Transcriber’s Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

MOLLY AND JESSIE STOLE SOFTLY INTO THE ROOM TO LOOK AT HER.—Page [30].

PEGGY FROM KERRY

BY

MRS. L. T. MEADE

AUTHOR OF “FOR DEAR DAD,” “THE GIRLS OF MERTON COLLEGE,” “KITTY O’DONOVAN,” “OCEANA’S GIRLHOOD,” “A WILD IRISH GIRL,” ETC.

WITH FOUR HALF-TONE ILLUSTRATIONS

BY MARTIN LEWIS

NEW YORK

HURST & COMPANY

PUBLISHERS

Copyright, 1912,

BY

HURST & COMPANY

CONTENTS.

ILLUSTRATIONS

PEGGY FROM KERRY.

CHAPTER I.
AT HOME.

“It’s really the most horrible thing!” said Mrs. Wyndham. “I don’t know what to do about it; and your father is so determined! I can’t shake his confidence that he is right, do as I will.”

“But what is it, mother? Whatever can be the matter?” asked Molly Wyndham, a sweet, gentle-looking girl of about fifteen years of age.

“Yes, what is it?” chimed in Jessie, another daughter, one year Molly’s senior.

“Why, it’s this, my dears. I assure you it has quite prostrated me, and it’s all on your account.”

Jessie, brimful of curiosity, wanted to ply her mother with questions; but Molly took a wiser course.

“Jess,” she said, “can’t you see how tired and fagged the mums looks?—Sit in this easy-chair, mums, and take things quietly for a minute.”

Mrs. Wyndham’s eyes filled with tears. She was a really kind-hearted woman and was much loved in the neighbourhood of Preston Manor, her husband’s beautiful house. She was kind to her poor neighbours, and liked well her position as Lady Bountiful to the parish. But, with all her open-handedness and generosity, there was a streak of worldliness in Mrs. Wyndham, and that worldliness made what was just going to happen intensely disagreeable to her. She was proud of her home, her children, her husband, proud of her husband’s position as the Squire of Preston Manor; and just now, as she considered it, that pride of hers was to receive a fall. The girls Molly and Jessie, the Wyndhams’ only daughters—there was a son called Jack some years older—were enjoying their Easter holidays when the blow, so unlooked-for, so unexpected, fell.

Molly knelt down by her mother and took her hand.

“What is it, darling?” she began. “Whatever it is, be sure of one thing—we’ll stick to you whatever happens.”

“Oh, it’s nothing of that sort, Molly; I mean, I don’t quite know what you’re alluding to, my child. But I may as well tell you. You have surely heard your father talk of his great friend Peter Desmond?”

“Certainly we have,” said Jess.

“Why, of course, mother,” exclaimed Molly. “And haven’t we laughed and laughed over Captain Desmond’s funny Irish stories? Oh, is it possible that he’s coming to see us at last? That will be fun!”

“No, it isn’t that, Molly; it’s something very different, something very sad. Poor Captain Desmond has just died of typhoid fever in India, and now, my darlings, comes the crux. He wrote on his deathbed to your father, making a sort of confession. He said that long ago, in Ireland, in the County Kerry, he met a beautiful Irish peasant girl, fell in love with her, and married her. They had one little daughter, and the mother died at the child’s birth. The little girl was brought up by her maternal grandparents until they died; then for the last five or six years some people of the name of O’Flynn took charge of her, her father paying them for doing so. The O’Flynns are very poor and common sort of people. The girl is fifteen years of age, and has lived all her life in Irish cabins in the County Kerry. Now, Peter Desmond on his deathbed told your father that the child is penniless, except for a small annuity which she will get from the Government as his daughter. He has asked your father to adopt this poor girl, to bring her here—here!—and to let her grow up as a lady; and your father says he will. Nothing will turn him, no amount of imploring on my part; he has made up his mind. Captain Desmond was his dearest friend. He is going to Ireland to-night to fetch this child—Peggy, he calls her. Now, what is to be done?”

Mrs. Wyndham burst into tears. “To think of such a creature coming to us!” she said. “Why, even the servants would be ashamed of her.”

Jess, the eldest girl, was quite silent; but Molly, after a moment’s pause, kissed her mother’s flushed cheek and said:

“Well, mums, I do think that father could do nothing else.”

Mrs. Wyndham gazed at the child in despair.

“It’s very hard on mums, I must say,” exclaimed Jessie.

“Yes, of course,” answered Molly; “but still it’s right. Right things are often hard,” she added.—“And, mother, we’ll look after her; you mustn’t be worried,” continued the girl.

“But it is on account of you both that I am so unhappy. Oh,” continued the good lady, “you have never seen an Irish peasant! She is a most disgraceful creature!”

“Oh mother, but this girl is a lady by birth!”

“On her father’s side,” said Mrs. Wyndham; “but what about her mother? Her father, as well as I can tell, has never troubled himself even to see her, and now he hands her over to us. I do call it terrible!”

As Mrs. Wyndham spoke she rose from her chair and stood for a few minutes looking out of the window at the peaceful landscape.

“Mother,” said Jessie suddenly, “couldn’t she go to school for a bit—until she’s polished up a little, I mean? Oh, I don’t mean to our school, of course, but to some other school.”

“I thought of that, my dears; but your father won’t have it. He says that if the child comes here she is to be treated from the first as a lady, as a daughter of the house; and if possible, and we can get Mrs. Fleming to take her, she is to go to your school at The Red Gables.”

“Oh mother!”

Both girls looked rather dismayed at this prospect. Mrs. Wyndham soon afterwards left them. She had to attend to her husband, who was making preparations for his journey.

“Now, my darling,” he said, as he kissed his wife affectionately, “you know, my dearest Lucy, there is nothing else to be done. Desmond was my best friend, and I’d rather die than neglect his child.”

Soon afterwards Mrs. Wyndham was left alone to her own reflections, and to the eager comments of her young daughters, who were full of curiosity about Peggy Desmond, wondering what sort of young savage would soon arrive at Preston Manor.

Meanwhile, Wyndham took train to Holyhead, crossed over to Dublin, and then took train from Dublin to Kerry. He arrived in the neighbourhood of the well-known town of Tralee in the course of the following afternoon; and, having inquired for the O’Flynns, was directed to their “bit of a house,” as the neighbour described it. Wyndham was a tall, well-set-up man of about forty years of age; he had a pleasant, kindly face, bright blue eyes, and was, in short, every inch a gentleman.

Now, no one in all the world knows better who is a gentleman and who is not than the peasant of Ireland. He sees who belong to the “quality,” as he calls it, and who does not, at a single glance; he also sees this fact, although one man may be dressed in rags and the other have a carriage and smart clothes, his ring with a diamond in it, and his swell manners. Mr. Wyndham was pronounced by the old man who directed him to the O’Flynns as a “oner.” “Why, thin, sure a gintleman to the innermost bone of him.”

