While little Margot and "Herself" were engrossed over the two-months-old baby and Margot was expressing her intense delight that it was really a very young baby—"proper young," she said, raising her deep, dark eyes to the young mother's face—Fergus Desmond was giving way to a certain amount of anger. He was a good fellow, one of the best in Ireland, but he was eaten up with an Irishman's pride and he did not want his little niece to be "hail-fellow-well-met" even with so good a man as Phinias Maloney.

A slight consideration, however, caused him to see the absurdity of these feelings. He had no cause to abuse poor Phinias, who was one of his own father's best tenants. The frown, therefore, smoothed away from his brow and he walked beside Phinias into one of the meadows at the back of the tumble-down farm.

"Ye may wonder that missie comes to see me, sir," exclaimed Phinias, who had been quite quick enough to discern the frown of displeasure on the young masther's brow. "Why, thin, I'll explain to yourself," he continued. "She's a little miss that ain't to be seen often, and she was put into my charge on board the boat. Why to be sure I didn't recognise John Mansfield at the first go-off, but when I did, I couldn't but accept the duty put on me. She's a dear little miss and wasn't no throuble at all even to sphake about, only she was fair mad to get to Desmondstown."

"Now, listen, Phinias, I want to speak to you," said Fergus. "Time is short and there is a great deal to be done. I want you to tell me, my good fellow, all that you know of John Mansfield."

"All that I know, Mr. Desmond? I know nought but what's good about the best gintleman that ever walked. It isn't to say that he's middlin' good, but he's high up among the saints, your honour. He's a priest of the Holy Church. Nobody must say a word against John Mansfield 'fore me, yer beautiful honour."

"I don't want to say a word against the man," said Fergus. "You just told me that he put a little child into your care."

"Yes, he did, and as dacent and as purty a colleen as could be found in the breadth of the British Isles."

"I know all about her," said Fergus. "The child is a dear child. She is my niece and granddaughter to The Desmond, but what I want to find out is this—how she comes to be niece also to John Mansfield."

"Sure then, did ye never hear of Farmer Mansfield of these parts?"

"What," said Fergus, stepping back a pace and a frown coming over his handsome features. "You don't mean to insinuate that my niece is a relation of that old scoundrel?"

"The man took to dhrink and dhrink finished him entirely," said Phinias, "but his son John was always a good boy, always and forever—good of the good and best of the best, and how could he possibly be responsible for the sins of his fathers? He saved money and had himself eddicated—eh, fine; fine. He's a mighty scholard is John Mansfield and has the gentlest and truest heart in the world and he took missie when she was a babby and reared her up fine and she calls him her uncle."

"Oh, well, he's not her uncle," said Fergus.

"Don't be so sure of that, Mr. Desmond, your honour. He's her uncle near as much as you are."

"What do you mean?" said Desmond.

"I'll tell ye, sir, if ye'll give me time to get me breath. Well, it was like this. You may remember how beautiful, lovely Miss Kathleen went to London and married a Frenchy, but nobody ever said a word about Miss Priscilla."

Fergus found himself starting.

"Miss Priscilla got tired of the life at Desmondstown and she come to me one evening late, as sure as I'm standing here, and she says, says she, 'I'm going to London after Kathleen, and if Kathleen has married, why shouldn't I?' Eh, to be sure I did what I could to stop her, but she would have her way. She wrote to The Desmond and tell't him that she had married and she didn't want no bones made about it, and she never mentioned the name of her husband, honest man. I've heard tell that she's turned out a sharp, sour woman, but she's married to John Mansfield—the best man that ever walked. So he's uncle by marriage to little missie. It's all a fact, yer honour, ye can't help it. Ye must swallow your pride, and all I can say is this, that John Mansfield deserved a better lot."

"Well, tell me this," said Fergus after a time. "I never cared for Priscilla—we none of us did—she was the eldest of the whole house, even older than my sister Norah, and tried to rule us with a rod of iron. If it hadn't been for my father, The Desmond, she would have made the place unbearable. So she took the child when her parents died?"

"She did so," replied Phinias. "It was the only good thing she done as far as I hear tell on."

"Listen to me, Phinias," said Fergus, "I want your help in this matter."

