“Be my wife! dear Elizabeth,” the widower continues. “Continue to watch over the children, who shall be motherless no more.”
“Frederick! Frederick! haven’t they got us?” shrieks one of the old ladies.
“Oh, my poor dear Lady Baker!” says Mrs. Bonnington.
“Oh, my poor dear Mrs. Bonnington!” says Lady Baker.
“Frederick, listen to your mother,” implores Mrs. Bonnington.
“To your mothers!” sobs Lady Baker.
And they both go down on their knees, and I heard a boohoo of a guffaw behind the green-baized servants’ door, where I have no doubt Mons. Bedford was posted.
“Ah! Batchelor, dear Batchelor, speak to him!” cries good Mrs. Bonny. “We are praying this child, Batchelor—this child whom you used to know at College, and when he was a good, gentle, obedient boy. You have influence with my poor Frederick. Exert it for his heart-broken mother’s sake; and you shall have my bubble-uble-essings, you shall.”
“My dear good lady,” I exclaim—not liking to see the kind soul in grief.