“We would have her with a heart and a half,” said Mary, “except that we haven’t got even a scrap of a corner to put her in.”
“Of course, you haven’t, dear,” said Mrs. Wyndham, flushing slightly, “and it was very shabby of me even to suggest it. Well, Mary, if you can stay with us for a few days you will tell us what we ought to do with the child?”
“I don’t expect she will be a bit difficult,” said Mary; and now, as she stood by her window, she thought about Peggy. Just then there came an imperious knock at the door. She said, “Come in.” A slight pause followed her words, then the door was very slowly opened and a small head of bright hair peeped round it—peeped round the door somewhat in the manner of a very ignorant lower-class servant in Ireland.
“Why, thin, it’s me,” said a sweet little voice; and the body which belonged to the head now showed itself. The little head and the slender figure made altogether an absolutely enchanting study, the sapphire-blue eyes were so very, very bright, the ruddy chestnut hair was such a mass of soft curls, the lips were curved like a true Cupid’s bow, and the pearly teeth were small and absolutely even. Then the young figure was by no means devoid of grace; and, although there was an ominous stain of green on the white frock, otherwise the little maid was neatly and suitably dressed. Her tan shoes and neat tan stockings were the best of their kind, and the fact that the small hands were very brown and sunburnt did not in the least detract from the other fact that this Irish girl looked, at least, a perfect lady.
“Mary Polly Molly,” gazed at Peggy for a moment in undoubted astonishment; but then, alas! the small girl began to speak, and the crown of young ladyhood tumbled down from the stately head.
“Why thin, but might I come nigh to ye for a minute?” was the first remark of Irish Peggy.
“Of course, you may, dear,” replied Mary; “I am so glad to make your acquaintance. I have been hearing about you and wondering when I should see you. It is very, very kind of you to come to my room like this.”
“Yerra, not at all,” replied Peggy. “It’s in a bit of a hole I be, and I thought, savin’ yer presence, yer ladyship, as ye’re Irish-bred yerself, and I liked the looks of ye when I saw ye driving up to the gates in a humble little gig, that perhaps ye’d help me.”
“Of course, I will help you, Peggy; but I’m puzzled to know when and how you saw me.”
“Oh wisha, worn’t that aisy? Didn’t I just climb up into a tree belike, close nigh to the big gates, and looked down on ye and the young ladies; and afore ye come up, and when they two was chattering with a woman they called Mrs. Jordan, didn’t I—to beguile the weary time—imitate the tunes the bits of birds sing, the cratures! They was all in a moil with wondering why so many birds set up singin’ in that wonderful tree, an’ I was fit to choke with the laughter, for ye comprehend they couldn’t get a sight of the smallest spalpeen of me through the branches.”