“Don’t fret about that, grandfather; it’s an elegant fine place to be in. Wait till I show you the dairy, that’s grander inside than ever I seen a house in Ireland; and if you saw the cowhouse, the beasts has straps with buckles round their necks, and boords under their feet, just like Christians, only betther.” “A long sight betther nor Christians!” muttered he, half savagely. Then recovering, he went on: “You see, here’s how it is. ‘Twas out of a ‘conceit’--a sort of fancy--they took you, and out of the same, my honey, they may leave you some fine mornin’ when you’ve got ways that would be hard to give up, and used to twenty things you couldn’t do without; and I was tellin’ them that, and askin’ how it would be if that day was to come?” “Ah,” cried she, with an impatient toss of her head, “I wish you hadn’t put such thoughts into their heads at all. Sure, ain’t I here now? Haven’t they tuk me away from my home, and where would I go if they turned me out? You want to make it asy for them, grandfather, isn’t that it?” “Faix, I believe you’re right, Kitty.” “Sure, I know I am. And why would they send me away if I didn’t displase them, and you’ll see that I’ll not do that.” “Are you sure and certain of that?” “As sure as I’m here. Don’t fret about it, grandfather.” “Ay, but darlin’, what will plase one wouldn’t, may be, be plasin’ to another; there’s the mistress and her sister--and they’re not a bit like each other--and there’s the master and that ould man with the goold chain round his neck--he’s your guardian.” “Oh, is he?” cried she; “see what he gave me--he took it off his watch-chain. He said, ‘There’s a little sweetheart for you.’” And she drew from her bosom her handkerchief, in which she had carefully rolled up a small figure of a man in armour, of fine gold and delicate workmanship. “And the little girl here--Ada, they call her--tells me that he is far richer than her papa, and has a house ten times grander.” “That’s lucky, anyhow,” said the old man, musing. “Well, honey, when I found that I couldn’t do any better, I said I’d go and talk to yourself, and see whether you were set upon stayin’ with all your heart, or if you’d like to go back again.” “Is it back to Derryvaragh?” “Yes; where else?” “Catch me at it, Peter Malone, that’s all! Catch me goin’ to eat potatoes and lie on straw, work in the fields and go barefoot, when I can be a lady, and have everything I can think of.” “I wonder will ye ever larn it?” “Larn what?” “To be a lady--I mane a raal lady--that nobody, no matter how cute they were, could find you out.” “Give me two years, Peter Malone, just two years--maybe not so much, but I’d like to be sure--and if I don’t, I’ll promise you to go back to. Derryvaragh, and never lave it again.” “Faix, I think you’d win!” “Sure, I know it.” And there was a fierce energy in her look that said far more than her words. “Oh, Kitty, darlin’, I wondher will I live to see it?”