He entered the small lane—or, rather, as the man shouted to him, “boreen”—and, walking down its narrow, pretty path, soon found himself outside a small cottage, which was surrounded by a sort of ill-kept farmyard. Some pigs were grunting and poking their noses into the soft earth, a dog sprang up at his approach and ran towards him, barking, a cat leaped out of sight and sprang into the branches of a neighbouring tree.

A girl who was standing by the cottage door came forward.

“An’ what may yer honour want?” she asked.

Wyndham looked at her curiously and with a sort of tremble at his heart. The girl bore a striking resemblance to his dearest friend, Peter Desmond. She had very large, dark-blue eyes, the true heritage of a Kerry girl; those eyes were put in, as is the proverbial expression, with “dirty fingers.” The thick, curly, long black lashes were lowered for an instant, then the eyes, bright as stars, fixed themselves on the stranger’s face. The girl’s hair was of a tawny shade, with a very slight touch, an almost imperceptible touch, of red in it; it was very thick, very long, and curled in fascinating little waves all over her small head. She wore a blue cotton frock which came down just above her ankles, coarse white stockings, and hobnailed shoes. Under her arm she carried a big dish filled with all sorts of farm refuse, which she had prepared to give to the fowls. Her sleeves were pushed up as far as her elbows, showing her pretty rounded arms, which were, however, reddened through exposure to all weathers.

“I need hardly ask your name,” said Wyndham. “You are, of course, Peggy Desmond?”

“Arrah, thin, I be,” answered the girl. “An’ what may ye be wantin’ wid me, yer highness?”

Wyndham put out his hand and took the rather dirty little one of Peggy Desmond.

“I have come from your father, my dear.”

“Ah! an’ wisha! have ye? Why, thin, I haven’t had a line from hisself this many a day. Is he took with the sickness forby, or does anything ail him at all, at all?”

“Peggy, do you love your father?”

“Why, thin, yes, yer highness; only I never clapped eyes on him since I was a tweeny bit that high, yer highness.”

“My poor little girl, your father is dead!”

“Dead!” The girl started back. “Ah, thin, I want to let a screech out o’ me! Dead! is he dead? Oh, the holy powers! An’ is his sowl in glory?”

“I hope so, Peggy. I have heard from him. He was my greatest friend always.”

“Ye look too mighty fine to have a friend like me father, that ye do.”

“But your father was a gentleman, Peggy.”

“Ah, well!” said Peggy. She drew a long breath. Suddenly the tears rose brimming up to her eyes. “I don’t like to think that he is in the ground,” she said. “Did they lay him out proper—at a wake, belike?”

“I don’t think so, my child. He died in India of fever.”

“Faver, was it? It’s a mighty cruel thing is faver.”

“Yes, Peggy; and before he died he wrote me a letter. He has given you to me.”

“What!”

“Yes, you must come with me, my child; I want to be a father to you.”

The girl looked at him. Up to the present she had scarcely taken in his words; now her face turned white and the tears dropped fast from her eyes. She said, “Hould a bit! whist, for the Lord’s sake!” and rushed into the cabin.—“Biddy O’Flynn! Biddy O’Flynn!” she cried, “come along—ye and Patrick—this blessed minute. There’s a gintleman mightiness from foreign parts come to say that me father’s dead, an’—oh glory!—never waked at all, at all; nothing done proper for his sowl. And me here to go away wid his highness. I won’t! I won’t! Biddy, ye won’t let me go, will ye?”

A blear-eyed, very ancient woman rose from her seat by the fireside. She was smoking a short black pipe, and came out presently into the sunshine to stare at the stranger. She was followed by her husband, a little crooked man, who limped, and supported himself on a crutch.

“Now, my good people,” said Wyndham, “I have come to fetch Miss Desmond. Her poor father, Captain Desmond, is dead, and has put her into my charge. I want to catch the next train to Dublin, and will take her with me. You have been very kind to her, and I am prepared to pay you handsomely for your services.”

“Never a bit o’ money I’ll take for the colleen,” answered Patrick O’Flynn.

“Nor me nayther!” cried the old crone, “except what the Captain’s sent us hisself, through the Protestant clergyman, Mr. Wynne, yer highness, an’ that was a pound a month, no more an’ no less.”

“Well, if you won’t take money from me you must at least receive my grateful thanks, and perhaps I may be able to show my gratitude in another way. Perhaps Peggy can tell me what you want most?”

But Peggy’s black lashes were lowered, and one big tear after another was dropping on the ground. She did not attempt to dry her tears, but let them roll down her soft, delicately-tinted cheeks. Her whole attitude was that of a terribly frightened and also half-savage young creature. “I’m not goin’ along ov him,” she suddenly cried, “don’t ye fear, Mammy O’Flynn darlint.”

As the child spoke she flung her pretty arms around the neck of the old woman. “I’ll stay along wid ye,” she whispered. “What ’u’d the cows an’ the little hins an’ the turkeys, an’ the lambs do widout me, I’d like to know? Oh mammy, I won’t go wid that mightiness to England, not ef ye pay me in gould. Sure! an’ that’s the gospel truth I’m after sayin’.”

But Bridget O’Flynn had different views. She looked the child all over, then she gave an earnest, comprehensive gaze at the handsome, well-spoken gentleman. After a long pause, she loosened the little arms from round her neck.

“Colleen,” she said, “ye’ll do what’s right an’ proper. Ef he can prove that the father ov ye has handed ye over to hisself, why, wid him ye must go. Oh sor, don’t I recall as well as it were yesterday when the mother of this child married with his mightiness Captain Desmond; an’ wasn’t we proud of ’em both jest? Ah, sure, the mother were tuk when the babe were born; but we had a beautiful wake over her, that we had, there wasn’t wan present that didn’t get dead drunk at it—an’ what more can ye want, yer honour?”

Wyndham gave a stiff bow.

Old Pat now came forward. “Faix, child,” he said, “ye must go wid his honour ef his honour can prove that he is takin’ ye wid yer father’s consint. Now, sure then, yer honour, it’s a Protestant we has brought her up, though her mother was a Catholic; but it wor the Captain’s wish that she should be trained in his own religion. Hadn’t ye better spake to Mr. Wynne, the Protestant clergyman, that lives jest beyant? I’ll take ye to him ef ye wish, yer honour. Ye can spake wid him, for he knows the thwist o’ yer tongue, which is more than me an’ herself can foller.”

This advice was gladly followed by poor Wyndham. The Reverend George Wynne proved himself kind and sympathetic. He accepted a ten-pound note from Wyndham for the use of the O’Flynns; and Peggy, who had been their right hand, who had practically farmed their little bit of land for them, had milked their cows, and attended to their hens, and sold their eggs and butter, and kept the tiny cabin wonderfully clean, would soon be on her way to Dublin—on her way to Dublin City, carrying with her a broken heart, for sure she hated foreign parts, and what wish had she to live “wid the quality?”

