This letter was read by a broken-down old man who, for three days, had given up Margot as lost; whose heart was so completely broken with regard to her, that he did not give either Norah or Flannigan a thought.
When the old man read Margot's letter he gave vent to a sort of yell of delight.
"Why, bless the bit thing," he cried. "Madam, Madam, Fergus, Fergus, she's safe with that good fellow, Mansfield. Wire to her to come home. Fergus, go off at once and send a wire. Norah may go her own way. She's nothing to me compared to my Margot—my pushkeen—my blessing."
So the wire was sent, and as quickly as possible Uncle Jacko and little Margot returned to Desmondstown. Margot flew into her grandfather's arms.
"Is it right?" she said. "May they marry?"
"They may marry every single week of the year from this time forward, for all I care," said The Desmond.
"Have you told them so?" asked Margot.
"No, and don't want to."
"Granddad, you must."
"All right, my pushkeen."