_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_.)