CHAPTER II.
THE JOURNEY.

When Peggy Desmond found, as she expressed it, “all the world set agen me,” she shed no more tears. A look of proud resignation passed over her face, and she went up to her attic, where she had always slept the healthy sleep of a child who knew neither care nor sorrow, and packed her few belongings in a shabby little black trunk which her father had bought for her peasant mother to use during their brief honeymoon. How little there was to put into the trunk, but how precious that little was to Peggy! They were mostly tokens from the neighbours, who came flying from every direction to see the colleen and to wish her God speed. Her own little wardrobe was of the scantiest: two blue cotton frocks for week-days, and a rough, coarse serge for Sundays; a shabby little hat, trimmed with a piece of faded blue ribbon, which she never put on her curly head except when she went to church to listen to “his riverance” preach. “Sure thin,” she used to whisper to herself, “I’d a sight rayther be goin’ to Mass with Mammy and Daddy O’Flynn.” But the old people were very strict. Captain Desmond wished his daughter to be brought up a Protestant, and a Protestant she should be. Peggy, however, refused point-blank to attend Sunday school; but once every Sunday she went to church, and she received a certain amount of tuition on week-days at the board school until she was fourteen years of age, when her education was supposed to be complete. She was a clever little girl, and could read well, write well, and spell correctly; she also knew her “tables,” as she expressed it, “an’ sure, what did a body want more in the figurin’ line?” She was taught by the nuns of the convent near her home, however, to make exquisite crochet lace, wonderfully like real lace, and this she used to sell for the benefit of her adopted father and mother. Yes, her simple life was truly happy, she loved every one and every one loved her; she was exceedingly pretty, and when she was older would be beautiful. But now what a cruel and torturing fate had overtaken her!

But if pretty little Peggy Desmond shed passionate tears in her corner of the first-class carriage, where Wyndham had placed her, there surely were few men in the length and breadth of Ireland more perplexed than he. With all his wildest ideas he had never dreamt of bringing a creature like Peggy Desmond into his stately home. Her appearance, her dress, her accent, her absolute and complete ignorance of even the rudiments of refined life, appalled him. He could bear these things for the sake of his dead friend; but what would his wife say? Already she was angry at the intrusion of the girl into their midst, but then she had not yet seen the girl. When she did! Poor Wyndham felt his heart beat fast. What was to be done? How was he to train this poor little creature? Was she, during their journey, to receive the first rudiments of education, the first rudiments of introduction into that state of life which, as her father’s daughter, she inherited?

After weeping till she could weep no longer, the child fell into a heavy sleep, and the train was reaching Dublin when she awoke with a violent start and a cry of “Oh wurra, wurra me! wherever be I, at all, at all?”

She looked with terror across the carriage at Wyndham, who now thought the time had come to take a place near her and hold her hand. “Peggy,” he said.

“Yes, sor—yer mightiness, I mane.”

“Don’t call me that, Peggy. Peggy dear, listen. Listen hard, I want to explain things to you.”

She fixed her lovely eyes on his face. Until she opened her lips—and yet, even then, her brogue was soft and winsome—how beautiful and refined was her charming little face!

“Peggy, my child, I was your father’s greatest friend.”

“Were ye then? Bedad then, I don’t care.”

“But you ought to care, Peggy.”

“I can’t help it, yer honour, I want to be back in Kerry, along ov Mammy an’ Daddy O’Flynn.”

“But you wouldn’t disobey your dead father, would you, Peggy?”

“No, I suppose the fairies would be at me if I did.”

“Oh no, that isn’t the reason at all. You see, your father, while he lived, was poor and was not able to help you much; but he did a very wise thing—he left you to my care, and I mean to make a lady of you, Peggy.”

“Sure, thin, ye’ll niver do that, for I’d be but a peasant colleen, an’ wishin’ for nothin’ else, yer honour.”

“You are very young, Peggy; you will change your mind.”

“Sure thin, no, yer honour. I’m not wishin’ ye any bad luck, but me mind is made up. I’ll stay wid yer honour for a bit, if it’s the will ov me dead father; but it’s back to Ireland I’ll go when I have the manes. Ye’ll niver make no lady ov me, yer honour.”

“I think, Peggy, you have a kind heart.”

“Bedad, I suppose so,” said the girl. She dropped her eyes and looked on the ground, the faintest semblance of a smile visiting the corners of her bewitching little mouth.

“And,” said Wyndham, pursuing his advantage, “you wouldn’t really hurt me, who am your own father’s friend?”

“I’ve no wishes that way, yer honour, an’ if I was to try I couldn’t. What am I? A colleen, as poor as they’re made, an’ wishin’ to stay that same.”

“I want you to come to my house, to live with my girls.”

“Oh Lord ’a’ mercy! Be they grand like yerself, yer honour?”

“They are not grand at all, they are just nice girls.”

“Oh my! oh my! Arrah thin, yer honour, I’ll niver take to them, so don’t ye be thinkin’ it.”

Poor Wyndham sighed. Suddenly it occurred to him that he would go to visit a friend of his in Dublin, a certain Miss Wakefield, who was a very kind-hearted woman, and who could advise him with regard to Peggy. Of course this poor little wild creature could be tamed in time; but before she appeared at Preston Manor she must at least be dressed according to her new station.

“Peggy,” said Wyndham, after a long pause, “we are going to stay in Dublin to-night.”

“Yes, yer honour.”

“We are going to a hotel.”

“Is it a public-house, yer honour?”

“No, a hotel; not a public-house.”

Peggy was silent.

They soon reached Dublin, the little black trunk was put on the top of a cab, and they drove away to the Shelburne Hotel. There Wyndham secured two bedrooms, one for himself and one for Peggy, and ordered a meal to be served in the coffee-room. Peggy looked a strange little figure as she entered the room. All eyes followed her as, accompanied by her guardian, she approached a small table and slipped down awkwardly into her chair. A waiter came up with a dish which contained eggs and bacon, and presented it to Peggy. She looked at it and pushed it away.

“Sure thin, it’s ashamed of yerself you ought to be!” she said.

The man stared at her in amazement. Wyndham felt a catch in his breath.

“Sure thin, is it beautiful fresh eggs ye’d break like that? I’d like to give ye a lesson in cooking.”

“Perhaps, Peggy, you would like a boiled egg best?” said her guardian.

“I wouldn’t, unless it was laid right into the saucepan, an’ that’s thrue,” replied the Irish maiden from Kerry.

In short, the meal was fraught with misery for poor Wyndham; but Peggy was tired, and was glad to go to bed. Wyndham saw her into her room, and then went downstairs. He had a short talk with the young lady who had charge of the bureau; he begged her to send a kind-hearted Irishwoman to the little girl, giving her a very brief outline of her story. The girl, all agog with curiosity, said she knew the very woman who would help and comfort Peggy, and sent for her. The result of this was that Peggy and Bridget O’Hara slept in the same bed that night, Peggy’s arms round Bridget’s neck, and her little face lying against the good woman’s breast.

