“Can’t ye?” answered Peggy. “I thought ye had the ordinary amount of brains; but if ye haven’t I’m sorry for ye, poor thing. I can’t enlighten ye, if the reason doesn’t blazon in your face.”
Kitty gave a heavy sigh. “There’s no use,” she said. “I’m always trying; there’s not a bit of use. There’s Aunt Gloriana now, as bad as she can be with bronchitis, and wanting money terribly, and I haven’t five shillings in the world, and yet it will look so bad if I ask that my present should be money. It is money I want more than anything in the world; even a little sum like five pounds would put me right, for, you see, I’ve got to leave here in a few days, and I’m not exactly sure where I’ll be going when I do leave.”
“I thought for sure ye were going to the Dodds,” said Peggy.
“I wish I could, but nothing is settled. Don’t you say a word to them when they come here to-night, will you, Peggy?”
“Not me, to be sure, but if it’s money you want, why don’t you say so? Uncle Paul won’t mind.”
“Couldn’t you ask for money too, Peggy? If we both did it, it wouldn’t look so remarkable.”
“Is it me ask for money!” exclaimed Peggy, with a sharp little cry, “when me whole soul is wrapped up in a little Irish terrier? It’s himself then that I’m craving for, to sleep in me room and comfort me, and much I need his presence too, dear heart.”
“But you can buy the terrier out of the money.”
“I’ll manage it me own way, thanks,” said Peggy. She got up as she spoke and left the room.
On the afternoon of that same day Mr. Wyndham was alone with his wife, the young people were all very busy putting the finishing touches to their charades, and, of course, the Dodds, Margaret Ladislaw, and her father, and last, but not least, dear Mary Welsh, were to join them in the evening. Mr. Wyndham took a piece of paper from his pocket and opened it.