Mrs. Wyndham gave an impatient sigh. “The fact is,” she said, “I can’t help saying it, Paul, you make a mistake in bringing that untutored, rough child to our house. I quite agree with you that she ought to be trained and looked after; but the kindest thing would be to put her with a woman in her mother’s class of life, who would educate her. Then, of course, as she becomes fit to associate with the gentry she might come here occasionally. You are doing wrong, Paul, and you are doing the worst thing for the happiness of the poor little thing herself.”
Molly, full of affection, determined to make the very best of Peggy, and took her up to her room.
“I hope you will be happy with us,” said Molly. “I know you must be feeling very sad at saying good-bye to your friends; but we mean to love you—at least Jessie and I do—and I hope you will love us.”
“I can’t love ye, miss dear.” The great dark-blue eyes were brimful of tears. “Oh my goodness glory me! ’tain’t a room like this I—I want. Yer niver going to say to me that I’ll sleep here. Why, I can’t an’ that’s true! Why, there ain’t even a little hin about nowhere!”
“A little what?” Molly shook her head.
“They that lay eggs. Did ye niver hear ov hins?”
“Oh hens! We have a lot of them about.”
“Then ye have thim! Thank the good God, I can live if I see hins. An’ have ye—tell me, for the good Lord’s sake, tell me—have you got pigeens here?”
“I think there are pigs. I will inquire to-morrow.”
“Oh it’s me heart that’s broke intirely!”