“Why thin, the poor colleen, the poor colleen!” said the kind-hearted Irishwoman.

As soon as ever he was alone, Wyndham hailed an outside car and drove to Miss Wakefield’s address. He told her his predicament.

She was a good-hearted woman, very Irish and very affectionate. She said, “My dear Paul, you have put your foot in it! Well, I will do my very best for the child. I will take her out to the shops to-morrow and get her fitted out properly.”

“You need spare no money on her,” said Paul Wyndham. “Get her anything she requires. I want to start to-morrow for Holyhead by the night boat. Do you think you can manage this for me, Kathleen?”

Kathleen Wakefield promised, and the next day Peggy was taken from one shop to another. She was extremely sulky now, hardly opening her lips, scarcely uttering a word. However, Miss Wakefield, with plenty of money at command, managed to fit the child with a pretty neat coat and skirt, a nice dark-blue hat, and a few more articles of wardrobe, also a fair amount of underclothing. She bought a new trunk for the girl, and told her she had better leave the little black trunk behind her at the hotel.

At this request Peggy’s pent-up feelings gave way to a sudden screech. “Is it to lave me mother’s trunk behind I’d be doin’? Not me. It’s every single thing you bought me flung into the say; but the trunk goes wid me to that cauld England, or I don’t set foot in it.”

Wyndham happened to be near, and assured Peggy that she need not fret, for all her own special belongings would go with her to Preston Manor in the little black trunk.

CHAPTER III.
AT PRESTON MANOR.

The Wyndham girls were considerably excited at the thought of the new and strange companion who was to come into their midst. After their first astonishment they were more pleased than otherwise; Molly, especially, was determined to make the very best out of this strange, new event in her career. At The Red Gables one of the girls happened to be Irish. She was a well-educated, ladylike girl, but oh such fun! Her name was Bridget O’Donnell, and wherever amusement was to be found Bridget was invariably in the midst of it. Suppose this poor little Peggy turned out to be a second Bridget! If so, all would go well. Molly chattered over the subject with Jessie as the two girls were dressing on the morning of the day when Peggy Desmond was to arrive. Their father was expected with the new-comer about eleven o’clock that morning, he having decided at the last moment to spend a little time in London, in order to give Peggy a good sleep after her night-journey, and also to buy her some more clothes. Miss Wakefield had furnished the child with what the child herself considered “owdacious” magnificence; but Wyndham, who knew his wife’s tastes, was clever enough to see that a good many necessary things were left out. Accordingly, having seen Peggy sound asleep in a bedroom at the Euston Hotel, he started off to visit his wife’s dressmaker. He put Peggy’s case into this good woman’s hands, who quickly and deftly made up a box of what she called “necessary garments.” These consisted of white silk stockings, white satin shoes, one or two pretty evening frocks, and a vast supply of delicate and richly trimmed underclothing. Mrs. Ferguson also threw in one or two muslin frocks, suitable to the hot weather which was coming on, and finally trimmed up a couple of smart hats for the “Irish princess,” as she laughingly called the poor little girl.

“She’ll be here soon—very soon,” said Jessie. “Do you know what it is, Moll, I feel absolutely nervous about her.”

“Why should you be nervous?” said Molly.

“Well, I can see that mother is,” replied Jessie; “and suppose, Molly, she eats with her fingers, or does anything dreadful before the servants?”

“I don’t suppose for a single moment she’ll do that,” said Molly; “and, even if she does, we’ll have to tell her not, and then of course she’ll never do it again. She is in great luck to come to a beautiful house like ours, and we’ll soon train her. I think on the whole it will be fun. I’ll look upon it as a sort of adventure.”

“I have a terrible fear,” said Jessie after a pause.

“Whatever can that be, Jess?”

“This. You know how determined our darling dad is, and when he makes up his mind to do a thing he’ll do it in spite of all the rest of the world. You know what poor mother said, that if Peggy goes to school, she goes to our school—our nice, refined school. Oh, that would be awful!”

Molly was silent for a minute, then she said, “Well, when the trouble comes it will be time enough to fret about it. Now, I suppose they’ll be here soon after eleven o’clock. I tell you what it is, Jessie, let’s be awfully nice to her, just like real sisters, and let’s pretend not to notice any of her funny ways, then she’ll soon cease to be shy. And let’s go out after breakfast and pick a lot of flowers to put into her bedroom. There’s nothing like flowers to comfort a person if that person is inclined to be homesick.”

“Homesick after a cabin!” said Jessie, a look of contempt spoiling her nice little face for a moment.

“But,” answered Molly, with a wider comprehension, “you must not forget, Jess, that the cabin, however humble, was her home.”

Mrs. Wyndham, having got over her first sense of dismay, was now fully determined to do all that was kind and right for the orphan girl. She acquainted her maid Ford with a few of the circumstances of the case, and told her that if the new young lady was a little eccentric at first, the servants, especially the men who waited at table, were to take no notice. In short, the good lady acted very judiciously, and enlisted her servants on the side of the new-comer, telling Ford how sad was her story and how right it was that they should all do their best for her.

A room was selected for Peggy’s accommodation next to that occupied by Molly and Jessie. It was a pretty and daintily furnished chamber, the paper was of pale green and the curtains and draperies to match. There was a moss-green carpet on the floor, and, in short, the little white bed, the charming view from the windows, and the dressing-table with its tall vases of flowers, all looked most inviting for any girl.

“How surprised and charmed she will be!” said Jessie.

But Jessie little guessed that the girl in question loved a tiny chamber under a sloping thatched roof, with one wee, very wee, window, and a little feather bed on an old wooden bedstead, the bedding covered with a patchwork quilt. This was Peggy’s idea of a bedroom, the only one she had ever cared to occupy. From there she could let out a screech to the fowls if they tried to force their way in at an open window, which, as a matter of fact, they often did. From there she would halloo to her granny, as she sometimes called Mrs. O’Flynn, to inform her that Pearl or Rose or Dandy had laid another egg. Peggy’s window seemed to her to command her little world; a larger window would have been, in the girl’s opinion, more or less “ondacent;” “for sure,” she was heard to exclaim, once or twice, “ye don’t want to see too much of yerself when yer dressin’ or undressin’.”

