Mary. Did you call, my dear father?
Job. Yes, I did call.
[Passionately.
Dennis. Don't you frighten that poor young crature!
Mary. Oh, dear! what has happened?—You are angry; very angry. I hope it isn't with me!—if it is, I have no reason to complain.
Job. [Softened, and folding her in his Arms.] My poor, dear child! I forgive you twenty times more, now, than I did before.
Mary. Do you, my dear father?
Job. Yes; for there's twenty times more excuse for you, when rank and education have helped a scoundrel to dazzle you. Come!
[Taking her Hand.
Mary. Come! where?