CHARACTERS.

COSTUMES.

Patience Plunkett. A very girlish attire, with an old face strongly marked; red hair, with corkscrew ringlets.

Job Seedling. Dark pants, rather short, white jacket, apron, stockings and shoes.

Other characters appropriately dressed.

Scene.—Music-room at Rosebush Institute; piano, back, C.; lounge or sofa, L.; arm-chair, R.; two or three chairs, R. and L. Entrance from R.

Bessie.

Madam Solfa has really gone off in a pet?

Lucy.

Yes: because poor me could not run up the musical scale with celerity,—in fact, stuck fast at the bottom,—her highness complained to Mrs. Candor; and Mrs. Candor—bless her!—took my part. "If the poor child cannot sing, let her alone."—"But se most be made to seeng," says madam; "and se weel steek to 'do,' and go no furzer."—"Well, let her stick there, if she likes. Her father's a baker, and she has a perfect right to stick to dough, if she likes it." So madam, shocked at the levity of our delightful preceptress, put on her bonnet and shawl, and vanished in a blaze of fury.

Bessie.

O Lucy, you have driven the poor lady away!

Lucy.

But she won't be gone long, depend upon it; for she left her baggage behind, and there's a quarter's salary due her.

Bessie.

And we must go without our lesson to-day.

Lucy.

I'm glad of it. There's no music in my soul. I must be "fit for treason and conspiracies."

Bessie.

You are the smartest girl in the school, Lucy, with this inharmonious exception.

Lucy.

I the smartest? You flatter me; and you forget our aged schoolmate, Patience Plunkett.

Bessie.

Aged! Why, Lucy, what could have possessed that mature—to speak mildly—female to class herself with young girls like us?

Lucy.

I'm sure I don't know; but Maria Mellish, who is always fishing out mysteries, told me her father, a farmer, has recently made a mint of money; and Patience has a foolish idea that she can procure an education, even at her age, and so entered Rosebush Institute as a pupil.

Bessie.

Poor thing! she is the laughing-stock of the school, and cannot be made to see it.

Lucy.

She has one devoted admirer, Job Seedling. The silly gander is evidently in love, and takes no pains to conceal it. At the table he forgets his occupation, and stands staring at her.

Bessie.

She certainly receives a great deal of attention, and all the tidbits, there. (Enter Maria Mellish, R.)

Maria.

O girls! I have found it out at last. Only think of it! a romance in Rosebush Institute! Yes: now, don't speak of this,—Job Seedling, the meek, patient Job, is a prince in disguise.

Bessie.

A prince? Nonsense.

Maria.

Well, not exactly a prince; but Hopps the milkman told me that Johnson the butcher told him that Bates the expressman told him that Patience Plunkett belongs in Razorly, and that his agent there told him that Job Seedling was the son of a rich farmer; that he got desperately enamoured of Patience, and followed her here, taking a menial situation that he might be near the object of his love. Isn't it splendid?

Lucy.

Splendid. If Mrs. Candor should hear of this, I fear that Job would have to give up his menial situation for a meaner.

Maria.

But nobody shall tell her. I mean to watch them. It will be such fun to hear Job sigh as he passes the butter, see him roll his eyes as he lifts the rolls. Oh, it's just jolly! (Enter Jane Turner and Augusta Stephens.)

Jane.

O girls! have you heard the news? Tom—

Augusta.

Candor has just arrived.

Jane.

Sick. Only think of it! Come here to be nursed. And he looks awfully.

Augusta.

Mrs. Candor hurried him off to bed at once, ordered hot jugs for his feet, hot ginger-tea, and a cold towel for his head.

Maria.

Dear me! and I never heard a word of it!

Lucy.

He ought to have a holiday, and go home.

Maria.

Oh, wouldn't that be fun! Poor fellow! I'm so sorry for him! But then, he can have jam, and jellies, and all the consolations of sickness. I think it's rather pleasant to be sick—a little. (Enter Mrs. Candor, equipped for going out.)

Mrs. Candor.

Girls, I must run down and see Dr. Bruce.

Augusta.		Is he very sick?
Maria.	(Together.)	Is he going to die?
Lucy.		Is he dangerous?

Mrs. Candor.

I hope not.

