In less than a quarter of an hour, up came Betty. I let her in upon her tapping, and asking (half out of breath too) for admittance.
The Lord have mercy upon us! said she.—What a confusion of a house is this! [hurrying up and down, fanning herself with her handkerchief,] Such angry masters and mistresses!—such an obstinate young lady!—such a humble lover!—such enraged uncles!—such—O dear!—dear! what a topsy-turvy house is this!—And all for what, trow?—only because a young lady may be happy, and will not?—only because a young lady will have a husband, and will not have a husband? What hurlyburlies are here, where all used to be peace and quietness!
Thus she ran on to herself; while I sat as patiently as I could (being assured that her errand was not designed to be a welcome one to me) to observe when her soliloquy would end.
At last, turning to me—I must do as I am bid. I can't help it—don't be angry with me, Miss. But I must carry down your pen and ink: and that this moment.
By whose order?
By your papa's and mamma's.
How shall I know that?
She offered to go to my closet: I stept in before her: touch it, if you dare.
Up came my cousin Dolly—Madam!—Madam! said the poor weeping, good natured creature, in broken sentences—you must—indeed you must—deliver to Betty—or to me—your pen and ink.
Must I, my sweet Cousin? then I will to you; but not to this bold body. And so I gave my standish to her.