“Oh! when you lived in that cabin.”
“When I lived at home.” Peggy’s little voice was very haughty, and she threw back her lovely head and looked at Kitty out of her indignant eyes. “I’m not ashamed of the cabin,” she said.—“Yes, Miss Ladislaw, do ye want anything?”
“You are our little Irish friend, and you say you have done work of this kind before; then there’s something very important I want you to do. Come with me and I will show you.”
Miss Ladislaw took Peggy’s hand and led her away.
“I’m glad I am with you,” said the girl.
“And I am glad to have you, Peggy; I have heard so much of you, dear.”
“I’m better than I was,” said Peggy “I don’t spake—speak, I mean—with the same colour that I did.”
“Colour, love?”
“No, ma’am; they don’t want colour in this cowld—cold—land. It seems strange to me like, but there, I suppose where you’re born that’s the way you like to go. It was a cruel twisht—twist—to me when I was brought over here; perhaps you can understand it, Miss Ladislaw?”
“I think I can, and I think that you—you look much happier than you were when I first saw you.”