"Yes, uncle, and my mother was one?"
"She was that, and the best of 'em all."
"Now, describe every inch of her, Uncle Jack," said Margot. "Begin—begin, go on—go on."
Now it so happened that the Rev. John Mansfield was not famous for descriptions, but he did draw a certain picture of Kathleen Desmond which was not in the least like that young lady, but which abundantly satisfied her child. Her cheeks grew redder than ever as she listened and she panted slightly as she snuggled against her beloved uncle.
"My mother must have been quite perfect," said little Margot. "Are there any of them left now, Uncle Jack?"
"Any of them left, child? Why, there is Norah and Bridget and Eileen, and there are three fine boys as well, and there's 'himself' as strong as ever, and madam, his wife, who has the finest lace in the county."
"I would like to know them," said Margot. "Why can't I get to know them, Uncle Jack?"
"Because they are just too poor to have ye with them, my little asthore—that's the truth of the matter. You have got to stay with Uncle Jack and make the best of it."
"But if I went for one week—couldn't I stay with them for one week, uncle? I do so dreadfully want to know Norah and Bridget and Eileen."