Little P. Friend! oh, what, you’re my grandmother—father, must not I call her granne?
Pick. What, he wants encouragement, sister—yes, poor soul, he’s among strangers—he’s found out one relation, however, sister—this boy’s assurance diverts me—I like him (aside.)
Little P. Granne’s mortish cross and frumpish—la father, what makes your mother, there, look so plaguy foul-weather’d.
Miss P. Mother, indeed.
Pick. Oh, nothing at all, my dear, she’s the best humoured person in the world—go throw yourself at her feet, and ask her for her blessing—perhaps she may gi’ you something.
Little P. A blessing! I sha’n’t be much richer for that neither—perhaps she may give me half a crown; I’ll throw myself at her feet, and ask her for a guinea—(kneels)—Dear granne, give me your picture (catches hold of it.)
Miss P. Stand off, wretch, am I to be robbed, as well as insulted?
Mar. Fie, child, learn to behave yourself better.
Little P. Behave myself—learn you to behave yourself, I should not have thought of you indeed—get you gone—what do you here? (beats her out.)
[and Exit.