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It is one of the astonishing and also one of the blessed things of life that children of the age of Marguerite St. Juste quickly accommodate themselves to circumstances. She was naturally a very brave little girl, and she had a heart warmer than most, but there was a quiet determination about her, that same determination which had won her way into all the hearts of the good folks at Desmondstown, and this she brought now to her aid.
Her French grandpère was very nice, and she set to work to learn French as quickly as she could, in order to be able to converse with him not only in the English tongue but also in his own. The young new wife said that _la petite_ Comtesse was altogether of the most ravishing. The old Comte said nothing at all, but he looked at _la petite_ out of his twinkling black eyes and tried hard to see her father in that bonny little brown face -- in those steadfast, deep, very dark eyes and in those smiling coral lips, but although little Margot had the dark eyes of her father, very dark and very beautiful, she had what was better for herself, the soul of her mother. It was because of that soul that Kathleen Desmond had been so loved and because further she had happened to impart that soul to her little child Margot, who was in consequence more Irish than French.