was as busy as a bee, penning proposals for them, according as they dictated, and framing letters and petitions for Sir William Hamden and Miss O’Hara. Will you go up to the castle and speak, mother?
Widow. No, no—I can’t speak, Owen.
Owen. Here’s the pen and ink-horn, and I’ll sit me down, if you’d sooner write than speak.