The girls got the room into perfect order, and were disappointed when a telegram arrived announcing that Mr. Wyndham and Peggy would not put in their appearance at Preston Manor until about six o’clock that evening. He gave no reason for this delay in London. Mrs. Wyndham was pleased at having a few hours more without the objectionable child, and, in consequence, started off to see a special friend of hers, a certain Miss Fox Temple, who lived about three miles away. This lady’s name was Lucretia; she was very proud and stately, and lived at a beautiful place called Mulberry Court, which she had inherited from her ancestors. Miss Fox Temple was about forty years of age, had decided long ago never to marry, dressed well, lived well, entertained lavishly, and was much respected and looked up to by her neighbours. There were few people whose opinion was as well worth having as that of Miss Fox Temple. She was worldly without being silly; kind-hearted, but at the same time full of practical common-sense.

Mrs. Wyndham arrived at Mulberry Court about twelve o’clock, and after a brief interval, during which the two ladies exchanged commonplaces, she told her friend what had occurred. “I am really shaking in my shoes,” said the good lady, “you cannot imagine what it is to me. My dear husband, you know, in some ways is a trifle unreasonable. He was always devoted to that poor fellow Captain Desmond; and I don’t for a moment wonder, for he was really altogether charming. But to think of the Captain keeping the existence of that child a complete secret from all his friends; to think of his marrying a mere peasant girl, and then on his deathbed handing the child on to my husband as though he were giving him a fortune, begging of my dear Paul to do all he could for his orphan child! Of course every scrap of sentimentality in Paul’s nature is aroused to the uttermost.”

“It is certainly extremely disagreeable for you,” said Miss Fox Temple. “You say the child has lived all her life in a cabin in Ireland?”

“Yes, in the County Kerry, the very wildest, most uncouth part of that—in my opinion—uncouth island.”

“Well, I do pity you,” said Miss Fox Temple; “but now, my dear Lucy, won’t your husband be reasonable? If the child has lived all her life in a cabin, if she is the daughter of an Irish peasant woman, she simply cannot associate with your children.”

“That is precisely what I have said,” remarked Mrs. Wyndham, “but I assure you, that hasn’t the least effect on Paul. He says the girls must get accustomed to her and must train her, and when I suggested school he said, ‘I am quite agreeable, but she shall go to the same school as the children.’”

“What, to The Red Gables!” said Miss Fox Temple. “I really don’t think Mrs. Fleming will permit it even for a moment. I tell you what. I shall come over to see you to-morrow or next day, and I will have a talk with Paul.”

“He has a very great respect for you; I must say that, Lucretia.”

“I shall suggest that the child is sent to a good-natured governess, who will take her to the seaside and train her for a year or so, and at the end of that time she’ll have got over the worst of her gaucherie, and be fit to associate with your family.”

“I wish you would, Lucretia; and I do trust, my dear, that your advice will be listened to, but I very much doubt it. You don’t know Paul as well as I do. When he takes the bit between his teeth nothing can move him.”

“Well, I am sorry for you,” said Miss Fox Temple. “All the same,” she added, “it is very fine of Paul; it isn’t every man who would act as he is doing.”

The two ladies had a little further talk together. Miss Fox Temple suggested that if the new-comer proved quite unbearable, Molly and Jessie should spend the remainder of their holidays with her at Mulberry Court. This proposition Mrs. Wyndham hailed with delight, although, as she did so, she doubted whether her husband would permit it. She lunched with her friend and went back in the cool of the evening.

“Mother,” said Molly, rushing to meet her, as the time approached for the travellers to appear, “what dresses shall we wear? Don’t you think we ought to put on something very quiet?”

“No, I don’t think so at all,” said Mrs. Wyndham; “you will dress as you dress for the evening, my dear Molly. Now go upstairs and get Ford to put out your frocks. Nothing, after all, can be simpler than pure white. I should like you to be in the hall when your father and that poor child arrive.”

Molly and Jessie ran up to their room. Ford arrayed them in simple and very pretty white silk frocks with high necks and long sleeves, they wore round their waists sashes of pale blue, their stockings were silk, and they had white satin shoes. Altogether, two more elegant looking girls it would have been difficult to find.

Molly and Jessie Wyndham had from their earliest days been brought up with extreme care by a devoted father and mother. They had never come across evil or even eccentricity in any form. Their lives were spent in the greatest happiness, all that money could bestow was lavished upon them. But they were also taught the best things; for both Wyndham and his wife were people of high principle. For the first years of their young lives they had a governess, to whom they were devoted. Her name was Miss Sherwood; she was gentle, kind, and very amiable. She was well informed, and, above all things, she had the highest principles.

Molly was a little easier to guide than Jessie, who had a slight crank in her nature; it was a curious crank and did not often appear. Jessie—and her most intimate friends knew it—was in reality consumed with intense vanity. She was not so very vain of her appearance as she was of her position in life. The first thing she noticed with regard to any new friend was how was that friend born, how much money had that friend, how many chances had that friend to make a mark in society? At school one or two of her greatest friends observed this failing in her character; it was just the very failing which would be certain to come to the surface when poor little Peggy Desmond appeared on the scene.

Jessie was a fair-haired, tall, slender girl. Her features were long, her face very pale, her eyes wide-open and of a pale shade of blue-gray. She was slightly aristocratic-looking, and was a contrast in every way to Molly. Molly was rather dark, with quantities of thick dark hair, brown eyes, a brown complexion, very rosy cheeks, and a round face. She had a merry and careless laugh, she had the kindest heart in the world, she was not a scrap vain or conceited. She looked forward with the deepest interest to the arrival of Peggy Desmond. At school Molly was the greater favourite; but Jessie had one or two sworn friends who would almost die for her. These girls appear later on in the story.

But now six o’clock sounded from the stable-clock in the yard. The toot-toot of the motor-car would be heard any moment as it dashed down the avenue. The two girls held each other’s hands as they appeared in the wide hall. Mrs. Wyndham was wearing her garden hat, she had a pair of scissors in her hand, and she cut off some withered roses from the rosebushes which grew at each side of the front door.

“They’re coming, mums! coming!” suddenly cried Molly. “Oh dear,” she continued, looking at Jessie, “my heart does beat!”

Jessie made no response. Her face suddenly turned white; she felt a violent inclination to turn and run away, but Molly caught her hand.

“Let’s welcome her, let’s be nice,” she said; and then the two sisters, hand in hand, came and stood at the top of the wide steps.

The motor drew up at the front door. Mr. Wyndham alighted and held out his hand to Peggy.

“Why on earth! ain’t we goin’ straight home?” was Peggy’s first remark.

“This is home, my dear.”

“Please, yer—yer laughin’ at me!”

“I am not, my child. Now come, these are your two little friends.—Molly, Jessie, come and assure Peggy Desmond that she is welcome to Preston Manor.”

“Oh me word!” exclaimed Peggy, as she tumbled rather than stepped out of the car, “I’m in a moil, an’ so I am!”

A moil—what was a moil? Jessie felt more than ever inclined to turn tail and rush away; but Mrs. Wyndham came up, held out her hand to the child, looked into her face, and bent forward and kissed her.

“Oh my, ma’am, what did you do that for?” exclaimed Peggy. “Why, ye don’t know me at all, at all!”