Augusta.		Will school close?
Maria.	(Together.)	Shall we have a holiday?
Lucy.		Will you send us home?

Mrs. Candor.

Dear me, what talkers! Keep quiet, girls. I'll run down and tell the doctor his symptoms.

Bessie.

Let me go for him, Mrs. Candor.

Other girls

(in chorus). Let me! I'll go! We'll all go! Do let us go!

Mrs. Candor.

No: I don't want to have him come unless it is necessary. He can determine that when I tell him the symptoms. So keep quiet. There will be no music-lesson, and you can amuse yourselves until my return—under the rules, remember. Dear me! what could have sent that boy home sick?

[Exit.

Maria.

Amuse ourselves! Oh, isn't that nice? Let's have a game of tag!

Augusta.

Nonsense! With that poor sick youth over our heads?

Maria.

That's so! We must be quiet. (Enter Bridget.)

Bridget.

If yez plase, ma'am, what'll I do? Shure, the misthress is nowhere at all, at all.

Bessie.

No, Bridget: she's gone to the doctor's.

Bridget.

To the doctor's, is it? 'Pon my sowl, there's throuble be comin' to the place. Didn't I say a windin'-sheet in the flame av me candle last night? Shure, that's a sign av disolation.

Bessie.

It's a sign the candle wanted snuffing, Bridget.

Bridget.

Oh, be dacent, Miss Bessie! Don't make light av the signs. Shure, I seed it in a candle onct whin me brither Pathrick was ailin' wid the masles, and jist fourteen months and six days from that very night he died.

Maria.

Of the measles?

Bridget.

Go long wid yez! Didn't he fall into a well, and break his neck wid drowning?

Augusta.

Now, Bridget, Mrs. Candor told us we might amuse ourselves while she is gone. Do you know what would most amuse us?

Bridget.

Troth, I don't.

Augusta.

A nice mince-pie.

Maria.

Oh, yes; and some cold tongue!

Jane.

And a pickle. Don't forget a pickle.

Bridget.

I'll forgit mesilf if I git any sich dilicases. No, no: I'll not be afther givin' yez ony sich divarshun.

Maria.

O Bridget! you know me. I've got an elegant breastpin, that will look well—

Augusta.

Fastened to a pretty green necktie that I've no use for.

Jane.

And they will match a nice pair of earrings that mother has promised to send me for somebody—you know, Bridget.

Bridget.

Och, the darlints! It's the foine wheedlin' way yez have, onyhow. Well, well, it's mesilf will look into the panthry; an' if there's a delicate morsel, that's in danger av shpoiling, mayhap it moight find its way up here. But I'll make no promises.

[Exit.

Maria.

Now let's have a dance.

Augusta.

Oh, that's splendid! (Enter Patience.)

Patience.

A dance! A dance in the halls of learning! Horrible! Girls, it must not be! You shock me. I came here to cultivate my understanding.

Maria.

And dancing will do it, Patience: it's just the thing for the understanding.

Patience.

Maria Mellish, I'm ashamed of you. You want polish.

Maria.

A polished floor is delightful, but not necessary to the poetry of motion. Come, girls, a dance, a dance!

Patience.

Not in my presence. I will be no spectakor of such priv-priv—nonsense. No: we are here for a higher purpose; to enlarge our ca-ca—talents, to store our minds with the in-in—things which the great minds of all ages have con-con—got together for good.

Maria

(aside to Augusta). Poor Patience! how she trips at the hard words!

Patience.

If there is any dancing here, I shall feel under ob-ob—I shall tell Mrs. Candor.

Maria.

Well, Miss Tattler, you shall be under no ob-ob to do any such thing, for we won't dance.

Patience.

If we have a leisure hour, it cannot be better employed than in the per-per—reading of a useful book.

Maria.

That's so. (Goes to R., and calls.) Here, Job, bring Miss Patience the dictionary. Come, girls, let's have a sing.

Augusta

(aside to Maria). Hateful old thing!

Bessie.

Let us look over the music; perhaps we can find something sweet and soft, that will not disturb the invalid.

Jane.

Good! "Mulligan Guards," or, "Gentle Spring." (They go to the piano, which should be placed with back to audience. Bessie opens a musicbook; and they gather about her, turning over the leaves. Patience sits on lounge, L.)

