“I can’t help it, yer honour, I want to be back in Kerry, along ov Mammy an’ Daddy O’Flynn.”
“But you wouldn’t disobey your dead father, would you, Peggy?”
“No, I suppose the fairies would be at me if I did.”
“Oh no, that isn’t the reason at all. You see, your father, while he lived, was poor and was not able to help you much; but he did a very wise thing—he left you to my care, and I mean to make a lady of you, Peggy.”
“Sure, thin, ye’ll niver do that, for I’d be but a peasant colleen, an’ wishin’ for nothin’ else, yer honour.”
“You are very young, Peggy; you will change your mind.”
“Sure thin, no, yer honour. I’m not wishin’ ye any bad luck, but me mind is made up. I’ll stay wid yer honour for a bit, if it’s the will ov me dead father; but it’s back to Ireland I’ll go when I have the manes. Ye’ll niver make no lady ov me, yer honour.”
“I think, Peggy, you have a kind heart.”
“Bedad, I suppose so,” said the girl. She dropped her eyes and looked on the ground, the faintest semblance of a smile visiting the corners of her bewitching little mouth.
“And,” said Wyndham, pursuing his advantage, “you wouldn’t really hurt me, who am your own father’s friend?”