"To be sure, to be sartin sure, yer honour."

"Well, it's like this," said Fergus. "Don't you let it out to your wife or your neighbours. Keep it close within your breast."

"I will that, yer honour. I am wonderful at kapin' a sacret."

"Well, this is the state of things," said Fergus. "My father is an old man and full of years, and Madam, bless her heart, is not too young, and they've both taken a fancy to the little push-keen. We want to keep her, Phinias."

"Oh, Lord, sir; yer honour I mane, whatever for?"

"For the sake of my father," said Fergus. "He's gone fair mad over the child, and if John Mansfield has got a grain of human nature in him, he won't part the child from her own true grandfather. I'm going to see him to-night, but not a word is to be mentioned to little miss, and I want you to give me his address, Phinias Maloney."

"Well, to be sure, I can do that fine," said Phinias. "Didn't he give me his kyard when he put the bit colleen into my care, and didn't he look nigh to weepin'. He's an elegant man, yer honour, and he loves the little colleen like anythin'. There's nothin' on earth he wouldn't do for the pretty dear, but I can see that he's mortal afraid of 'herself'—that's Miss Priscilla that was. His address is Handley Vicarage, Balderstown, near Earlminster. You won't see much of the old farmer in the Rev. John Mansfield, yer honour. To look at, he's a gintleman as good as yourself and with 'the spiritual eye.'"

"Whatever do you mean by that, Phinias?"

"Ah, thin," exclaimed Phinias, "it's given but to a rare few, and they lives—well, somewhere above the stars I'm thinking—close to the golden gates, by the same token. There's no difference between 'The's' and Priests and Marquises and Counts where he has fixed his gaze, yer honour. He's a howly man, that's what he be and 'the spiritual eye' in him is downright wonderful."

"Well, thank ye, Phinias," said Fergus, after a pause. "I don't quite understand your full meaning, but I want the wee push-keen for my father, and if I can get her I will. How, then, will you call her out to me, for she may as well ride home on my shoulder?"

"Ah to be sure, the pretty bit dear," said the farmer.

He entered his untidy kitchen somewhat sorrowfully. He was thinking of John Mansfield. He did not see—being a very upright man himself—why even The Desmond should be considered, when he had taken no notice at all of the little 'herself' all these long, long years, and he thought his honour, Mr. Fergus, somewhat cruel to drag the child from his own friend.

Fergus, however, having got the information he required did not give Phinias Maloney a further thought.

Margot, in the highest spirits, rode back to Desmondstown on her uncle's shoulder. She had by this time become great friends with Aunt Eileen and she endured the passionate caresses of old young Aunt Norah and old young Aunt Bridget. She chattered a good deal as they all ate their lunch together about the baby who was real—real young.

Aunt Norah let out one of her whoops and then one of her screeches, but The Desmond was too much absorbed with his plan to take much notice of her. On that same evening Fergus started for Rosslare en route for Fishguard. He managed to find time to sell the old gold repeater and had in consequence sufficient money in his pocket for his immediate wants.

Fergus Desmond did not much mind his shabby attire, nor his unwieldy-looking boots, nor his altogether Irish appearance. He had a goal in view and that goal he was determined to carry through if it cost him half his life. The Desmond was mad about little Margot and The Desmond must be satisfied.

All in good time he arrived at Handley Vicarage. He enquired at once for the Rev. John Mansfield. Hannah opened the door for him and stared at him a good bit. It seemed as though Hannah, who was a most astute woman, was tracing out a likeness between Fergus and somebody else. Who could the somebody else be? Surely—surely not the bit girlie. Hannah was devoted to Margot and had bitterly regretted her visit to Ireland, but she was in all the throes of spring cleaning at the present moment, and altogether it was an awkward time for Fergus Desmond to come.

"My master's out at the present moment," she said, "but if you'll tell me your name, sir, I'll let him know if you'd like to call again."

"I'll wait here for him, thanks," said Fergus, "and I'd rather not give my name."

