Tom cocked his ears, Biddy grew redder, and the widow crammed her handkerchief into her mouth to endeavour to smother her laughter.
"I hope poor Mrs. Flanagan bears it well?" says Tom.
"Poor thing!" says Biddy, "she's inconsolable."
"Baa-a!" says the lamb.
Biddy spoke louder and faster, the widow kicked with laughing, and Tom then suspected whence the sound proceeded.
"She does nothing but cry all day!" says Biddy.
"Baa-a-a!" says the lamb.
The widow could stand it no longer, and a peal of laughter followed the lamb's bleat.
"What is all this?" said Tom, laying hold of the curtains with relentless hand, and, spite of Biddy's screams, rudely unveiling the sanctuary of sorrowing widowhood. Oh! what a sight for the rising—I beg their pardon, the sinking—generation of old gentlemen who take young wives did Tom behold! There was the widow lying back in the corner—she who was represented as inconsolable and crying all day—shaking with laughter, the tears, not of sorrow, but irrepressible mirth rolling down a cheek rosy enough for a bride.
Biddy, of course, joined the shout. Tom roared in an agony of delight. The very driver's risibility rebelled against the habits of respect, and strengthened the chorus; while the lamb, as if conscious of the authorship of the joke, put in a longer and louder "Baa—a-a-a!!!"