_Widow._ What is it? What ails the boy? Are ye mad, Owen?

_Owen._ (_capering, and snapping his fingers_) Ay, mad! mad with joy I am.
And it's joy I give you, and joy you'll give me, mother darling. The
new inn's yours, and no other's, and Gilbert is your own too, and no
other's--but Mabel's for life. And is not there joy enough for you, mother?

_Widow._ Joy!--Oh, too much! (_She sinks on a seat._)

_Owen._ I've been too sudden for her!

_Widow._ No, dear--not a bit, only just give me time--to feel it. And is it
true? And am I in no dream now? And where's Mabel, dear?

_Owen._ Gone to the well, and Gilbert with her. We met her, and he turned
off with her, and I come on to tell you, mother dear.

_Widow._ Make me clear and certain; for I'm slow and weak, dear. Who told
you all this good? and is it true?--And my child Mabel _mavourneen_!--Oh,
tell me again it's true.

_Owen._ True as life. But your lips is pale still, and you all in a
tremble. So lean on me, mother dear, and come out into God's open air, till
I see your spirit come back--and here's your bonnet, and we'll meet Mabel
and Gilbert, and we'll all go up to the castle to give thanks to the lady.

_Widow._ (_looking up to heaven_) Thanks! Oh, hav'n't I great reason to be
thankful, if ever widow had!

[_Exeunt, WIDOW leaning on OWEN._