"I'll keep everything safe as safe," repeated Margot. "I'll do every single thing that you want me to do and you may look out for me to-morrow week on the pier. I shall know all about Norah and Bridget and Eileen and Fergus and Bruce and Malachi by then. Oh, shan't I feel rich and aren't you just the darlingest and best of uncles?"
"Run upstairs now, child, and put on your hat. The cab will be round in a moment."
Margot disappeared.
"Bless her little heart," murmured the clergyman, "I'll just miss her terrible, but it stands to reason that she should get to know her own grandparents and her own uncles and aunts. I suppose I'm doing wrong but I can't help myself. May God forgive a weak old man. I haven't the righteous courage of my Priscilla."
Little Margot was a delightful companion in the cab. She was quite as fascinating in the train, which bore them at last to that part of the coast where a steamer sped daily from Fishguard to Rosslare. The old-fashioned trunk was hoisted on the shoulders of a sturdy porter. From him it disappeared by means of a crane into some unknown and apparently awful depths.
The Rev. John looked round him anxiously. Was there anyone on board who would take care of the little girl and put her into the right train for Kerry? At last he came across a man who undoubtedly hailed from the Emerald Isle. He had bushy whiskers and small, twinkling grey eyes; a wide-cut mouth, and no nose to speak of. Uncle John looked at him, considered him and finally made up his mind to speak to him.
He had hoped to come across a respectable lady of his little darling's own rank in life, but did not see one. Meanwhile the stranger's eyes twinkled more than ever and at last he came up to Uncle John and of his own accord held out a huge paw.
"How bain't I mistook or bain't I not, but be ye never Jacky Mansfield, son of Farmer Mansfield, bless his sowl? Why he was took years and years ago. Stroked he was, and the stroke was so mighty it took the breath out of him, and he didn't live the night out. He's all right, though—he died a good Christian man. Are ye comin' over to Ireland thinkin' to see him, John Mansfield? for ye won't, he's not there. 'It's a poor, disthressful country' we 'as in these times, John Mansfield. You are best out of it. I couldn't help noticin' ye, seein' as we stole so many wild birds' eggs together."
"Let it be," said the Reverend John. "I'm glad to see ye, Phinias Maloney. I'm not goin' to Ireland at all, but I want someone very badly to look after this little maid here. She's my niece in a kind of fashion and I've had the bringing of her up since her parents died. She wants to go to Desmondstown. You must remember her mother, Phinias?"
"Remember her?" said the Irishman, "remember the 'light of the morning'? She was all that and more. But they are in a poor way now at Desmondstown, although they manage to keep together. The gentlemen are all for the huntin' and so for that matter are the young ladies, too. Young, I call them, and will, while I live. Why ever should age be added to their burdens? And so this little missie is own grandchild to The Desmond?"