“No, a hotel; not a public-house.”
Peggy was silent.
They soon reached Dublin, the little black trunk was put on the top of a cab, and they drove away to the Shelburne Hotel. There Wyndham secured two bedrooms, one for himself and one for Peggy, and ordered a meal to be served in the coffee-room. Peggy looked a strange little figure as she entered the room. All eyes followed her as, accompanied by her guardian, she approached a small table and slipped down awkwardly into her chair. A waiter came up with a dish which contained eggs and bacon, and presented it to Peggy. She looked at it and pushed it away.
“Sure thin, it’s ashamed of yerself you ought to be!” she said.
The man stared at her in amazement. Wyndham felt a catch in his breath.
“Sure thin, is it beautiful fresh eggs ye’d break like that? I’d like to give ye a lesson in cooking.”
“Perhaps, Peggy, you would like a boiled egg best?” said her guardian.
“I wouldn’t, unless it was laid right into the saucepan, an’ that’s thrue,” replied the Irish maiden from Kerry.
In short, the meal was fraught with misery for poor Wyndham; but Peggy was tired, and was glad to go to bed. Wyndham saw her into her room, and then went downstairs. He had a short talk with the young lady who had charge of the bureau; he begged her to send a kind-hearted Irishwoman to the little girl, giving her a very brief outline of her story. The girl, all agog with curiosity, said she knew the very woman who would help and comfort Peggy, and sent for her. The result of this was that Peggy and Bridget O’Hara slept in the same bed that night, Peggy’s arms round Bridget’s neck, and her little face lying against the good woman’s breast.
“Why thin, the poor colleen, the poor colleen!” said the kind-hearted Irishwoman.