“I want to welcome you to Preston Manor, Peggy.”

“And is this where you live?” Peggy looked all round her. “Would ye mind if I let a screech in a minute?”

“I think, Molly,” said Mr. Wyndham, “you had better take Peggy up to her bedroom. She is dead-tired.”

“Now thin, sor, I wouldn’t be tellin’ lies if I was you, because most ov the day I was sound asleep on the bed at that big inn where ye tuk me. I’m not tired a bit, not me. Well, I’ll go with ye, miss, if you like; but you can’t expect me to have the manners of a place like this. Oh mercy, mercy me! Glory be to heaven, however am I to get used to the likes ov this?”

“You’ll soon get accustomed to it,” said Molly, in her gentle tone. “Come now with me, I want to show you your bedroom.”

Peggy, dressed as she was, was not so remarkable. Her little face was undoubtedly pretty, pretty beyond the beauty of most. Her eyes were absolutely lovely, her eyelashes were wonderful; and, owing to Miss Wakefield and Mrs. Wyndham’s clever dressmaker, her appearance was all that it ought to be. But her speech! her untrained, wild, untutored speech!

The next minute Molly and the Irish girl had disappeared upstairs, and Wyndham and his wife and Jessie were alone.

“Why didn’t you go with your sister, Jessie?” said her father.

“I cannot, father. I cannot speak to her, really.”

“Now, Jessie, I will have none of this.”

“Father!” the girl’s pale-blue eyes filled with tears. “Father, you cannot expect it, she’s not a lady—father, father!”

“She’s as much a lady by birth as you are.”

“I think not quite, dear,” interrupted the mother. “Remember the girl’s own mother.”

“I am thinking of her father,” said Wyndham, who was now thoroughly angry. “Of course the poor child knows nothing, and I should be ashamed of any daughter of mine who laughed at her and made life hard at present. Well done, little Molly! Jessie, if you wish to retain your father’s respect and affection you will follow your sister.”

Jessie walked away slowly. She did not say a word, but instead of going into Peggy’s room she retired into her own, where she flung herself into a chair, covered her face with her hands, and burst into a flood of weeping. “Oh dear! oh dear!” she sobbed, “I will never, never know happiness again!”

Meanwhile Wyndham and his wife were alone.

“My dear Paul, you have brought a creature here!”

“I admit it, Lucy, I admit everything; but she’s a beautiful little thing, and has a warm, loving heart. Oh my dear, if you are kind to her you will soon train her, and I assure you, my dear Lucy, she is quite as sorry to come to us as you are to receive her. If you had witnessed that poor child parting with her foster-parents you would know how full of love her heart is.”

Mrs. Wyndham gave an impatient sigh. “The fact is,” she said, “I can’t help saying it, Paul, you make a mistake in bringing that untutored, rough child to our house. I quite agree with you that she ought to be trained and looked after; but the kindest thing would be to put her with a woman in her mother’s class of life, who would educate her. Then, of course, as she becomes fit to associate with the gentry she might come here occasionally. You are doing wrong, Paul, and you are doing the worst thing for the happiness of the poor little thing herself.”

Molly, full of affection, determined to make the very best of Peggy, and took her up to her room.

“I hope you will be happy with us,” said Molly. “I know you must be feeling very sad at saying good-bye to your friends; but we mean to love you—at least Jessie and I do—and I hope you will love us.”

“I can’t love ye, miss dear.” The great dark-blue eyes were brimful of tears. “Oh my goodness glory me! ’tain’t a room like this I—I want. Yer niver going to say to me that I’ll sleep here. Why, I can’t an’ that’s true! Why, there ain’t even a little hin about nowhere!”

“A little what?” Molly shook her head.

“They that lay eggs. Did ye niver hear ov hins?”

“Oh hens! We have a lot of them about.”

“Then ye have thim! Thank the good God, I can live if I see hins. An’ have ye—tell me, for the good Lord’s sake, tell me—have you got pigeens here?”

“I think there are pigs. I will inquire to-morrow.”

“Oh it’s me heart that’s broke intirely!”

She sat down on a chair, tears rolled down her cheeks. “You see, miss dear,” she continued, after a minute, “’tain’t that I ain’t grateful, ’tain’t Peggy’s way not to be grateful; but it’s a big mistake takin’ me from thim who belonged to me. I’m torn up by the roots, that’s what I be, an’ I’m all bleedin’ like. Wouldn’t you be the same if ye was tuk from yer grand, wonderful, awful mansion of a place, an’ put into my speck of a cabin—wouldn’t you be feelin’ as I’m feelin’?”

“I expect I should; so you see, Peggy, I can understand you.”

“Ah, no! no! niver a bit, niver a bit; no one can understand me, no one can. I’m all alone, alone! Oh wurra, wurra me!” The girl kept on crying.

“Look at your pretty room, Peggy,” said Molly.

“I hate it!”

“Peggy, look at the flowers. All the world over flowers are the same.”

“Be they now? Well, I’ll look at them. Oh I don’t know the names ov them. Does ye get the Michaelmas daisy, an’ the London pride, an’ the cowslip, an’ the buttercup, an’ the primrose, an’ the violet—them’s the flowers for me. Oh no, miss dear, I’ll niver tek to ye nor yer ways. I hope to goodness mercy me that ye won’t expect me to go downstairs an’ ate me males in front of ye, for I don’t know how to do it, an’ that’s truth I’m tellin’. What sort ov males have ye?”

“I suppose the sort of things every one has.”

“Have ye got the Indian male stirabout? That’s what I’m partial to, an’ I don’t mind a couple ov eggs now an’ then when they can be spared.”

“But why shouldn’t they be spared if you have plenty of hens?”

“Now, missy dear, it’s jokin’ you must be wi’ me. Haven’t the little eggs to be sold to get in the money? Didn’t I go round every day an’ sell the eggs to the neighbours, an’ bring in the money for me poor grandad and grandma. Oh me, wurra, wurra, it’s a quare wurrald!”

“Look here, Peggy. Suppose I bring up something for you to-night, and you have it all alone with me?”

Peggy raised large and terrified eyes. “Why, surely, for the Lord’s sake, ye ain’t goin’ to ate again at this hour?”

“Of course we are, we haven’t had dinner yet.”

“Dinner! dinner! what’s the hour? Why, it’s past siven!”

“Yes, we don’t dine till close on eight.”

“Ah well, I can’t do it. I’m accustomed to me big male about twelve o’clock ov the day, an’ a good drink of buttermilk and some brown loaf at six in the evenin’, then me bed and sound slape, an’ glory be to God! Miss dear, you’ll niver manage the likes o’ me in yer grand house.”

“Peggy, aren’t you fond of your father?”

“Sure then I be.”

“Well, he has sent you to my father, for him to care for you. Won’t you try and do what your father and my father would like?”

