“You’ve been that aggravating, Nancy, since you came back from your uncle’s I could find it i’ my heart to box your ears. But well you know I’m past it, and I was always too soft wi’ you when you were a child. Many and many’s the time I’ve screened and petted you, when a good hiding ’ud ha’ been a better kindness, and I’m rightly served for acting silly. I might ha’ known that there is them that bites the hand that strokes ’em.” The pathos in the metaphor opened the water-gates and made it necessary for Keturah to pass the rolled-up sleeve of her blouse across her eyes; but Nancy was not melted by the exhibition; on the contrary, her tone was distinctly cold and superior. “You’re forgetting yourself, Keturah, and I’ll thank you not to talk about boxing my ears as if I was a child. I’m my own mistress and I intend to be, and if you don’t like it, you’ve only to say so, and I’ll find other quarters where my money’ll perhaps be more acceptable, and there’ll be less spite and malice dished up instead of breakfast.” With these words, the water having boiled by this time, Nancy seated herself at the table in the window and began to eat, turning her back upon Keturah, who sighed heavily as she set the baking bowl on a stool in front of the fire. The tears hung in her eyes, however, for whatever her faults, Keturah was admittedly economical, and there was no sense in allowing tears to run to waste, especially as Nancy would be sure to assume that they were flowing. The atmosphere remained heavy and humid throughout the day, though Nancy caught up with her work (which was never very exacting) long before noon, and might have been considered to have atoned for her morning lapse. On her way home with the butter towards tea-time she caught sight of Baldwin and Maniwel standing together in the street, and guessed from their manner that relations were strained. After a while Baldwin entered the kitchen and having hung his hat on the peg, kicked a small stool which had the temerity to stand in his way into a corner, and seated himself at the table with a scowl on his face that was as threatening as a thundercloud. “So you’ve managed to get down, have you?” he growled, as he turned his weasel eyes on Nancy who was buttering bread. “I’ve been down an hour or two,” she replied with studied indifference; “just long enough to get the dust out of my eyes.” “It was nigh on ten before she landed,” Keturah explained, exaggerating the hour by something like forty minutes. “What we’re coming to I dursn’t think, but it’s plain to see who’s missus and who’s maid——” Nancy dropped the knife and faced them both with flashing eyes.