Widow. See, Owen, to settle your mind, I would not wish to get that inn.
Owen. Not wish to get it! The new inn, mother—but if you had gone over it, as I have. ‘Tis the very thing for you. Neat and compact as a nutshell; not one of them grand inns, too great for the place, that never answers no more than the hat that’s too big for the head, and that always blows off.
Widow. No, dear, not the thing for me, now a widow, and your sister Mabel—tho’ ‘tis not for me to say—such a likely, fine girl. I’d not be happy to have her in a public-house—so many of all sorts that would be in it, and drinking, may be, at fairs and funerals, and no man of the house, nor master, nor father for her.
Owen. Sure, mother, I’m next to a father for her. Amn’t I a brother? and no brother ever loved a sister better, or was more jealous of respect for her; and if you’d be pleasing, I could be man and master enough.
Widow. (laughing) You, ye dear slip of a boy!
Owen. (proudly, and raising his head high) Slip of a boy as I am, then, and little as you think of me—
Widow. Oh! I think a great deal of you! only I can’t think you big nor old, Owen, can I?
Owen. No—nor any need to be big or old, to keep people of all sorts in respect, mother.
Widow. Then he looked like his father—did not he, Mabel?
Mabel. He did—God bless him!