Patience.

Thoughtless girls! they lack the wisdom and ripe ex-ex—Dear me! it's so hard to remember these words!—experience of my ma-ma—older years. But I, in what the poet calls "the fresh bloom of womanhood," can curb their flightiness. Ah, this life is so con-con-gealing to my ambitious spirit! I am so rapidly mastering the ru-ru—first steps of learning! I feel that I shall de-de-velop a gi-gi-antic mind, and burst upon the rude boors of Razorly like some glorious starry con-con-consternation.

(Enter Job, R., with a large quarto dictionary in his arms. He stops at entrance; sees Patience, clasps the dictionary to his breast, and heaves a sigh.)

Maria

(at piano). Hush! there's Job. Now watch the pair.

Job.

There she is, "a-sittin' on the style, Mary," the stylish lounge. Oh, would I were the plush upon that lounge, that I might clasp that form! That's Romeo, altered for the occasion. Oh, I'm chock full of these frenzied ideas! I do nothing but read Shakspeare and them other poet-chaps—when I ain't handling plates, or scouring knives; for I'm in love, oh, so bad! with Patience Plunkett. Oh that name! it runs in my head. It is so musical, so full of poetry!

With fair, bewitching Patience Plunkett

I'm in love. Who would have thunk it?

There's poetry, all out of my own head too. (Comes down.) Miss Patience! dear Patience!

Patience.

Why, Job, is that you? How you startled me! I was rume-rume—

Job.

Not rheumatic. Oh, don't say that you are suffering, beloved Patience!

Patience.

I was ruminating upon some lines in Homer's Ilyd, the original Greek. You are not acquainted with Greek, Job?

Job.

Well, Patience, I'm not acquainted with many on 'em. There was old Pat Haggerty, in Razorly: they used to call him an Original Greek—

Patience.

O Job! I have no patience with you. How can you expect me to stoop from my high speer to mate with you, unless you cultivate your head more ass-ass-iduously?

Job.

Well, I've had it cut and shampooed three times since I've been here. If that ain't cultivating it, I'll have it ploughed next time. Here's your dictionary, Patience.

Patience.

Thank you: I do not require it.

Job.

Then, why did you send for it?

Augusta

(at piano, reading music-titles as they turn the leaves). "Wouldn't you like to know?"

Job

(turning round). Eh? Why, there's the whole lot of 'em!

Maria.

No: that won't do. That's too sentimental.

Patience.

They sent for it, not I. You can take it back.

Job.

O Patience! why are you so cold to one who loves you to distraction? Why—

Maria

(reading title). "Lubly Cynthia." That's good.

Job

(turning round). Plague take those girls! You know that for love of you I've left my home, Patience, and have donned the apron of a waiter, and become a patient waiter for you, Patience. Oh! when shall my love be rewarded with the possession of that plump white hand?

Jane.

"When Johnny comes marching home." That's lovely.

Job

(turning round). Eh? Oh, bother them girls!

Patience.

Don't mind them, Job. They do not dream of our attachment. They do not dream you are my—

Maria.

"Curly little bow-wow."

Job

(turning round). There, now! What's the use of trying to talk where them girls are? Patience, dear Patience, meet me, meet me—

Augusta.

"Meet me by moonlight alone."

Job.

Oh them girls! Meet me after tea in the woodshed, while I am cleaning knives. We can commune: we can exchange vows: we can—

Maria.

"Root hog or die."

Patience.

Yes, Job, I will be there. But be secret. If our attachment is discovered, Mrs. Candor will instantly dismiss you. And it's so romantic to have a lover in disguise! I know you love me, Job. Have patience.

Job.

I mean to have her. Don't I love you better than all else in the world? better than—

Augusta.

"My old Aunt Sally."

Job.

Eh? (Aside.) I believe they are doing that on purpose. (Aloud.) Farewell, Patience! I must tear myself away from your beloved presence. My heart—

Maria.

"Oh! my heart goes pit-a-pat."

Augusta.

"Somebody's coming, I'll not tell who."

Jane.

"Let me kiss him for his mother."

Lucy.

"Single gentleman, how do you do?"

