Peggy had not known that she was to be moved into the Upper School until this morning, and when Miss Greene had shown her the bedroom and told her that it was next door to her cousins, and that Bridget O’Donnell, the nice Irish girl, slept at the other side, Peggy supposed it was all right. She had, it is true, a little nervousness at the back of her heart with regard to both Jessie and Molly; but still she really did like Molly, and she supposed that Jessie would be kind to her. What she heard, therefore, was a horrible revelation. Her small belongings had not yet been sent up from the hospital; it was, therefore, easy to slip out of the room unheard and go downstairs. She found herself presently in the big hall, and by-and-by one of the junior teachers came hurrying past. She stopped when she saw Peggy; every one in the school knew Irish Peggy, and was interested in her on account of her accident and her peculiarly rare and vivid beauty.
“Do you want anything?” said Miss Armstetter, stopping to speak to the child.
“Yes,” answered Peggy, “I’m wantin’ to spake wid herself, if ye plase.”
“Herself?”
“Yerra, to be sure.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Peggy. Who do you mean? Who is ‘herself’? Has she a name?”
“Why thin, yes, for certain. Ye’re ignorant when ye spake like that. She’s Mrs. Fleming, belike ye may have heard of her.”
“Of course I have. I am sorry, Peggy; shall I take you to her?”
“Will she be enthralled with work just now?”
“I hope not. I think she will see you.”