_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.)