Job.

Eh? Oh, I'm pretty well.

Maria.

Oh! nobody's talking to you, Job. Go about your business.

Job.

Thank you. I don't hanker for your society, do I? A parcel of harum-scarum girls, who are no more to be compared to—

Lucy

(reads). "The girl I left behind me."

Job.

Oh, gracious! can they suspect? (Starts off R., drops the dictionary, and stumbles over it; then picks it up, and exit R.)

Maria.

He's stumbled over the hard words too.

Bessie.

There's nothing here we can sing.

Maria.

Oh! here's one: "Upidee."

Lucy.

Oh, that's nice! (One of the girls strikes the piano, and all join in chorus of "Upidee." At the conclusion, three loud thumps are heard outside.)

Maria.

Oh, dear! That's Tom. We have disturbed him.

Lucy.

No matter: let's try it again, softer. (Chorus repeated. At its conclusion, enter Tom, R., with a blanket wrapped about him, and a wet towel tied about his head. The girls scream, and run down R. and L., leaving him in C.)

Tom.

Oh, dear! how can you reasonably suppose that a young man can be comfortably sick with such a racket going on down here? Oh, my head, my head! my poor, poor head!

Bessie.

Oh, Tom, we're so sorry we disturbed you!

All

(in chorus). Yes, indeed; awful!

Lucy.

Wouldn't have done it for the world, had we known you didn't like it.

All

(in chorus). No, indeed, we wouldn't!

Tom.

Oh, yes! that's all very well, now the mischief's done. Why, you might drive me into a fever.

All

(in chorus). Oh, that would be dreadful!

Tom.

You might—you might bring on convulsions, spasms, with such outrageous squalling. I'll complain of you! Where's my aunt? Where is my fond, affectionate relative?

Bessie.

She's gone out, Tom: gone to the doctor's.

Tom.

Eh? Gone out? Good! (Throws off blanket, and tears towel from his head.) Thomas is himself again!

All

(in chorus). Why, Tom!

Tom.

Because Tom is only homesick, girls. My good aunt would not give me time to explain that I was tired of school, eager to have a frolic, and so got leave of absence, and came home for a day. No: she caught the "sickness," and bundled me off to bed. I humored the joke, and laughed under the bedquilt. But no sooner was she out of the room, but I was out of bed, dressed myself, and here I am, ready for any thing in the way of sport you have to offer. How long will she be gone?

Bessie.

Perhaps half an hour.

Tom.

Then for half an hour we will enjoy ourselves. Come, girls, what shall it be?

Maria.

Oh! isn't this jolly?

Augusta.

Real nice!

Jane

(and others). Splendid! Beautiful!

Augusta.

Let's play "Hide the Slipper."

Maria.

No: "Copenhagen."

Tom.

Any thing—every thing. The noisier the better.

Patience

(rising). Stop! Young ladies, are you aware of the rules of this ed-ed-ucational institute? We have been sent here from our happy homes, to be se-se-questrated from contact with the ruder sex; and now you propose to indulge in games, childish games, for your amusement and ame-ame-amelioration. I am ashamed of you! I blush for you!

Tom

(aside to Maria). Oh! that's one of the teachers.

Maria.

Hush! It's one of the girls.

Tom.

One of the girls? Why, she's old enough to be your mother!

Patience.

I shall not submit to the in-in-trusion of a young man upon our privacy. He must instantly leave the room.

Tom.

I beg your pardon, Mrs.—Excuse me, miss: a slip of the tongue. But you look so much like my Aunt Matilda! But then, she's forty-five; and you can't be over thirty—

Patience.

Sir!

Tom.

Not quite, miss. I'm still very young, and not entitled to that address. But I couldn't think of infringing upon the rules; oh, no! I should have been pleased to spend half an hour in such agreeable society; but, as you object, I will go.

Girls

(in chorus). Oh, no; don't go; stay!

Patience.

I insist upon his immediately quitting the room. I did not come here to flirt and frolic with young men, but to improve my mind, to store it—

Maria.

Oh, bosh, Patience! I've no patience with you.

Tom.

"Let Patience have her perfect work."

Maria

(aside). She's a humbug, Tom. Our Job is in love with her, and she with him; and they are billing and cooing every chance they can get.

