"An' sure what harm is that?" she said. "Wasn't me own poor man as ould as me grandfather?--an' no woman ever buried a finer husband--God rest him!" Milbanke's lack of humorous imagination stood him in good stead. "But she's a child," he stammered--"a child----" For answer, Hannah leant out of the window until her face was close to his. "Listen here to me!" she said softly. "Child or no child, you thought about marryin' her before ever I said it. But you'd never riz the courage to do it. You're not like the Asshlins, that would tear down the walls of hell if they wanted to be gettin' at the divil; you'd like somebody to take him be the hand and draw him out nice and aisy for you---- "There she is up in that lonesome house, frettin' her heart an' cryin' her eyes out. Why can't you go up an' take her, before somebody else does?" As she came to the last words her rough voice dropped. Her loyalty to her dead master, her anxiety to see his child in a place of safety poured from her in crude eloquence. To her primitive mind Milbanke appeared as the ideal husband--a man of dependable years, of wealth, of good social position; and all her affections, all her energies yearned to make the marriage. She could not have framed the fear that possessed her; but her instinct, her acute native intuition warned her unanswerably that the daughter of Denis Asshlin would need protection, and would need it before long. With an impulsive gesture she stretched out her hand, and, touching Milbanke's shoulder, pushed him gently forward into the yard. "Go on, sir!" she urged softly. "Go on up an' take her, before somebody else does!" CHAPTER VI