She sat down on a chair, tears rolled down her cheeks. “You see, miss dear,” she continued, after a minute, “’tain’t that I ain’t grateful, ’tain’t Peggy’s way not to be grateful; but it’s a big mistake takin’ me from thim who belonged to me. I’m torn up by the roots, that’s what I be, an’ I’m all bleedin’ like. Wouldn’t you be the same if ye was tuk from yer grand, wonderful, awful mansion of a place, an’ put into my speck of a cabin—wouldn’t you be feelin’ as I’m feelin’?”
“I expect I should; so you see, Peggy, I can understand you.”
“Ah, no! no! niver a bit, niver a bit; no one can understand me, no one can. I’m all alone, alone! Oh wurra, wurra me!” The girl kept on crying.
“Look at your pretty room, Peggy,” said Molly.
“I hate it!”
“Peggy, look at the flowers. All the world over flowers are the same.”
“Be they now? Well, I’ll look at them. Oh I don’t know the names ov them. Does ye get the Michaelmas daisy, an’ the London pride, an’ the cowslip, an’ the buttercup, an’ the primrose, an’ the violet—them’s the flowers for me. Oh no, miss dear, I’ll niver tek to ye nor yer ways. I hope to goodness mercy me that ye won’t expect me to go downstairs an’ ate me males in front of ye, for I don’t know how to do it, an’ that’s truth I’m tellin’. What sort ov males have ye?”
“I suppose the sort of things every one has.”
“Have ye got the Indian male stirabout? That’s what I’m partial to, an’ I don’t mind a couple ov eggs now an’ then when they can be spared.”
“But why shouldn’t they be spared if you have plenty of hens?”