"Why, if it isn't the little missie herself," cried Phinias. He strode out to meet Margot, who put her little cool hand into his.
"Oh, oh, Mr. Phinias Maloney, I couldn't get away a day sooner. I love The Desmond like mad and Madam and Fergus, but I don't care for the young old girls—only Aunt Eileen isn't so bad as the other two. They said they was only hatched about yesterday. When was you hatched, Mr. Phinias Maloney? You look miles younger than they do."
"Ah, whist, my little acushla machree" said the farmer, "kape it up to thim that they are young and you'll be as happy as the day is long."
"But I don't want to. I like Aunt Eileen tolerable, and I love Uncle Fergus and I dote on my grand-dad and Madam. Oh, I say, I had to run away to come to you, Phinias, and there is Uncle Fergus coming in at the gate."
"Do you want to hide from him, pretty one?" said Phinias.
"Is it I that would hide?" said little Margot. "That's not me. Hullo, Uncle Fergus. I ran away this morning, all my lonesome, to have a talk with dear Phinias."
Fergus Desmond looked decidedly annoyed, but the frown quickly swept from his brow.
"Phinias," he said, turning to the man, "I want to have a few words in private with you. Take little missie in and introduce her to 'Herself' and the youngest baby."
"Oh, a baby!" cried Margot. "When—when was it hatched? Does it look as old as young Aunt Norah?"