Peggy shook her head. “Don’t know anything about it,” she remarked.
“Peggy, will you sit down for a little? I have”—he took out his watch—“exactly a quarter of an hour in which to speak to you.”
“Bedad, thin, that’ll be long enough,” was her response.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because, if ye’re goin’ to be scoldin’ me all the time, I think a quarter of an hour will be as long as will be good for yer breath. It’s bad when ye riz the voice in passion, an’ a quarter of an hour’ll do the business fine.”
“Peggy dear!” There was something gentle in the voice, something reserved, and at the same time something pained.
It was that pained note that arrested the child’s indifference. From the moment Wyndham had come to the Irish cabin, Peggy had been feeling that little heart in her breast getting colder and colder and harder and harder; but now, all of a sudden, it began to throb with new life.
“Peggy, instead of a quarter of an hour being too long for what I have to say to you, it will be a great deal too short; I don’t want to waste a moment. To begin, I have something here I should like you to look at.”
Now, if Peggy had one fault greater than another, it was the bump of curiosity. Wyndham went to a drawer, took a key from his pocket, opened the drawer, and took out a little brown morocco case. He opened the case.
“Come here, Peggy,” he said. The girl advanced, he slipped his arm round her waist. “I want you to look at this,” he said.