The girl looked up at the other girl with bewildered eyes. “I don’t understand at all, at all,” she said.

“Well, I would like to explain to you if I can. At first, of course, you will find it very difficult, being with us and getting accustomed to our ways; but after a time you will find it becoming easier and easier, and your father up in heaven will be looking down at you, ever so pleased.”

“Will he smile, belike?”

“I think he will.”

“I’ve a picter of him. I’d like to see him smile. Have you got ghosties and fairies round here?”

“Oh dear no, we don’t believe in those sort of things.”

“Yon tell me, miss, that you don’t believe in the magpie?

“One for sorrow,

Two for mirth,

Three for a wedding,

And four for a birth.”

“No, I have never heard that rhyme.”

“Oh me word! There be some things yer ignorant about, missy.”

“Well, I am going down to get some food for you and me, and you must keep looking at me and eat just as I do, and then to-morrow morning when you come down to breakfast I’ll teach you how to eat and what to do. I’m going to love you, Peggy, so you must love me.”

The sweet brown eyes looked into the sweet blue ones, and at that moment a swift, indescribable rush of sympathy passed from one girl to the other.

CHAPTER IV.
ADVENTURES AT FARMER ANDERSON’S.

Peggy, notwithstanding the strangeness of her lot, slept softly and soundly in that delicious bed. Never before had she known the cool, delightful feel of fine linen sheets, never before had her curly head reposed on a pillow of down. She slept, and in her sleep Molly and Jessie stole softly into the room to look at her. Shading a candle, they bent forward, and certainly their present view of the little face was all that was charming. Not a trace of lack of refinement could be perceived in those delicate features, those long, curly black lashes, the true symbol of an Irish girl, and the well-formed, sensitive little red mouth.

“Oh, we’ll win her yet!” whispered Molly. “And she’s worth winning,” she added; “she’s a perfect darling.”

Even Jessie was silent with regard to the Irish child while the guardian angel of sleep protected her.

But when Peggy awoke the next morning matters were very different. She awoke early, as was her habit in Old Ireland. The stable clock had struck four when she opened her eyes and stared about her. She had been dreaming of the little old homestead and the hins and the turkeys—wasn’t Colleen Bawn going to bring out her clutch of eggs that very mortal day? “Twenty fluffy, downy chicks, as sure as I’m alive,” whispered Peggy; and then she sat up in bed and stared around her. How far off—oh how far off!—was Colleen Bawn and her brood of little yellow chicks; how far away were the rest of the hins, and the pigeens—bless ’em—and the little turkey poults, and the—the—oh all the home-things! What right had she, Peggy Desmond, to be here, in this awful grand room, for all the world like a palace fit for a king? How hateful was this soft white bed to one accustomed to sleep on feathers, it is true, but with the coarsest sheets and with the roughest blankets? And what right, for that matter, had she to be in bed at all, at all, at this hour, instead of up and busy? At home, wouldn’t her work come handy to her—cows to milk, calves to cosset, lambs to pet, and all the other creatures to supply with their breakfast? “Oh wurra me!” thought Peggy, “whativer’ll they do widout me at all? Why, me grandma, she ain’t got the strength enough to rise with the lark; it’s ‘Peggy mavourneen,’ she’ll be callin’ for an’ there’ll be niver a Peggy mavourneen to listen. Oh but I can’t stand this, I can’t! And be the powers, what’s more! I’ll get up and dress me anyhow. Then I’ll get out. Maybe there’ll be a hin or a cock or a bit ov a wee calf for me to pet. I suppose they have a back yard. I’ll make for it an’ see what sort o’ place they kape. Wouldn’t me heart light up if I saw a big dirty pigeen?”

Accordingly Peggy put on her clothes. Their newness and softness drew scornful remarks from her lips and anger from her heart. “Why, to glory now, what do I want wid the likes of thim? It’s a morshial shame to waste the good money on thim when ye can buy unbleached calico for threepence a yard.”

But as Peggy had nothing else to wear she was forced to resort to the soft clothing which had been purchased for her in London the day before; and, finally, dressed in a little dark-blue serge skirt and a white muslin blouse, she opened the French windows and stepped out. She found herself on a part of the roof, which did not trouble her much, for she was accustomed to climbing anywhere, and after some slight difficulty she managed to spring into the welcoming arms of an old yew-tree, and from thence to descend to the ground. The cool fresh morning air revived her and raised her spirits; but, try as she would, she could nohow manage to get into the back yard, for the simple reason that it was not as yet open, the workmen not arriving until six o’clock.

Peggy sat down on a garden bench and looked around her. This was the first time she had had any sense of liberty since her arrival. As long as she was travelling with Mr. Wyndham she was nothing more nor less than a prisoner; a prisoner surrounded by hateful luxury, it is true, but still a prisoner. What she specially disliked in her present surroundings was that sense of belonging to some one else, that sense of being a prisoner. At home she could do exactly what she liked, the O’Flynns never dreaming of interfering with their darling; but here all was different. If she could retain her liberty she might in the end work her way back to Ireland, and be once again a happy Kerry girl in her cabin home. She thought and thought, and the more dazzling did the prospect of liberty appear in her eyes. Presently she stole her hand into her pocket, and to her relief and pleasure found that she was the proud possessor of three shillings. Wyndham had given her the change the day before, telling her that she might like to have the money to buy stamps and such like things. Ah yes! but she would not waste it on stamps. Was it not a nucleus which might be increased? To Peggy’s ignorant little soul three shillings seemed a vast lot of money, and if it were spent carefully it would go a long way. There was no doubt whatever that Mr. Wyndham, kind gentleman though he was, and Mrs. Wyndham, whom she did not take to at all, and Jessie, whom she pronounced a foreigner out and out, and Molly, who was more to her taste, but was also a foreigner, be the same token, all meant between them, in some sort of fashion, to keep her prisoner. Now a prisoner she would not remain, not while the good God had given her a strong pair of legs, and there was liberty in the world. She made up her mind; she would run away. There was no time like the present, “when all the worruld of England seemed dead aslape, bad cess to it! But, be the same token, this was the good-luck for her!”

She started from her seat, and, walking quickly, soon discovered a stile, over which she mounted and got into a large meadow. Here some bulls were feeding; there were three of them at least, and they all raised their stout, stolid heads, and fixed their blinking little eyes on the child. They had each of them a ring in his nose, and had short, strong horns. Had the Wyndhams seen the bulls they would have rushed screaming back into safety; but not so Peggy Desmond, she was no more afraid of a bull than she was of a little bit of a heifer. Why should she be at all, to be sure? She had put no hat on her curly head, and now she stood still within an inviting range of the great beasts, looking from one to the other with love and interest in her dark-blue eyes.

“Why thin, me darlin’s,” she called out, “is it lonely ye be, like meself for all the wurrald? Ah wurra then, come along and let me pet ye! Why thin, it’s home ye remind me of, and it’s the water to me eyes ye do bring.”

