_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 for 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 it, and drinking, may be, at fairs and funerals, and no man of the house, nor master, nor father for her. _Owen._ Sure, mother, I’m next to a father for her. Amn’t I a brother? and no brother ever loved a sister better, or was more jealous of respect for her; and if you’d be pleasing, I could be man and master enough. _Widow._ (_laughing_) You, ye dear slip of a boy! _Owen._ (_proudly, and raising his head high_) Slip of a boy as I am, then, and little as you think of me-- _Widow._ Oh! I think a great deal of you! only I can’t think you big nor old, Owen, can I? _Owen._ No--nor any need to be big or old, to keep people of all sorts in respect, mother. _Widow._ Then he looked like his father--did not he, Mabel? _Mabel._ He did--God bless him! _Owen._ Now hear me, mother, for I’m going to speak sense. You need not listen, Mabel. _Mabel._ But it’s what I like to listen to sense, especially yours, Owen. _Owen._ Then I can’t help it.--You must hear, even if you blush for it. _Mabel._ Why would I blush? _Owen._ Because you won’t be able to help it, when I say Mr. Gilbert.--See! _Mabel._ Oh, dear Owen! that’s not fair. (_She falls back a little._) _Owen._ Well, mother, it’s with you I’m reasoning. If he was your son-in-law-- _Widow._ Hush! that he’ll never be. Now, Owen, I’ll grow angry if you put nonsense in the girl’s head. _Owen._ But if it’s in the man’s head, it’s not a bit nonsense. _Mabel._ Owen, you might well say I shouldn’t listen to you. [_Exit MABEL._ _Widow._ There now, you’ve drove your sister off. _Owen._ Well, Gilbert will bring her on again, may be. _Widow._ May be--but that _may be_ of yours might lead us all wrong. [_She lays her hand on OWEN’S arm, and speaks in a serious tone._