“Welcome, wanderers!” cried a gay voice.
Pegeen was caught in strong, young arms, hugged, kissed, questioned, all in a breath.
“Was it perfect, Peggy? Not a cloud? Such a duck of a frock, dear! And the hat! Oh, sweet! The very hat of hats for you. Darling wee roses and a heavenly pink, and so becoming! Peg, I must hug you again. I really must.”
Pegeen returned the embrace fervently.
“There isn’t anything like hugging when you feel all bouncy inside,” she said. “I most did it to Susy.”
“I’ve been overlooked,”—Archibald’s voice was mournful, and the child, all contrition, flew at him and turned a glowing flower face up for his kiss.
“I wanted to, something awful,” she acknowledged shamelessly, “but I didn’t dare.” Then she kissed Ellen rapturously, while a young woman in an enveloping bib apron ducked a respectful courtesy to Archibald.
“Ellen and I hope we’ll suit, sir,” she said demurely. “Miss Pegeen O’Neill’s our riference. I’m sure she’d be sayin’ a good wur’rd for us, the way that you’d not be worryin’ over our bein’ alone with your spoons,—though it’s few spoons we’ve found, to be sure.”
The brogue was rich as cream. The eyes were a bit confusing, the dimples bereft the man of speech, and the apron—was ever a feminine garment so bewitching as an apron!
“You’ve been getting supper for us?” Archibald stammered at last.