Bel.
“Says the young Obadiah to the old Obadiah,
I’m on fire, Obadiah, I’m on fire.”
Chorus.“I’m on fire.”
Min. Oh, thank you, Mr. Belvawney. How sweetly pretty that is. Where can I get it?
Miss T. How marvellous is the power of melody over the soul that is fretted and harassed by anxiety and doubt. I can understand how valuable must have been the troubadours of old, in the troublous times of anarchy. Your song has soothed me, sir.
Bel. I am indeed glad to think that I have comforted you a little, dear ladies.
Min. Dear Mr. Belvawney, I don’t know what we should have done without you. What with your sweet songs, your amusing riddles, and your clever conjuring tricks, the weary days of waiting have passed like a delightful dream.
Miss T. It is impossible to be dull in the society of one who can charm the soul with plaintive ballads one moment, and the next roll a rabbit and a guinea-pig into one.
Bel. You make me indeed happy, dear ladies. But my joy will be of brief duration, for Cheviot may return at any moment with the news that the fatal cottage was in Scotland, and then—Oh, Belinda, what is to become of me?