She looked at Ethel and half entreated, half commanded Jerry:
"Plaze look out of the window for a minnit. I want to spake to me
cousin." Jerry sauntered over to the window and stood looking at the
gathering storm.
"Is that all over?" whispered Peg.
"Yes," replied Ethel, in a low tone.
"Ye'll never see him again?"
"Never. I'll write him that. What must you think of me?"
"I thought of you all last night," said Peg eagerly. "Ye seem like
some one who's been lookin' for happiness in the dark with yer eyes
shut. Open them wide, dear, and look at the beautiful things in the
daylight and then you'll be happy."
Ethel shook her head sadly:
"I feel to-day that I'll never know happiness again."
"Sure, I've felt like that many a time since I've been here. Ye know
three meals a day, a soft bed to slape in an' everythin' ye want
besides, makes ye mighty discontented. If ye'd go down among the
poor once in a while an' see what they have to live on, an' thry and
help them, ye might find comfort and peace in doin' it."
Ethel put both of her hands affectionately on Peg's shoulders.
"Last night you saved me from myself--and then; you shielded me from
my family."
"Faith I'd do THAT for any poor girl, much less me own cousin.
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