“And what are you doing here?”
“Nothing but killing meself wid grief.”
“I suppose you did want to kill yourself, and that’s why you got on Nimrod’s back.”
“No, when I want really to kill meself I won’t go to Nimrod. I’m lookin’ out for a little bit of a place; do ye happen to know, sor, anyone who would take a young girl who was accustomed to feeding hins and looking afther the farm-work all by her lonesome? I can give a fine character of meself from Mr. and Mrs. O’Flynn in County Kerry. You wouldn’t be thinkin’ ov wanting wan like me, sor? I’d take small wages at first, and I’d do yer biddin’, you’d find me rare an’ useful. I can’t help me brogue, yer honour; but I’ve an honest heart, an’ I’ll work faithful and long.”
“I should say you were accustomed to farm life,” said the man, “otherwise you couldn’t possibly have ventured to mount Nimrod; but as to your coming to us as servant—why now, you aren’t dressed like a servant.”
“Oh for the Lord’s sake don’t mind me dress, yer honour. I’ve as nate a little frock in me bit of a box as you could find. This is me best Sunday-go-to-meetin’ frock, sor, an’ ef I’m to lose a good place because of me dress, why, wurra, I don’t know how I’ll live, at all, at all!”
The man stared at the girl in perplexity. Her voice, her accent, what she had done with regard to Nimrod, all seemed to speak to the truth of her words. But she wore the dress of a lady. He had, of course, heard nothing whatever with regard to the Wyndhams’ protégée; and, finally, much puzzled, and knowing that he and his wife did want just such a sort of girl as Peggy professed herself to be, he took her hand and led her toward the big farm-kitchen.
“You’ve a nice little bit of a boreen here,” said Peggy, as they walked along.
“What are you calling it?”
“Boreen, just where we are standing now.”