_Widow._ Well, whatever troubles come upon me in this world, have not I a
right to be thankful, that has such good childer left me?--Still it grieves
me, and goes to the quick of my heart, Mabel, dear, that your brother here
should be slaving for me, a boy that is qualified for better.

_Owen._ And what better can I be than working for my mother--man or boy?

_Mabel._ And if he thinks it no slavery, what slavery is it, mother?

_Owen._ Mother, to-day is the day to propose for the new inn--I saw several
with the schoolmaster, who was as busy as a bee, penning proposals for
them, according as they dictated, and framing letters and petitions for Sir
William Hamden and Miss O'Hara. Will you go up to the castle and speak,
mother?

_Widow._ No, no--I can't speak, Owen.

_Owen._ Here's the pen and ink-horn, and I'll sit me down, if you'd sooner
write than speak.

_Widow._ See, Owen, to settle your mind, I would not wish to get that inn.

_Owen._ Not wish to get it! The new inn, mother--but if you had gone over
it, as I have. 'Tis the very thing for you. Neat and compact as a nutshell;
not one of them grand inns, too great or the place, that never answers no
more than the hat that's too big for the head, and that always blows off.

_Widow._ No, dear, not the thing for me, now a widow, and your sister
Mabel--tho' 'tis not for me to say--such a likely, fine girl. I'd not be
happy to have her in a public-house--so many of all sorts that would be in