"Oh you must, indeed, must you? A fine fuss you are making--a fine hue and cry about a beggar's brat, whom nobody took any notice of at all until the last week or so." "Come along now, ma'am, and sup up your tea," said Hannah, who just then added her own goodly proportions to the group in the hall. "I have a beautiful egg boiled as light as anything for you and new laid as though it had dropped out of the nest, and a little bit of curled up bacon. Master, you take the gentleman into the study and I'll see after Mrs. Mansfield." Now if there was one person in the world whom Mrs. Mansfield both respected and _feared_ it was her old-fashioned servant, Hannah. Hannah had lived with her ever since her marriage, solely and entirely first on account of Mr. Mansfield, and then because of the sweet brown-eyed baby. She hated the woman for herself, but she would have done more than put up with her for the sake of that good man, John Mansfield, and for the sake of the bit girleen. She was a Yorkshire woman, firm and determined. She kept the house very clean, she allowed no waste anywhere and in some extraordinary way she managed to rule Priscilla Desmond that was. She ruled her by being outspoken and by letting this Irishwoman see what she really was. "Here's your supper, ma'am," she said. "You'd better sit down quiet-like and eat it." "Hannah, I've been treated shameful--shameful." Hannah put her arms akimbo and stared fixedly at her mistress. "I can't see for the life of me where the 'shameful' comes in," she said, "and whatever made ye come back a week or more before ye were wanted. Wasn't the master and me in the thick of housecleaning when you come bally-ragging us?" "I couldn't help it, Hannah. My friend got a bad attack of pleurisy, and you know I can never stand _serious_ illness--it's more than I've nerve for."