Presently, however, as the old man was feeling the comfort of her presence, he was startled by one great tear splashing on his hand.
"Why, my pushkeen, alanna," he said. "I thought for sure that the Desmonds never cried—those that are true Desmonds, I mean."
"It was only one tear, granddad," said little Margot. "I don't like anybody to be unhappy."
"Eh, now, to be sure, nor do I," said The Desmond.
"But there's Aunt Norah, granddad. She is very mis'rable; she is fond of Samuel."
"Don't ye dare," said the old man. His whole manner changed; he pushed her off his knee. She looked at him without reproach, but with intense sadness, and then slowly, very slowly left the room.
He was so wretched after she had gone that he felt inclined to call her back, and to tell her that all the foolish Norah Desmonds in the wide world and all the ridiculous, low-born Samuel Flannigans might marry, if only she would stay with him and comfort him.
Madam came in presently and found him alone. The one tear that Margot had shed had dried on his horny old hand, but he kept on looking at the hand. He did not attempt to wipe that tear—that pearl of all price—away. It had dried itself. He thought his hand a sort of sacred thing because it held one tear from the little pushkeen.
"What ails your hand, Fergus?" asked Mary, his wife.
"Oh, nothing," he replied. "Why shouldn't I have a hand in all conscience, and why shouldn't I look at it? Where on earth is the pushkeen?"