“’Twarn’t much of a lark,” said Peggy, “but I’ll not tell, make yer mind aisy. Tell them cowards that the only wan I’ll tell the truth to will be Whinsie, poor dear. Go along now, an’ ate up yer dinner. I can’t walk, even to obleege ye. I think me leg’s broke—anyhow, I can’t put it to the ground by no manner o’ manes. Ye lave me an’ go an’ ate yer dinner.”
“Oh but, Peggy, your leg can’t be broken!” Grace’s agony was now beyond words.
“An’ why shouldn’t it be?” answered Peggy. “Didn’t ye hit out wid yer shillalah, an’ didn’t I see ye lettin’ it fly like blazes when I was tryin’ to get away from the whole four of yez?”
“Oh Peggy, Peggy, I couldn’t have done it!”
“But ye did do it, Grace Dodd; an’ oh, for the Lord’s sake, lave me, an’ don’t touch me leg or I’ll let out a screech that’ll frighten the birds.”
“Oh Peggy, Peggy, I could die, I’m so sorry! Dear Peggy, do forgive me. And you won’t tell, you promise you won’t tell anybody?”
“Niver so much as a spalpeen of a word; only lave me, for the Lord’s sake!”
Grace very unwillingly crossed the field; she entered the refectory where the girls were all enjoying an excellent dinner, glanced at The Imp, gave her head an imperceptible shake, and then went up to where Mrs. Fleming was seated at the top table in the sunny bay window. The Imp could not hear what she said, and in consequence went through a very awful half-hour. Grace had, however, collected her faculties. She was genuinely cut to the heart at having injured Peggy, and the conviction that came over her that nothing would make the poor little despised Irish girl tell scarcely added at that moment to her happiness.
“If I weren’t in the power of The Imp, upon my word I’d tell everything,” thought poor Grace; but, as it was, she knew she must be silent.
Mrs. Fleming looked up in amazement when the tall, awkward girl came to the head table.