"I like it," repeated the child. "I wouldn't say it for all the world before her, but it makes us sort of equal, don't you understand? You're Jacko and I'm Margot. We are playmates, you know. You are not a great learned clergyman any longer. You are just the playmate of little Margot. Come along, Jacko, don't let's waste time. I know she's out. She's visiting all the poor people; it's her day for collecting their pennies. We'll have a whole lovely hour if you don't waste time. It's the Irish turn to-day; tell me all you can about the Desmonds. My mother was a Desmond, wasn't she?" "She was, sure," said the Rector, who happened to be an Irishman himself, but was careful to keep that fact a secret except when he and Margot talked together. "And the Desmonds were mighty chiefs--great warriors?" continued Margot. "They feared nobody nor nothing. All the women were beautiful and all the men were brave. Now go on, Jacko, go on." "The castle had a portcullis," said Uncle Jack, and then he burst into imaginary stories of the Desmonds, whom he hardly knew at all. "You forget what you are talking about to-day," said Margot, taking up the thread. "As you enter by the front door you find yourself in a great hall, covered all over with armour--perfect suits of armour." "Yes, of course I forget," said Uncle Jack, "and the hall goes up as high as the roof, and there is the ingle nook, where the fire is never let out day nor night." "Never--never let out," muttered Margot. "Tell me about the men now, Uncle Jack." "Oh, bless your heart, puss, they are fine fellows, those Desmonds--big and broad and with sparkling eyes." "And the chief is called 'The Desmond'?" interrupted little Margot. "Yes, that's true enough. It's a very fine title to be sure." "And what sort are the ladies?" asked Margot. "Bless you, child, something like yourself, only perhaps not quite so dark, but to hear 'em laugh and to hear 'em sing would make the water stand in your eyes, that it would--just for the joy of it; you understand, Margot." "Yes, uncle, and my mother was one?" "She was that, and the best of 'em all." "Now, describe every inch of her, Uncle Jack," said Margot. "Begin--begin, go on--go on." Now it so happened that the Rev. John Mansfield was not famous for descriptions, but he did draw a certain picture of Kathleen Desmond which was not in the least like that young lady, but which abundantly satisfied her child. Her cheeks grew redder than ever as she listened and she panted slightly as she snuggled against her beloved uncle. "My mother must have been quite perfect," said little Margot. "Are there any of them left now, Uncle Jack?" "Any of them left, child? Why, there is Norah and Bridget and Eileen, and there are three fine boys as well, and there's 'himself' as strong as ever, and madam, his wife, who has the finest lace in the county." "I _would_ like to know them," said Margot. "Why can't I get to know them, Uncle Jack?"