Tom

(aside). Maria, you're a jewel. You have enlightened my understanding. You shall see some fun. (Aloud.) Miss Patience, you are right: I was wrong to disturb your peaceful meditation. Forgive me. I will go, and in the quiet of my chamber contemplate—the basin of gruel which my fond aunt has left me for consolation.—Sorry, girls; but the rules must be obeyed.

[Exit, R.

Maria.

Patience Plunkett, you're a hateful old thing!

Augusta.

Yes; just as mean as you can be.

Jane.

If you are so fond of seclusion, why don't you go to your own room?

Maria.

Yes; and study the Book of Job.

Bessie.

Hush, Maria!

Patience.

You know I am right; and I am not at all stu-stu-pefied by your ob-ob-jackulations. I am a few years older than you—only a few; and I have wisdom to guide—

Maria.

Oh, fiddlesticks! We have all the preaching we want, and don't believe in yours.

Tom

(outside). Oh, oh! My hand! my hand!

Bessie.

Tom has hurt himself.

Tom

(outside). Oh! gracious goodness, how it smarts! (Enters R. hurriedly, his left hand concealed in a large piece of white cloth. He should also have in his hand apiece of wood, under the cloth; a string in his right hand.) O girls! I've done it now! That hand I was so proud of, oh! so white and delicate, oh!

Bessie.

What is it, Tom? Have you cut it?

Lucy.

Burnt it?

All

(in chorus). Oh! what is the matter? (They gather about him.)

Tom.

Oh! don't come near me. The slightest touch is agony, agony, agony! I went up stairs—oh! to my basin of gruel—oh! Beside the gruel—oh! there was a knife—oh! I took it up—oh! and—and—and oh, oh, oh!

Jane.

I've got some Russia salve in my room.

Maria.

Let me run for it.

Tom.

No. I've spread on the salve an inch thick. Oh! it's all right. It will soon be well. If I only had some one to tie it up for me!

All

(in chorus). Let me. Let me. I'll tie it. (They crowd around him.)

Tom.

Oh, quit! Keep off! Do you want to kill me. The least touch causes an indescribable sensation to quiver and shoot to the roots of my hair. Oh! I want a gentle hand, a skilful hand, a matronly hand. Miss Patience, you have much skill, tact. Will you condescend to—to tie up my paw?

Girls

(in chorus). Poor Tom!

Patience

(approaching him). Certainty, if I can relieve your suffering.

Tom.

You can, you can! Oh! (Gives her string, and extends his hand. She stands L. of him. Girls fall back R. and L. She winds the string about hand.)

Tom.

Gently, gently! Oh! how soft and tender! It seems as though my mother was hovering about me. Take care, take care! Gently! (She ties the string.) Be very careful.

Patience.

I think that is tied tight.

Tom.

You think so? But you must be sure.

Patience

(taking his hand, and looking at string). Yes, it's all right.

Tom

(slipping his hand out of cloth, leaving it in her hands). Then you keep it, Patience, as a slight token of regard. "I'd offer thee this hand of mine, if I could love thee less." Keep it, Patience, and "wipe your weeping eyes," when I am far away.

[Runs off R.

Patience

(throws the wrapper after him; Girls laugh). Was there ever such an insulting young puppy! Oh, his aunt shall know of this! I'll not go to my slumbers until I have told my story. Now laugh. (Girls shout with laughter.) You ought to be ashamed of yourselves.

Maria.

You told us to laugh. Seems to me you cannot be suited any way.

Patience

(sits on lounge). That scamp shall go out of this house, or I will. The idea of his daring to play such a trick upon me! Thought his mother was hovering about him!

(Enter Tom R., enveloped in a large cloak or "waterproof," straw bonnet on his head, with a green veil down.)

Tom

(at R.). Ef yez plaise, young ladies, I'm a poor ould widdy-woman, wid a husband in Californy; and the door was open, and I made bould, ef yez plaise, to walk in, and beg a chrust of bread. It's nine days jist, since a morsel of bread, or a sup of tay, has passed me lips.

Bessie.

Poor old lady!

Chorus.

Oh! do come in! (Bessie sets a chair C., and the others crowd about Tom, and lead him to chair.)

