Owen. Now see there, Mabel.
Mr. H. And better for him to do something abroad than digging at home; and in the army he might get on,—and here’s the bugle-boy’s pay.
Mabel. Is it a bugle-boy you are thinking of making him?
Mr. H. That’s the only thing I could make him. I wish I could offer better.
Mabel. Then, I thank you, sir, and I wouldn’t doubt ye—and it would be very well for a common boy that could only dig; but my brother’s no common boy, sir.
Owen. Oh, Mabel!
Mabel. Hush, Owen! for it’s the truth I’m telling, and if to your face I can’t help it. You may hide the face, but I won’t hide the truth.
Mr. H. Then speak on, my warm-hearted lassy, speak on.
Mabel. Then, sir, he got an edication while ever my poor father lived, and no better scholar, they said, for the teaching he got:—but all was given over when the father died, and the troubles came, and Owen, as he ought, give himself up intirely for my mother, to help her, a widow. But it’s not digging and slaving he is to be always:—it’s with the head, as my father used to say, he’ll make more than the hands; and we hope to get a clerk’s place for him sometime, or there will be a schoolmaster wanting in this town, and that will be what he would be fit for; and not—but it’s not civil, before you, a soldier, sir, to say the rest.
Mr. H. Fear not, you will not give offence.