It is a well-known fact that cows, and in especial bulls, are some of the most absolutely curious creatures under the light of the sun; they are, in short, at all times devoured with curiosity. To see a small girl, therefore, standing calmly in their midst, and not running away from them, as most small girls did, excited their curiosity to a painful degree. They must investigate this person and find out what she was made of, afterwards they could toss her or not just as the fancy took them. Accordingly, bellowing slightly, and bending their heads, as was their custom when after mischief, Farmer Anderson’s three fierce bulls came up to examine that curiosity, Peggy Desmond. When they approached within close reach of her, Peggy came up to the nearest, laid her hand on his warm, soft red coat, said, “Ah thin, me darlin’, it’s mighty invitin’ ye look;” and the next minute, laying hold of one of his short horns, she sprang on his back, crept up toward his forehead, and began to pat him between his horns, calling him endearing names and keeping her seat by means of the horns. The beast gave an infuriated roar and rushed across the field, his brothers following in an equal state of indignation. Peggy patted, stroked, uttered endearing words, and by a sort of magic kept her seat. The roar of the bull had been heard by Farmer Anderson, whose house was quite close by; but when he appeared on the scene he, as he afterwards expressed it, nearly died of the shock.

There was a pretty little strange girl seated on the back of Nimrod, who was now going quietly about the field, having ceased to make any effort to dislodge his unwelcome guest—or was she unwelcome any longer? Perhaps her soft words and gentle, endearing expressions proved soothing rather than otherwise to his turbulent spirit. Anyhow, he had ceased to attempt to dislodge Peggy Desmond, who, laughing and singing, was thoroughly enjoying her ride. The other two bulls were trotting after Nimrod, who went round and round the great field a little faster each time.

Farmer Anderson stood as one stunned. “For the Lord’s sake, get down, missy!” he shouted, “get down this minute, or Nimrod will bait you!”

But the dark-blue Irish eyes of Peggy looked calmly at Farmer Anderson. She turned Nimrod by giving one of his horns a tug, and rode up to his master.

“I’m likin’ me ride intirely,” she said; “and whatever’s the matter wid ye? I’m doin’ no harm to the baste.”

“But the beast will do harm to you. Here, off you get! The Lord preserve us, never did I see such a sight in the whole course of my life!”

As he spoke, the farmer, who was a big, burly man, lifted Peggy to the ground, drove the bulls to the other side of the field, and taking the girl’s hand led her into a narrow lane which happened to be an approach to his own house.

“For the Lord’s sake tell me what you have been doing with my bull!” he exclaimed.

“Why thin, it’s only a ride I was takin’ on him,” said Peggy.

“A ride on a bull! Wherever were you riz, girl?”

“In Ireland, sure, yer honour; we ain’t afeard of bulls in Ould Ireland.”

“So I should say. You’re an uncommonly brave lass, you might have been killed.”

“Not me. ’Tain’t any animal under the sun as ’u’d injure me. I’ve a heart inside of me, ye see, to love thim all.”

The man looked at her attentively. “Whoever be you?” he said. “Your face is strange to me.”

“Ah well, and that’s likely enough. I’m Peggy Desmond. I come from a cabin in Ireland, County Kerry, as pretty a spot as ye could find on the face of the globe.”

“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.”

“But we call that a lane in England.”

“Well, it’s a boreen in Ireland. I’m right glad ye’re takin’ me on.”

“I don’t say so for a minute, but I’ll speak to the missis about you.”

The “missis” was busy “scalding,” as she called it, a great dish of hot meal for the fowls. She was a stout, red-faced woman, an excellent wife of a farmer. As the farmer and Peggy entered the kitchen the dish, an enormous one, nearly slipped from her hand, and a little bit of the very hot meal scalded her fingers. In one instant Peggy had rushed up and nipped the dish from her.

“Why, ma’am, for mercy’s sake, don’t hould it like that; ye’ll get yerself scalded all to nothing! Let me go out an’ feed the hins. I’d love to be at it!”

“Who in the world is the child?” asked the astonished woman; but Peggy did not wait for any explanations with regard to her whereabouts or who she was. With that dish of hot, comforting food in her arm, she was once again back at Ballyshannon, as she called her home in the County Kerry; once again the sniff of the warm meal assailed her nostrils, her dark-blue eyes sparkled with ecstasy, and she ran into the yard and made a peculiar shout to the fowls, the unmistakable shout which every highly respectable fowl in the whole of Christendom understands, the shout which means food, and nothing but food. They surrounded her in a trice—geese, ducks, hens, chickens, turkeys. With the utmost carefulness and the most splendid genius, she arranged her food, giving the fierce gobblers the coarse bits, and reserving the dainty morsels for the little chickens and the small “hins,” as she called them. The farmer and the farmer’s wife watched her from the door of the house.

“I never did!” said the farmer. “If you believe me, Mary Ann, I might have been cut in two by a knife at that minute, to see her sitting as cool as brass on the back of Nimrod, with no more fear than if she were sitting in the easy-chair by the fire! And now look at her with those fowls. Whoever on earth is she? She’s more like a fairy than a girl.”

“We must find out who she is. She’s too well-dressed to belong to us, and yet she’s the very gal after my own heart,” said the farmer’s wife. “I want a hearty, clever, natty sort of creature who’ll do her work in a jiff without having to be told anything.”

Peggy, having got the fowls quite satisfied with their breakfast, now came up glibly. “Where’s the milkin’-pails?” she asked.

“Why, you bit of a girl, you can’t milk cows,” said the farmer, laughing as he spoke.

“Can’t I? You try me.”

“Well, we’re a hand short this morning, and twenty cows to be milked,” said the farmer’s wife. “You can go along to the sheds. I’m quite certain that Tom and Sam will be glad of your help.”

Tom and Sam were exceedingly glad of the help of Peggy Desmond. What wonderful knack was there in those slim little fingers! The most troublesome cows, those who, as a rule, knocked over the pail, were as good and quiet as mice under her gentle manipulations, and what a lot of delicious, frothy milk she got them to yield to her gentle touch! The farmer and his wife regarded her as a perfect treasure.

“I wish we knew who she is. If she is respectable-like we could keep her until the hay harvest and the wheat harvest are over,” said the farmer.

“We could, for sure,” said the farmer’s wife. “Well, anyhow, she has earned her breakfast.”

It was now past six o’clock. The farmer’s wife went into the kitchen. She put a frying-pan on the fire, cut great slices of bacon, broke in about a dozen eggs, and began to fry.

“Come, you want your breakfast,” she said to the girl. “You milked right well, I will say. I never saw a neater touch.”

“To be sure, ma’am, an’ why shouldn’t it be?”

“You must be hungry for your breakfast.”

“Oh there’s no hurry, bless ye, ma’am! Shall I lay the table for ye?”