Hannah had heard of Peggy’s courage with The Imp the previous evening. She felt a wild glow of ecstatic admiration for this queer, new girl. “May I come with you?” she asked.
“Plase yerself,” answered Peggy.
Hannah slid down onto her bed, put on her shoes and stockings, got into her clothes with the rapidity of a very much hurried mouse who knows that the cat will be out if she isn’t quick; and by the time Peggy had noisily attired herself, Hannah, who had hardly made a sound, stood fully equipped by the side of her cubicle. “Here I am,” she said. “Don’t put on your shoes if you don’t want to be caught. Here, I’ll hold them for you. We’ll creep downstairs, and I know a window by which we can get out. If we’re not quick the maids will be up, and then we won’t have a chance.”
“Is it me not have a chance?” said Peggy, curling her lip. “Well, come along then, you lead the way if ye like.”
In consequence, Hannah, who had never done a daring thing before in the whole course of her short life, but who did happen to be acquainted with one special window which The Imp employed when she was up to mischief, conducted Peggy through the silent house and into the quadrangle; without saying a word the children crossed over into a big meadow to their left, and there they walked slowly, Hannah shaking and trembling with mingled feelings of ecstasy and terror, and Peggy looking languidly and indifferently about her.
“It’s an ugly place this,” Peggy remarked after a time.
“Ugly!” cried Hannah, “why, it’s thought most beautiful!”
“Be it now? Ah well, ye’ve niver seen Ould Ireland.”
“No, I haven’t. Is it wonderfully beautiful?”
“Beauty ain’t in it,” said Peggy, “it’s that amazin’ an’ consolin’ that it melts the very heart in ye. Think of Torc wearing his nightcap!”