"Sure, I've felt like that many a time since I've been here. Ye know three meals a day, a soft bed to slape in an' everythin' ye want besides, makes ye mighty discontented. If ye'd go down among the poor once in a while an' see what they have to live on, an' thry and help them, ye might find comfort and peace in doin' it."
Ethel put both of her hands affectionately on Peg's shoulders.
"Last night you saved me from myself—and then; you shielded me from my family."
"Faith I'd do THAT for any poor girl, much less me own cousin."
"Don't think too hardly of me, Margaret. Please!" she entreated.
"I don't, dear. It wasn't yer fault. It was yer mother's."
"My mother's?"
"That's what I said. It's all in the way, we're brought up what we become aftherwards. Yer mother, raised ye in a hot house instead of thrustin' ye out into the cold winds of the wurrld when ye were young and gettin' ye used them. She taught ye to like soft silks and shining satins an' to look down on the poor, an' the shabby. That's no way to bring up anybody. Another thing ye learnt from her—to be sacret about things that are near yer heart instead of encouragin' ye to be outspoken an' honest. Of course I don't think badly of ye. Why should I? I had the advantage of ye all the time. It isn't ivery girl has the bringin' up such as I got from me father. So let yer mind be aisy, dear. I think only good of ye. God bless ye!" She took Ethel gently in her arms and kissed her.
"I'll drive down with you," said Ethel, brokenly, and hurried out.
Peg stood looking after her for a moment, then she turned and looked at Jerry, who was still looking out of the window.