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.