_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.