Peg nodded.
"Sleepin' in his grave, poor man."
"Why, then you're Miss Margaret O'Connell?"
"I am. How did ye know THAT?"
"I was with your uncle when he died."
"WERE ye?"
"He told me all about you."
"Did he? Well, I wish the poor man 'ud ha' lived. An' I wish he'd a' thought o' us sooner. He with all his money an' me father with none, an' me his sister's only child."
"What does your father do?" Peg took a deep breath and answered eagerly. She was on the one subject about which she could talk freely—all she needed was a good listener. This strange man, unlike her aunt, seemed to be the very person to talk to on the one really vital subject to Peg. She said breathlessly:
"Sure me father can do anythin' at all—except make money. An' when he does MAKE it he can't kape it. He doesn't like it enough. Nayther do I. We've never had very much to like, but we've seen others around us with plent an' faith we've been the happiest—that we have."