OWEN, solus.
Oh! I know how keenly Mabel feels all, tho’ she speaks so mild. Then I’m cut to the heart by this behaviour of Gilbert’s:—sure he could not be so cruel to be jesting with her!—he’s an Englishman, and may be he thinks no harm to jilt an Irishwoman. But I’ll show him—but then if he never asked her the question, how can we say any thing?—Oh! the thing is, he’s a snug man, and money’s at the bottom of all,—and since Christy’s to have the new inn, and Miss Gallagher has the money!—Well, it’s all over, and I don’t know what will become of me.
Enter Mr. ANDREW HOPE.
Mr. H. My gude lad, may your name be Larken?
Owen. It is, sir—Owen Larken, at your service—the son of the widow Larken.
Mrs. H. Then I have to thank your family for their goodness to my puir brother, years ago. And for yourself, your friend, Mr. Christy Gallagher, has been telling me you can play the bugle?
Owen. I can, sir.
Mr. H. And we want a bugle, and the pay’s fifteen guineas; and I’d sooner give it to you than three others that has applied, if you’ll list.
Owen. Fifteen guineas! Oh! if I could send that money home to my mother! but I must ask her consint. Sir, she lives convanient, just in this cabin here—would you be pleased to step in with me, and I’ll ask her consint.
Mr. H. That’s right,—lead on, my douce lad—you ken the way.