Tom.

Oh! it's the kind hearts yez have, ony way. I'm wairy wid the walkin', and faint wid the hunger; and I've corns on my fute, and chilblain on my fingers, an' siven childer at home.

Maria.

Somebody give her something to eat.

Jane.

Here's Job with the tray.

Augusta.

And our lunch. (Enter Job with tray.)

Job.

Hallo! Who's this?

Jane.

A poor old woman, nearly starving. Quick! Give me the tray. (Takes it, and places it in Tom's lap.) Here, old woman, help yourself.

Tom

(aside). My eyes! Here's luck; and I've had nothing but gruel. (Eats voraciously.) It's the kind hearts ye have.

Jane.

Poor thing. Hasn't eaten any thing for nine days!

Job.

I should say nine months,—the way she puts it away.

Maria.

Oh, there's Bridget! Here, Bridget! (Enter Bridget, R.) Here's a countrywoman of yours.

Bridget.

Indade! An' what be she doin' up-stairs, I dunno?

Bessie.

She's very hungry, and we gave her our lunch.

Bridget.

Oh, murther! An' me company mince-pies goin' down her throat! Oh! it's wastin' yez are. A cowld pratie would be good enough for her.

Maria.

Speak to her, Bridget; the tongue of her native land might please her.

Bridget.

Faith, it's my belief that the Yankee tongue she's stowin' away is far more to her liking. Whist, avourneen!

Tom

(aside). That's Irish. (Aloud.) To be sure! Yis, siscon. Fag-a-Balah. Erin-go-bragh. I'm obleeged to yez.

Bridget.

Were yez long from the owld country?

Tom.

Siventeen years come nixt Candlemas.

Bridget.

County Tipperary, I dunno?

Tom

(aside). Nor I either. (Aloud.) County Coberdowelgowen. D'ye mind that?

Bridget.

'Pon my sowl, I niver heard of it. D'ye know Larry McFinley at all, at all?

Tom.

Him as lived at Doublin?

Bridget.

Thrue for yez.

Tom.

'Pon me sowl, I niver hard his name before or since. My memory's failin', since I took to fortin'-tellin'.

Girls

(in chorus). Oh! a fortune-teller. Isn't that grand!

Job.

Well, old lady, if you're done with that waiter, I'll take it.

Tom

(giving waiter). It's little appetite I have, any way.

Job.

Little! She has done with it. There's nothing left.

Tom.

Yis. I'm a bit of a fortin'-teller; and, in return for yer kindness, I'll be after tellin' yez a bit.

Maria.

Tell me mine first.

Other girls.

No, no! Mine, mine!

Tom.

Ah, be aisy. The wisest and the wittiest afore the youngest and the prettiest, that's my way.

Job.

Well, 'sposin' you commence with me, old lady. I calculate I can see through a grindstone when there's a hole in it.

Tom.

Ah! but they don't make the holes large enough for your observation nowadays, my foine fellow. But I know you. I can say through yez. Yez not yerself at all. Lave me alone for seein' through a body. You're in love. Ah! don't blush, man: it's rid enough yez are, onyhow. Yer fortune's made,—why would I be tellin' yez?

Job

(aside). She's a keen one.

Bridget.

If yez plaise, will yez tell me?

Tom.

Oh! go way wid yez. Don't demane yerself before the foine folk!

Bridget

(angrily). Will, I'd loike to know.

Tom.

Will, yez won't. It's ignorant yez are. The lady of the house would like to know where the sugar goes! D'ye mind?

Bridget.

Oh! it's a witch she is, onyhow. I'll not cross her.

Jane.

Now, my good woman, please tell me my fortune.

Other Girls.

No. Mine, mine!

Tom.

Be aisy. Don't I tell you? There's the foine lady on the sate beyant. Would she be after having her fortune towld, I dunno?

Patience.

No. I do not believe in such negrominstrelsy.

Maria.

Necromancy. Oh! what a mistake!

Tom.

Well, I don't know. The fates p'int that way. Onless I can tell her fate, I'll not be permitted to oblige yez.

Maria.

Oh, do, Patience!

Other Girls.

Yes, Patience, do!

Job.

Yes, do, dear—I mean, Miss Patience.

