Ethel brought the letter up to her eyes and read the superscription. "Think so?" she asked calmly.
"I do," cried Peg hotly. "I do. It's the most wondherful thing in the whole wurrld. To love a good man, who loves you. A man that made ye hot and cold by turns: burnin' like fire one minnit an' freezin' like ice the next. Who made yer heart leap with happiness when he came near ye, an' ache with sorrow when he went away from ye. Haven't ye ever felt like that, Ethel?"
"Never!" replied Ethel, positively.
Peg went on: "Oh! it's mighty disturbin', I'm tellin' ye. Sometimes ye walk on air, an' at others yer feet are like lead. An' at one time the wurrld's all beautiful flowers and sweet music and grand poetry—an' at another it's all coffins, an' corpses, an' shrouds." She shook her head seriously: "Oh! I tell ye it's mighty disturbin'."
Ethel looked at her inquiringly:
"How do you know this?"
Peg grew confused, then answered hurriedly:
"I've been readin' about it—in a book. It's wondherful—that's what it is."
"When you're a little older you will think differently," corrected Ethel, severely. "You will realise then that it is all very primitive."
"PRIMITIVE?" asked Peg, disappointedly.