Mrs. Mansfield was at first so much startled at seeing her brother that she could find no words to reply, but now they came in what in Ireland might be called not only a flow but a rapid torrent.
"Ah, to be sure," she said, "that's a nice thing to come and say and do. I took the child when she was too small for anyone else to think about her. I took her and cared for her and nursed her and trained her and sat up with her at night when she had the whooping-cough and the measles, and now that she is a strong colleen you want to take her from me. All I can tell you is this, Fergus, you don't get her, so there! She can be of use to me now," repeated Mrs. Mansfield, "and I won't give her up. That's my answer. You can go, Fergus. There is nothing more to be said."
"But there is something more to be said, good wife," said John Mansfield. "I have given in—I, who love the little creature as though she were my own."
"Oh, do stop your foolery, John," said Mrs. Mansfield. "Who cares whether you love her or not? It's the plague of my life the way you go on about her."
"I can't help loving her, dear, no more than you can help—help hating her."
"Who said I hated her? That's a nice thing to repeat to my brother."
"Well, then, give her up, Priscilla."
"I won't, unless I'm paid," said Priscilla. "She's a perfect torment of a child and I never did think when I went away to visit my sick friend that I should be treated in so mean and so deceitful a manner. I won't give her up unless I'm paid," screamed Priscilla. "How much are you prepared to offer me for her, Fergus?"
"I'll give you fifteen pounds, Priscilla. I'll send it to you from Desmondstown, but first of all this good fellow and I must go and see the child's French relations."