"A hag of an aunt," says I sympathetically, "to bruise one so tender and so dutiful, I'll swear."
"Yes, 'tis so," says she, now with some confidence, and wagging her little head towards me. "She knows not when she is well-served—that she doth not."
"I'll take oath of that," says I.
"I am daughter to her husband's sister, sir," said she, running on glibly by this time, "and Cousin Tom is sib to me."
"Why, for sure, if he be your cousin," said I.
"And when my mother died," she said, taking no heed, "uncle says I must live with him, and there have I lived all these years."
"None so many, rip me," says I, handsomely.
"He has had good service out of me," she said, casting me a glance, as of one who would assert her rights. "There have I worked for my Aunt Susan and cast up figures for uncle, and no thanks given me—no, not a crown's worth all these years."
"A sorry pair of skinflints," said I, nodding. "But I would not cry tears on them, not I, if I was a spirited wench."
"'Tis not that," says she, weeping anew. "'Tis that I am turned out of doors; they will not have me more."