Mr. H. (aside) She taks my fancy back to dear Scotland, to my ain hame, and my ain mither, and my ain Kate.
Owen. So Mabel! I thought you never sung for strangers?
{MABEL turns and sees Mr. HOPE—She rises and curtsies.
Mr. H. (advancing softly) I fear to disturb the mother, whose slumbers are so blest, and I’d fain hear that lullaby again. If the voice stop, the mother may miss it, and wake.
Mabel. (looking into the room in which her mother sleeps, then closing the door gently) No, sir,—she’ll not miss my voice now, I thank you—she is quite sound asleep.
Owen. This is Mr. Andrew Hope, Mabel—you might remember one of his name, a Serjeant Hope.
Mabel. Ah! I mind—he that was sick with us, some time back.
Mr. H. Ay, my brother that’s dead, and that your gude mither was so tender of, when sick, charged me to thank you all, and so from my soul I do.
Mabel. ‘Twas little my poor mother could do, nor any of us for him, even then, though we could do more then than we could now, and I’m glad he chanced to be with us in our better days.
Mr. H. And I’m sorry you ever fell upon worse days, for you deserve the best; and will have such again, I trust. All I can say is this—that gif your brother here gangs with me, he shall find a brother’s care through life fra’ me.