Patience.

Well, if it will please you, I will condescend to the examination. (Approaches Tom, and offers her hand. He takes it. The Girls crowd about him.)

Tom.

Faith, that's a good hand,—a foine large hand; and yez a fortune. You've gowld and galore. (Enter Mrs. Candor, unperceived, at back, with her hat and shawl; she stands by piano.) Ah! but what's this? Ah! Yis, it's the way of the wourld. There's a young man close by.

Patience

(trying to release her hand). It's no such thing. Let me go!

Tom.

It's the truth I'm tellin'.

Job.

She's a-goin' to let the cat out of the bag.

Patience.

I don't want to hear any more.

Tom.

Aisy, aisy! It's the fates wills it! He loves yez, honey, and you love him; and what will love not do, honey? He drops from his high estate, puts on the waiter's apron, and follows you,—his heart all the time cryin', "Have Patience!" Owld Job, him as had the cutaneous irruptions, had patience, and so shall Job Seedling have Patience.

Girls

(in chorus). Oh, my! Our Job?

Patience.

No: not your Job, but my Job. I'm not ashamed to own him!

Mrs. Candor

(coming forward). I'm very glad to hear it. (Girls start to R. and L.)

Girls

(in chorus). Mrs. Candor!

Tom

(aside). My aunt! Oh, here's a pickle. (Hides his head.)

Job

(aside). There'll be a nice row now!

Mrs. Candor

(to Patience). So, young lady, contrary to all rules, you are carrying on a flirtation under my very nose.

Girls

(in chorus). It's awful! wicked! O Patience!

Patience.

Well, what is a poor girl to do? Job loves me, and I love Job; and—and (sobbing) you couldn't be so wicked as to part two-wo-wo young lovers!

Job.

Yes; born for each other,—

"Two roses on one stalk!"

Them's us, Patience and Job.

Mrs. Candor.

You, Master Job, will be wanted here no more; and as for you, Miss Patience, a word with you. (They go L., and talk in dumb show.)

Bridget.

Faith, I'll git the owld woman out of the way. (To Tom.) Whist, come away! (Takes hold of him, and shakes him.) The misthress will be the death of yez. Coome!

Tom

(aside). Away wid yez!

Bridget.

Away wid yerself, or there'll be throuble whin the misthress claps her eye onto yez. Coome, coome! (Pulling her.)

Mrs. Candor.

Yes, Patience, I think it best you should close your connection with the school at once. (Turns to Tom.) But who is this?

Bridget.

If yez plaise, she's a cousin of mine from County Cob-Cob—something; and, if yez plaise, she's a fortune-teller.

Tom.

Af yez plaise, would I tell yez fate, misthress?

Mrs. Candor.

No: let me tell yours. Boys that deceive their elders will never come to good.

Tom

(jumps up, and throws off cloak and bonnet). Discovered!

Girls

(in chorus). It's Tom! Oh, it's Tom!

Bridget.

Well, I niver! 'Pon my sowl! I dhouted the accint of his muther-tongue. County Cob-Cob! Oh, yez a gay desaver!

Tom.

It was the gruel, aunt. It flew to my head.

Mrs. Candor.

Oh, you scamp! Pack up your bag, and off to school at once: you have made a fine disturbance here.

Tom.

I meant no harm, aunt. I was anxious to come home to taste your mince-pies; eh, Bridget?

Bridget.

It's a greedy epicae yez are, anyhow.

Tom.

Your tongue and pickles. You wouldn't give me time to explain, and I was so homesick! Let me stay my time out.

Girls

(in chorus). Oh, do, Mrs. Candor, do!

Mrs. Candor.

No: back you go. You've given me a fright, made me travel a mile to the doctor's, and set my school in commotion. No, sir; back you go. I'll have no thorns among my roses.

Tom.

Ah! but I removed the thorns, aunt. I think I'll get back, though. 'Twill be such an item for the papers!—"Romantic episode at Rosebush Institute."

Mrs. Candor.

Would you ruin me?

Tom.

Then don't send me away hungry. Stuff me with mince-pies, so that I can't utter a word, and the world shall never know how a homesick youth proved that love, in the halls of learning, is but a Thorn among the Roses.

Curtain.