"I'm a bit hungry," she said after a pause, "and I don't see the armour nor the ingle nook, nor the fire that never goes out day nor night."
"Bless her heart," said Malachi, "who told you those lies about the poor old place?"
"They weren't lies, they were truths," said Margot. "My uncle, my dearest darling Jacko, told me all about everything. Oh, but couldn't I have a sup of milk or something? I'm so terrible thirsty."
Before this very natural request could be granted, a door at the side of the great hall was pushed open and an aged man with snow-white hair and black eyes entered. He was followed by a little refined gentlewoman, who looked a trifle nervous and kept on repeating, "Whist, now, Fergus; the bit things must have their fun."
"I don't allow noise and confusion in my house," said The Desmond, "and whoever in the name of the Almighty is that?"
"It is only me, grandfather," said Margot. "Uncle John wrote you a letter about me. I wanted to see you so badly, I couldn't wait any longer, on account of the longing that I had. I'm Margot St. Juste, your very own little grandchild, and I want bitter bad, to have a sup of milk. My mother was your daughter, Kathleen Desmond—and——"
"What?" shouted the old chieftain.
"Uncle Jack wrote to you about me, grandfather," said Margot, who with difficulty was keeping back her tears.
The old man strode a few paces into the great bare, empty hall. He then turned the contents of his various pockets out and presently came across Uncle Jacko's letter.