"Aye, there be," contradicted Sandy. "Dinna ye ken the wee gray woman 'at cam creepity round an' smiled?"
"She was nice," said Susan, with obvious approval. "Do ye think, now, she might ha' been me aunt?"
A chorus of positive negation settled all further speculation, while Bridget bluntly inquired. "Honest to goodness, Susan, do ye think the likes o' ye could belong to the likes o' that?"
Pancho broke the painful silence by reverting to the original topic in hand. "Mi' Peggie pleasant too," he suggested, smiling adorably.
"But we've not got either of 'em no longer, so they're no good now,"
Peter unfortunately reminded every one.
"Don't ye know there be's always somethin' pleasant to think about if ye just hunt round a bit, an' things an' feelin's never get that bad ye can't squeeze out some pleasantment. Don't ye mind the time the trusters had planned to give us all paint-boxes for Christmas, an' half of us not able to hold a brush, let alone paint things, an' Miss Peggie blarneyed them round into givin' us books? Don't ye mind? Now we've got somethin' pleasant here, right now—" And Bridget smiled.
"What?"
"May Eve."
"What's that?"
"'Tain't nothin'," said Susan, sliding back disappointedly on her pillow.