"It was an attack of the nerves, _ma petite_. Now run out and play, thou dost want the air. Thou thyself with thy tact did save _mon_ Alphonse and I am a happy woman again and the _dot_ of my little one--it grows and grows and grows! Ah, but she makes her own _dot_, _n'est-ce pas_? Now run out and play; thou didst tell no black lie." Margot wondered very much indeed if her grand'mère was right. She was a little comforted but not altogether. She had a shrewd sense of the justice of things and went to her almanac to tick off the number of days which yet remained before Uncle Jacko came to fetch her. Now this little French mademoiselle gave herself in her own sweet independent way a great deal of liberty. She ran whooping and smiling down the avenue. _La belle_ grand'mère saw her and smiled to herself. "It is dreadful to have _la petite_ with a conscience that pricks," thought grand'mère, "but I think I have soothed her, and to-morrow morning I will communicate with Madame Marcelle and tell her that a lie which rests so lightly on the soul of the French madame must be communicated to little Margot. She must tell little Margot that the _établissement_ is altogether her own, then _la petite_ will smile again and feel that she has told no lie. Yes, it can be done--it must be done! _Mon_ Alphonse notices the cloud on the brow of _la petite_. It must vanish. She must converse, she must amuse. She must be as of old, a French _petite_ with the wit of Ireland in her veins. Ah, she is truly diverting with her little pricked conscience, but I can set that matter right for her." Meanwhile Margot walked along the road thinking very hard indeed and wondering if _la belle_ grand'mère had told her the truth. It was now getting to the end of August and in little more than a fortnight she would be returning to that ancient man of might, The Desmond. Oh, how happy she would be; how she would nestle in his arms and tell him of all her sorrows! And on the way to Desmondstown she would confide in Uncle Jacko. Yes, he would tell her what was right to be done--Uncle Jacko, who only feared God, but no man that ever lived--Uncle Jacko with the clear face and soft gentle eyes, who was so unlike Aunt Priscilla, that woman who was altogether terrible. Ah, but even Uncle Jacko was not quite so dear to her as was her grandfather, The Desmond. He and Madam were perfect and so was Uncle Fergus perfect, and as to the old-youngs--well, she could not help them. They were much nicer than most of the French people she saw around her. So she skipped and ran and sang a gay little French song all to herself, but she did not notice that all the time as she was going further and further away from the château, a heavy cloud was coming up and obscuring the sky, a cloud black and cruel as night when it is hopeless--quite hopeless with gloom.