(_Helen stands with her arms folded, and her eye fixed on the door_.)
(_Mrs. Grey enters_.)
_Mrs. G_. My child! Helen, Helen! Why do you stand there thus?
_Helen_. Mother----
_Mrs. G_. Nay, do not stay to speak. There--throw this mantle around
you. Where is your hat?--not here!--Bridal gear!
(_George enters_.)
_George_. On my word! Well, well, stand there a little longer, to dress
those pretty curls of yours, and--humph--there's a style in vogue in
yonder camp for rebels just now; we'll all stand a chance to try, I
think.
_Helen_. George!--George Grey!--Be still,--be still.--We must not think
of that. It was a dream.
_George_. Is my sister mad?
_Helen_. Mother--
_Mrs. G_. Speak, my child.
_Helen_. Mother--my blessed mother,--(_aside_.) 'Tis but a brief
word,--it will be over soon.
_Mrs. G_. Speak, Helen.
_Helen_. I cannot go with you, mother.
_Mrs. G_. Helen?
_George_. Not go with us?
_Mrs. G_. Helen, do you know what you are saying?
_George_. You are in jest, Helen; or else you are mad,--before another
sunset the British army will be encamping here.
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