Well, I’m ashamed of my life, when a stranger and foreigner’s reviewing our house, though I’m only the girl in it, and no ways answerable. It frets me for my country forenent them Scotch and English. (_Mr. HOPE descends the ladder._) Then I’m sorry it’s not better for your honour’s self, and men. But there’s a new inn to be opened the 25th, in this town; and if you return this way, I hope things will be more agreeable and proper. But you’ll have no bad dinner, your honour, any way;--there’s Scotch broth, and Scotch hash, and fried eggs and bacon, and a turkey, and a boiled leg of mutton and turnips, and _pratees_ the best, and well boiled; and I hope, your honour, that’s enough for a soldier’s dinner, that’s not nice. _Mr. H._ Enough for a soldier’s dinner! ay, gude truth, my lass; and more than enough for Andrew Hope, who is no ways nice. But, tell me, have you no one to help you here, to dress all this? _Biddy._ Sorrow one, to do a hand’s turn for me but myself, plase your honour; for the daughter of the house is too fine to put her hand to any thing in life: but she’s in the room there within, beyond, if you would like to see her--a fine lady she is! _Mr. H._ A fine lady, is she? Weel, fine or coarse, I shall like to see her,--and weel I may and must, for I had a brother once I luved as my life; and four years back that brother fell sick here, on his road to the north, and was kindly tended here at the inn at Bannow; and he charged me, puir lad, on his death-bed, if ever fate should quarter me in Bannow, to inquire for his gude friends at the inn, and to return them his thanks; and so I’m fain to do, and will not sleep till I’ve done so.--But tell me first, my kind lassy,--for I see you are a kind lassy,--tell me, has not this house had a change of fortune, and fallen to decay of late? for the inn at Bannow was pictured to me as a bra’ neat place. _Biddy._ Ah! that was, may-be, the time the Larkens had it? _Mr. H._ The Larkens!--that was the very name: it warms my heart to hear the sound of it. _Biddy._ Ay, and quite another sort of an inn this was, I hear talk, in their time,--and quite another guess sort, the Larkens from these Gallaghers. _Mr. H._ And what has become of the Larkens, I pray? _Biddy._ They are still living up yonder, by the bush of Bannow, in a snug little place of a cabin--that is, the Widow Kelly. _Mr. H._ Kelly!--but I am looking for Larken. _Biddy._ Oh, Larken! that’s Kelly: ‘tis all one--she was a Kelly before she was married, and in this country we stick to the maiden’s name throughout. _Mr. H._ The same in our country--often. _Biddy._ Indeed! and her daughter’s name is Mabel, after the Kellys; for you might have noticed, if it ever happened your honour to hear it, an ould song of Mabel Kelly--_Planxty_ Kelly. Then the present Mabel is as sweet a cratur as ever the ould Mabel Kelly was--but I must mind the pratees. (_She goes to lift a pot off the fire._)