"Whist, whist, missie darlint, come this way," said Phinias.
He took the little hand and led the child into the tumble-down kitchen.
"No remarks," he said, "if you please," dropping his voice to a whisper and introducing the little girl to "Herself," a handsome blue-eyed young woman of the true Kerry type of beauty. "The place is a bit shook up, I'm not goin' for to deny it; but neither will I let The Desmond be bothered puttin' it right. Now there's a straight tip for you, little missie. Annie, mavourneen, here's a swate little lady from Desmondstown, who I brought across the say all the way from England. She has come to pay us a call, kape her with yourself, Annie. I'll be back again in a twinklin'."
"When was the last baby hatched?" said Margot.
"Bless your heart, little missie," said Mrs. Maloney, "we don't talk of childer as hatched. He's two months old. I've called him Phinias after his dadda."
"Oh, oh, let me hold him," said little Margot, "oh, oh, I'm so glad he wasn't hatched. My aunties are hatched about every second day and it makes them so terrible young, and so, so queer. Isn't he a perfect darling? May I kiss him, Mrs. Phinias—'cause I'm so fond of your husband."
"Bless you, pretty one, to be sure you may."