Moira, a few years older than Richard, was an Irish peasant who earned her bread singing (she said) in the public houses of Dublin until she had managed to induce the soft-hearted Richard to marry her. In less than a year, they had run through Richard's considerable patrimony; at the time of their death, they had been living on his, Justin's, generosity at Maam's Cross Court, which was suitably remote from the gaming tables that, along with Moira, had been Richard's downfall. At the time of Richard's death he had been staggered to learn that there was a child, a five-year-old girl, apparently Moira's daughter by some previous, undisclosed marriage. At least, he assumed that there had been a previous marriage. He hated to think that the brat was a by-blow with an unknown father; it was certainly no spawn of Richard's, who had known Moira for less than two years at the time of their death. At any rate, the child was a fact, living at Maam's Cross Court, and he was her guardian. He could, of course, have refused the charge; no one would have blamed him; in fact, many would have approved his action, for the girl was of extremely questionable birth besides being no blood kin to the Brants.

However, all his life he had taken his responsibilities seriously, and this child, however unfortunately, seemed to fall into the realm of his responsibilities. So, cursing the necessity but feeling duty-bound, he had reluctantly journeyed down to Ireland to see to the little changeling for himself. He had been pleasantly surprised. She was a pretty creature, all tangled black curls and huge violet eyes, with delicate bones and fine porcelain skin that seemed to belie her ignominious birth. Her pinafore was ill-fitting and stained and torn in several places and her face decidedly dirty, but these were minor defects, easily remedied.