She sat very still during service and kept her soft black eyes fixed on Mr. Flannigan. Was it possible that he was the same person who had played horses with her aunts on the previous day? He read the service with a good deal of force and realism, and preached a sermon which was so full of Irish stories that Norah and Bridget kept their handkerchiefs pressed against their mouths to keep themselves from screaming with laughter. All went apparently well until the service came to an end, but then the curate threw off his church manners and devoted himself to Miss Norah and Miss Bridget. He was invited back to dinner by both these young ladies and eagerly accepted the invitation. "So this is the pixie," he said, his eyes fixed on Margot. "No, it isn't," said Margot, "but you are the newly hatched chick." Mr. Flannigan felt his red face turning redder than usual. "Whatever do you mean?" he replied. Just then they got inside the grounds. "Thank Heaven for all its mercies," said Norah. "I can let out a good screech now, and no one will be any the wiser. I said, Sam Flannigan, that you were a newly-hatched chicken, when she was taunting me about your age, man. Oh, isn't it fun? I never enjoyed myself so much in my life." "Nor did I, for that matter," cried Bridget. "It's a pity it is Sunday, for we can't play horses." "Do let's walk a little faster, Uncle Fergus," said Margot turning to her uncle. His grave face looked at her searchingly, then he said in a quiet tone, "The avenue is a bit too long for a wee thing like you. See, I'm going to stoop. Put your arms round my neck, _so_. Now, then, hold tight. I have you on my shoulder as firm as can be." "Oh, thank you, thank you," said Margot. "I do like you, Uncle Fergus, and I like Eileen." "But why don't you like the others? They are harmless enough, poor bit things." "Yes, but they were not hatched yesterday," said Margot. "That I do know and I won't play horses with that horrid Mr. Flannigan!" "Malachi is fit to tear his hair," exclaimed Fergus. "He has just sent off a stud of horses to Dublin for sale, so there isn't one he can offer ye to ride." "I like _you_ very much as a horse, Uncle Fergus," said Margot. "Do ye now? Well, that's all right." "Did you love my mother, Uncle Fergus?" "To be sure, but we don't talk of her." "Why not, why ever not?" "Because it hurts the old man; we have to be very careful about the old man. You listen, child, mavourneen. He never got over her marrying a Frenchy." "But my father had a title, he was Comte St. Juste." "As if that mattered," said Fergus, in a tone of violent contempt. "A title indeed, the Lord preserve us! The Desmonds don't want any title greater than their own." "Is it very high up, Uncle Fergus?" "High up? The stars couldn't reach it. There isn't a royal Duke in England we'd change with." "Isn't there? I didn't know," said Margot. She spoke in a very soft, interested voice. "And some day you'll have it," she said.