"Dorrimore. Yes--yes. Go on. I want to hear," exclaimed Lavinia
breathlessly.

"I wouldn't ha' said a word agen her if she'd insisted upon the fine
young gentleman paying for his frolic a trying to fool you--which he
didn't do an' you may thank yourself for your sperrit Miss Lavvy--that
was only what a mother ought to do, but to sell her own child to make
money out of her own flesh an' blood--well I up an' told her to her face
what I thought of her."

"Make money out of _me_, good gracious Hannah, how?"

"The fellow offered her fifty guineas if she'd hand you over to him. He
swore he'd make a lady of you."

"What! Marry me?"

"Marry you! Tilly vally, no such thing. He'd spend money on you--fine
dresses, trinkets, fallals and all that, but a wedding ring, the
parson--not a bit of it. An' when he tired of you he'd fling you away
like an old glove."

"Would he?" cried Lavinia indignantly. "Then he won't."

"No, but it means a tussle with your mother. What a tantrum she went in
to be sure when she found you was gone. She fell upon poor me an' called
me all the foul names she could lay her tongue to. Look at these."

Hannah pushed back her cap and her hair and showed four angry red
streaks down the side of her face. Mrs. Fenton had long nails and knew