_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 dili_cases_. 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 deli_cate_ 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 spec_takor_ 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.