"He's a burglar like as not," thought Hannah, but there was something so masterful and big and grave about this dark-eyed man that she could not by any possibility attempt to oppose him. She accordingly put him into the study and a few minutes later John Mansfield entered the room. John Mansfield was thought a tall man by his English parishioners, but as he crossed the room to welcome the stranger, who was totally and completely a stranger to him, he looked small by comparison with Fergus Desmond.

Fergus, however, was immediately fired by that curious admiration for the man himself, which all those who knew him felt. There was, according to Phinias, "the spiritual eye" very distinctly visible in John Mansfield.

"I must introduce myself," said Fergus. "I am an Irishman."

"Ah, to be sure, sit down, won't ye?" said John Mansfield. His heart gave a thump in his breast. Ireland for him at that moment only meant Desmondstown, where his little Margot, his little treasure, was staying.

"And my name," continued Fergus, dropping into a chair, "is Fergus Desmond."

"Not—not of Desmondstown!" gasped John Mansfield. "My God, speak the truth at once, lad—not of Desmondstown?"

"Yes, of Desmondstown, where else?"

"Then you have brought bad news—something has gone wrong with my—my little darling."

"No, sir, nothing has gone wrong. Ease your mind, once and for all. The child has won the love of everyone in the house, and The Desmond and Madam they want to keep her. That's what I've come about, Mr. Mansfield. For the matter of that, you are my brother-in-law, sir. You have married my sister Priscilla."

"I have so," said Mansfield, "and she's a good woman."

"She's not at home now, is she?" asked Fergus.

"No, thank the—I mean she won't be back for over a week, Mr. Desmond."

"You had best call me Fergus, John," said the other man.

"If you like it, I will, but it don't seem fair. I never set myself up to be one of your class."

"Well, never mind that, you are married to my eldest sister and you are a good man; I can see that by your face."

"I try my best, Mr. Fergus, but we are none of us good. There's a heavy load of sin on us all, and I'm no better than my neighbours."

"You ask Phinias Maloney and he'll tell you a very different story," said Fergus, a grim smile passing over his stern features.

"Ah, Phinias," said John Mansfield. "He always had the heart of the matter in him. But tell me again what you have come about, Mr. Fergus. You don't want to take my girleen from me."

"That's what I do want. Tell me truthfully, does her aunt love the child?"

"I can't say that she does," replied John Mansfield, "but discipline is good for us all."

"Well now, listen to me, John Mansfield. The Desmond is getting old and when an old man sets his heart on a thing, it's bad—it's terribly bad to upset him. Let him have all his wishes until the breath leaves his body."

"Sir, why didn't The Desmond write about little Margot before now?"

"He didn't think of her and that's the truth," said Fergus.

"But I did think of her," said John Mansfield. "She's the light of my heart—the joy of my life. Haven't I trained her and loved her and taught her since her father's death when she was barely two years of age? I had hard work to bring Priscilla round to my keeping her at all, but now—now she's my sunshine and joy and you want to take her from me. Don't you think you're a cruel man, Mr. Desmond?"

"No I don't; I'm thinking that the old man won't live long. I expect it is a bit of a sacrifice to you, John Mansfield, but you might think of the old who have so few days before them. And the little one shall have every care and be well taught and even have a dowry provided for her. I am sure your wife would give her consent, and she's her niece—not yours—John Mansfield."

"That's true; Priscilla wouldn't mind," said Mansfield. "She'd be glad to get rid of her."

"Then, man, whyever do you hesitate? You are only her uncle by marriage. You can't keep her away from her grandfather if he wants her."

John Mansfield rose from his seat and walked to the window. He stood there for some time, looking out with a very steady and fixed gaze. At the end of that time the cloud which had covered his brow disappeared. Then he went up to Desmond and laid his delicate and refined hand on the other man's shoulder.

"I won't say any longer that you are doing a cruel thing," he said, "but if it's a case of adoption, I must get Priscilla's leave, and I must go to the present Comte St. Juste and see what he says about his son's child being adopted by the Desmonds. If it's done it must be done properly."

"I'm willing; I'm quite willing," said Fergus. "Where does the Comte St. Juste live?"

"At a place called Arles in France. There's the old chÂteau still standing and I'm told they are terribly poor, but the child belongs to them as much as to you. I hear they are greedy, too; they may want a hit of money to give her up."

