A moil—what was a moil? Jessie felt more than ever inclined to turn tail and rush away; but Mrs. Wyndham came up, held out her hand to the child, looked into her face, and bent forward and kissed her.
“Oh my, ma’am, what did you do that for?” exclaimed Peggy. “Why, ye don’t know me at all, at all!”
“I want to welcome you to Preston Manor, Peggy.”
“And is this where you live?” Peggy looked all round her. “Would ye mind if I let a screech in a minute?”
“I think, Molly,” said Mr. Wyndham, “you had better take Peggy up to her bedroom. She is dead-tired.”
“Now thin, sor, I wouldn’t be tellin’ lies if I was you, because most ov the day I was sound asleep on the bed at that big inn where ye tuk me. I’m not tired a bit, not me. Well, I’ll go with ye, miss, if you like; but you can’t expect me to have the manners of a place like this. Oh mercy, mercy me! Glory be to heaven, however am I to get used to the likes ov this?”
“You’ll soon get accustomed to it,” said Molly, in her gentle tone. “Come now with me, I want to show you your bedroom.”
Peggy, dressed as she was, was not so remarkable. Her little face was undoubtedly pretty, pretty beyond the beauty of most. Her eyes were absolutely lovely, her eyelashes were wonderful; and, owing to Miss Wakefield and Mrs. Wyndham’s clever dressmaker, her appearance was all that it ought to be. But her speech! her untrained, wild, untutored speech!
The next minute Molly and the Irish girl had disappeared upstairs, and Wyndham and his wife and Jessie were alone.
“Why didn’t you go with your sister, Jessie?” said her father.