"I'm a bit tired, me honey," said old-young Aunt Norah. "Let me lean on your shoulder, avick. There, that's better. Shall we sit a while? I'm not one for minding the damp, being brought up in it, so to speak."
"Eh, but listen, mavourneen," said the almost husky voice of Flannigan, "ye might catch the bitter cowld, me pretty pet, and then where in the wide world would your Samuel be?"
"Why, you'd be where you always were," replied young-old Aunt Norah.
"Ah, but no! I'd be in the cowld grave," said Samuel Flannigan. "Do ye think I could live another minute without ye, Norah, me bit thing?"
This was too much for little Margot. She would not be an eavesdropper. She must explain. She came out from under the shelter of the fir tree, and flinging the cowslips and the primroses into the lap of old-young Aunt Norah, she exclaimed:
"I'm here and I know. It's lovely to listen, but I mustn't listen. I'll leave you to yourselves. I didn't think you two would take up silly at your age, but I forgot you were young-old, and that sort does anything."
The two stared at her with their mouths open, and manifest consternation in their faces.
"Is it tellin', ye are going to be?" said young-old Aunt Norah.
"To be sure not—I've nothing to tell. If I'd stayed a bit longer I might have heard more. Phinias did say to me once that you and himself there, were familiar-like; but I didn't know what it meant, and I don't know what it means now, only that he calls you 'me honey,' and you stick to him in the dripping, pouring rain. Well, if you like it I don't care; I'm going home."