"John Mansfield," said Fergus, "if you lend me fifty pounds you and I might go together to see the Comte St. Juste and I'll pay it back to you as sure as I am a Desmond of Desmondstown when I return home again. Let us start at once, my good sir. You'll help me to get the little one for my father."

"I got my quarter's income yesterday," said John Mansfield. "I must keep some of it to live on, but I can let you have thirty pounds. I didn't know when I sent my little treasure to Desmondstown that it would come to this. You must do with thirty pounds, Fergus Desmond, I can't spare any more."

"I'll do with thirty pounds," said Desmond.

"Very well; we'll start for London to-night. This is the room where she and I were so happy together. Here is the little shelf where she kept her Latin and Greek books."

"My good gracious, you didn't teach her the dead languages?" said Fergus.

"I did, for certain. She was the aptest little pupil you could find in your march through life."

"I'll have her taught fine," said Fergus, "but you are a good—very good man, Mansfield."

"Don't say that again," replied Mansfield. "The heart knoweth its own wickedness and its own sorrows. I can't explain what I feel and if I could, I wouldn't. I'll be ready to accompany you this very evening, Mr. Desmond."

"Fergus Desmond, please," said the future heir to The Desmond.

Mansfield left the room. Fergus looked round the shabby little study. He took up the Latin and Greek books and a sense of amazement possessed him. If it had not been for his old father he would not have gone on with this thing. He felt he had never seen a man like John Mansfield before. Fergus thought a good deal of rank and old family, but Mansfield was above all that kind of thing. He was higher up. He had, in fact, reached the soul heights, where earthly rank counts for nothing.

By-and-bye he came back, the colour in his cheeks and a sparkle in his eyes.

"I have news for you, Fergus," he said, "sudden, unexpected. Priscilla has come home."

"My goodness," said Fergus, "we all vowed that we would never speak to her again."

"Because she married me?" said Mansfield, with a sort of angelic smile.

"Yes, we were fools. I should like to see my sister, and I tell you honestly, Mansfield, that I think she has got the best of the bargain."

"But there is one thing I must add," continued Mansfield. "I cannot go with you to France to-night. I cannot desert my wife on her unexpected return."

There was a loud, harsh voice heard in the hall.

"Maggie, Maggie, where are you, Marguerite?"

Mansfield hurriedly left the study; his firm, refined face assumed a somewhat slight and delicate flush; he drew himself up to his slender height, a half-suppressed sigh rose to his lips and then he disappeared. Fergus Desmond heard him murmur to himself,

"She's a good woman, yes, she's a good woman, and I—I have deceived her," but whether Mrs. Mansfield was good or bad, nothing could exceed her wild rage and anger when she encountered her husband in the little narrow hall and when he told her, which he did firmly and gently, that he had sent little Margot to visit her relations in Ireland.

"I didn't act fair by you, Priscilla," he said, "and I'm more than willing to own it, but the child pined to see her own people, and I—I, yes, I let her go."

"The little brat," said Mrs. Mansfield, "and pray what money did you give her? She couldn't cross the briny with nothing in her pocket."

"She didn't have a penny of yours, Priscilla; but wait, whist, I have something to say...."

Whatever that something may have been, it was interrupted in a most startling and unpleasant manner, for Fergus Desmond also opened the door of the little study and stood in the hall. He was exactly three years younger than Priscilla, and Priscilla could not mistake him for a moment. She disliked all her family, but perhaps she disliked Fergus the most, for Fergus would never give in to her or submit to her scoldings, and even the lively Norah and the old young Bridget found their brother a rock of defense on the occasions when Priscilla rounded on them.

"I've come, Prissy," he said, not offering to kiss her or even to take her hand. "I see you are exactly the same as ever. I pity from the bottom of my heart the good man you have made your husband."

"You pity the son of a farmer for having married a Desmond of Desmondstown," almost hissed the good lady.

"I pity the man you have married—I care nothing about his ancestry. He's got a good bit of property I'm thinking in a more enduring country than this. But now, about the child. I came over on purpose to speak to you and John about her. My father, The Desmond, wants to keep her and from what I can see of you, Prissy, you'll be glad to be rid of her."

