A Girl of High Adventure

by L. T. Meade

"I think you are a nice little girl," said Norah. "Well, tell him, but whatever you do, get him not to speak to my father till the morning."

Margot promised to obey. Just before dinner that evening she asked Uncle Fergus to walk up and down the big picture-gallery with her. All the best pictures had been sold long ago, but still there was one very precious Romney left, also a couple of Gainsboroughs, not at that great master's best, and several by unknown artists.

Little Margot was very fond of creeping up to the picture-gallery and looking at the Romney. It represented a little dark-eyed girl exactly like herself. She did not know the likeness, but everyone else remarked it, and the people of the neighbourhood invariably said:

"Oh, do—do look at the little Romney," when Margot and her grandfather passed by.

Now she stood exactly under the picture, her dark eyes raised to the dark eyes of the little girl, who was holding an enormous bunch of cowslips in her hands. With all her likeness to Margot she had not the fire of Margot in her small face. Still, Margot loved her because she was her very own—her own ancestress, who had been born a Desmond at Desmondstown, and had died before she was old enough to marry. "So she is always a Desmond," said Margot, speaking, as was her custom, aloud. "And that in itself is beautiful. I'll run to her first when I get to Heaven—even before I see dear grandpère. I do love her. Always a Desmond—a Desmond up in Heaven. She must be wonderfully happy. Oh, is that you, Uncle Fergus?"

Uncle Fergus joined the child. He put his arm round her slim little waist, and they both stood together and looked up at the picture.

"Do you love the Romney picture, pushkeen?" he asked.

"Oh, Uncle Fergus, I just adore it. She must be so happy, never to have changed her beautiful name."

"She was your great-great-great-aunt," said Uncle Fergus. "Her name was Kathleen Desmond, and your own mother was called after her. She died a year after that picture was taken. It is the most valuable thing we possess. If sold it would fetch thousands of pounds, but I am going to ask my father to give it to you for your very own, Margot."

"Oh, oh, are you, Uncle Fergus? But I couldn't sell her, you know. If I felt she was my own, I'd keep her forever and ever and ever. She is part of me now, I love her so much."