Now she stood exactly under the picture, her dark eyes raised to the dark eyes of the little girl, who was holding an enormous bunch of cowslips in her hands. With all her likeness to Margot she had not the fire of Margot in her small face. Still, Margot loved her because she was her very own--her own ancestress, who had been born a Desmond at Desmondstown, and had died before she was old enough to marry. "So she is always a Desmond," said Margot, speaking, as was her custom, aloud. "And that in itself is beautiful. I'll run to her first when I get to Heaven--even before I see dear grandpère. I do love her. Always a Desmond--a Desmond up in Heaven. She must be wonderfully happy. Oh, is that you, Uncle Fergus?" Uncle Fergus joined the child. He put his arm round her slim little waist, and they both stood together and looked up at the picture. "Do you love the Romney picture, pushkeen?" he asked. "Oh, Uncle Fergus, I just adore it. She must be so happy, never to have changed her beautiful name." "She was your great-great-great-aunt," said Uncle Fergus. "Her name was Kathleen Desmond, and your own mother was called after her. She died a year after that picture was taken. It is the most valuable thing we possess. If sold it would fetch thousands of pounds, but I am going to ask my father to give it to you for your very own, Margot." "Oh, oh, are you, Uncle Fergus? But I couldn't sell her, you know. If I felt she was my own, I'd keep her forever and ever and ever. She is part of me now, I love her so much." "I don't want you to sell her, little one," said Fergus; "nor would The Desmond hear of it. She would not be yours as long as The Desmond lives. Then, if he consents, we will settle her on you, as well as the dower." "Not a _dot_; I hope not a _dot_," said little Margot. "No, I said a _dower_." "Well, that's all right. How I shall pet you and love you, Great-great-great-Aunt Kathleen Desmond; even up in heaven, where you are now, I'll see your face in the sky, on starlight nights, looking down at me and smiling at me." "Do you know, Margot, why I want to give you that picture?" "No, Uncle Fergus. You have a funny thought at the back of your head, but I don't know what it is." "Because you are like her, very like her." "Am I--am I truly? Why she's quite bee-uti-ful." "Well, never mind about that, child. You asked me to meet you here and I have come. Have you anything to say?" "They are so frightened, poor things," said Margot, suddenly restored to the present. "They haven't got my courage nor her courage nor your courage, so I thought that you and I had best help them." "Who on earth are you talking about, pushkeen?" "He blushes so dreadfully," continued Margot. "It's quite awfully painful. I keep looking away from him now to ease his mind a bit. I suppose he thinks Auntie Norah very beautiful and she thinks him very holy." "Who on earth--what _do_ you mean, pushkeen?"