Mrs. Mansfield was at first so much startled at seeing her brother that she could find no words to reply, but now they came in what in Ireland might be called not only a flow but a rapid torrent.

"Ah, to be sure," she said, "that's a nice thing to come and say and do. I took the child when she was too small for anyone else to think about her. I took her and cared for her and nursed her and trained her and sat up with her at night when she had the whooping-cough and the measles, and now that she is a strong colleen you want to take her from me. All I can tell you is this, Fergus, you don't get her, so there! She can be of use to me now," repeated Mrs. Mansfield, "and I won't give her up. That's my answer. You can go, Fergus. There is nothing more to be said."

"But there is something more to be said, good wife," said John Mansfield. "I have given in—I, who love the little creature as though she were my own."

"Oh, do stop your foolery, John," said Mrs. Mansfield. "Who cares whether you love her or not? It's the plague of my life the way you go on about her."

"I can't help loving her, dear, no more than you can help—help hating her."

"Who said I hated her? That's a nice thing to repeat to my brother."

"Well, then, give her up, Priscilla."

"I won't, unless I'm paid," said Priscilla. "She's a perfect torment of a child and I never did think when I went away to visit my sick friend that I should be treated in so mean and so deceitful a manner. I won't give her up unless I'm paid," screamed Priscilla. "How much are you prepared to offer me for her, Fergus?"

"I'll give you fifteen pounds, Priscilla. I'll send it to you from Desmondstown, but first of all this good fellow and I must go and see the child's French relations."

"Oh you must, indeed, must you? A fine fuss you are making—a fine hue and cry about a beggar's brat, whom nobody took any notice of at all until the last week or so."

"Come along now, ma'am, and sup up your tea," said Hannah, who just then added her own goodly proportions to the group in the hall. "I have a beautiful egg boiled as light as anything for you and new laid as though it had dropped out of the nest, and a little bit of curled up bacon. Master, you take the gentleman into the study and I'll see after Mrs. Mansfield."

Now if there was one person in the world whom Mrs. Mansfield both respected and feared it was her old-fashioned servant, Hannah. Hannah had lived with her ever since her marriage, solely and entirely first on account of Mr. Mansfield, and then because of the sweet brown-eyed baby. She hated the woman for herself, but she would have done more than put up with her for the sake of that good man, John Mansfield, and for the sake of the bit girleen. She was a Yorkshire woman, firm and determined. She kept the house very clean, she allowed no waste anywhere and in some extraordinary way she managed to rule Priscilla Desmond that was. She ruled her by being outspoken and by letting this Irishwoman see what she really was.

"Here's your supper, ma'am," she said. "You'd better sit down quiet-like and eat it."

"Hannah, I've been treated shameful—shameful."

Hannah put her arms akimbo and stared fixedly at her mistress.

"I can't see for the life of me where the 'shameful' comes in," she said, "and whatever made ye come back a week or more before ye were wanted. Wasn't the master and me in the thick of housecleaning when you come bally-ragging us?"

"I couldn't help it, Hannah. My friend got a bad attack of pleurisy, and you know I can never stand serious illness—it's more than I've nerve for."

"Oh you are not lacking in nerve, ma'am. When you told all those lies about sitting up with the child that time she had measles and whooping-cough. It wasn't you that sat up, bless your heart, it was the master and me. There's no sense in what I calls useless lies, and them was useless. The master knew it, and he give one of those quick little sighs of his that cut me to the very bone, back behint the heart, and, what's more, that fine gentleman from Ireland knew it—I saw it in his face. You are perjuring yourself more every day, Mrs. Mansfield, and you'd best step easy and go more cautious if you want ever to get to Heaven. There, now, you are crying—that'll do you good. This tea is prime. I bought it at Dawson's out of my own wages this morning, and this little curly crisp bit of bacon with the new-laid egg will hearten you up. Eat and drink, ma'am, and be decent to your good husband and, for the Lord's sake, let the child go where she will be loved. There is no one loves her in this house but the master and me. There, to be sure, haven't I got in a girl who is trying to smooth her work? I must get at her to see that she bottoms it properly. Take your tea and eat your egg and think on your sins. That's all I have got to say to you."