"Let me speak," interrupted Norah. "Bridget and me we were havin' a game of horses with Mr. Flannigan, the new curate, and a rare bit of fun we had out of it, too, when who should we see but this pixie seated on the trunk of an old tree! She said her name was--whatever did ye say your name was, pixie?" "I don't choose to be called pixie," said Margot. "My name is Marguerite St. Juste, and my father was Comte St. Juste, and my mother was Kathleen Desmond, very own sister to you all. I live with a dear, darling, lovely uncle in England, but I thought I'd like to see Desmondstown, and Uncle John wrote to The Desmond, who is grandfather to me. I'd like well to see him, and there's my leather trunk, which belonged to my mother, hiding under a big laurel bush at the gate. I want to stay here for a full week and then I'll go away. Oh, I know you are all terrible young. I was taught that on my way here. But you are not as young as I am. Still, I don't mind your being young, if you play with me and not let that dreadful curate talk to me." While little Margot was speaking, her eyes grew softer and darker and brighter, the flaming red mounted into her cheeks and her young lips trembled slightly. "I'm a bit hungry," she said after a pause, "and I don't see the armour nor the ingle nook, nor the fire that never goes out day nor night." "Bless her heart," said Malachi, "who told you those lies about the poor old place?" "They weren't lies, they were truths," said Margot. "My uncle, my dearest darling Jacko, told me all about everything. Oh, but couldn't I have a sup of milk or something? I'm so terrible thirsty." Before this very natural request could be granted, a door at the side of the great hall was pushed open and an aged man with snow-white hair and black eyes entered. He was followed by a little refined gentlewoman, who looked a trifle nervous and kept on repeating, "Whist, now, Fergus; the bit things must have their fun." "I don't allow noise and confusion in my house," said The Desmond, "and whoever in the name of the Almighty is that?" "It is only me, grandfather," said Margot. "Uncle John wrote you a letter about me. I wanted to see you so badly, I couldn't wait any longer, on account of the longing that I had. I'm Margot St. Juste, your very own little grandchild, and I want bitter bad, to have a sup of milk. My mother was your daughter, Kathleen Desmond--and----" "What?" shouted the old chieftain. "Uncle Jack wrote to you about me, grandfather," said Margot, who with difficulty was keeping back her tears. The old man strode a few paces into the great bare, empty hall. He then turned the contents of his various pockets out and presently came across Uncle Jacko's letter.