"Hannah," I said, "I must have some food. I am awfully hungry." "Well, set down right there by the kitchen table and I'll give you another chop," said Hannah. "I hear the Professor's not coming back to-night. It's the very queerest thing I remember happening since your poor mother died. But you set there and I'll grill a chop for you, and you shall have it piping hot, and potatoes as well. There, now, what do you say to that?" I thought I would oblige Hannah to any extent with the prospect of such a meal in front of me, and accordingly I sat down while she prepared the chop and potatoes. Presently she brought them to me, and I ate them with the satisfaction which only a hungry schoolgirl can feel when she is seldom given a satisfying meal. "Master said to me just before he left, `Tidy up the house a bit, Hannah.' Never heard him make such a remark before in all my life since your poor mother were took." "You remember mother very well, don't you, Hannah?" "Bless her! yes, I have memories." Hannah looked very thoughtful. "Do sit down," I said. "You and I are alone in the house." "You are her mortal image," said Hannah as she sank into her chair. "I like mother?" "Not in face, but in ways. You have a sort of coaxing way with you, and your temper is good--I will say that. But God only knows who you hark back with regard to face, for you are plain, Dumps, there's no doubt of that." "So every one says--that is, every one except Mr Von Marlo." "That queer Dutch boy--that foreigner? Nobody minds what foreigners say." "Still, it is nice sometimes, by somebody, to be called even fairly good-looking," I responded. "Maybe you're in Dutch style," said Hannah. "I always was told they had flattened-out faces, same as the Dutch dolls, you know." This remark was scarcely flattering; but then Hannah, on principle, never did flatter. "Tell me about mother," I said. "What was she really like?" "Mr Alex takes after her. Eyes blue as the sky, a tender, gentle face, rather tall, rather slim, the sweetest of voices." "Why did she die?" I asked. My own voice trembled. "Killed, child--killed." "Killed?" I exclaimed. "I never heard that." "Oh, there are ways of doing the job! She weren't killed by any accident--not by fire, nor by water, nor by a street accident--but just she wanted what she couldn't get." "And what was that?" "Why, the understanding of the sort of man she had married. He is real good is the Professor, downright good at heart, but he wanted a different sort of wife from your mother, some one as could rouse him and take him by the shoulders and shake him. That's the sort he wanted, and she weren't the kind. So, you see, she hadn't enough sunshine, and by-and-by the want of sunshine killed her. Yes, she were killed if ever a woman were killed; yes, that's it--killed." I started to my feet. "You really are very melancholy, Hannah."