"Honor, dear, are you very unhappy?"

Honor's neat little features puckered in a grimace.

"I wouldn't go so far as to say I feel exactly gay, Patricia, but don't you worry about me. I'll come up smiling. You wouldn't have me pine for the sake of a man who wouldn't have me when he got the chance? I guess Honor P Ward has too much grit for that!"

Pixie nodded slowly.

"But you mustn't be too hard on him, Honor—It's natural to want to live in one's own country, and he loves his work just as you do yours. He'll be a judge some day—chins like that always do succeed—and ambition means so much to a man. You might have been pleased for your own sake; but would you have thought more of him as a man if he'd thrown it all up and lived on your pickles?"

Honor brought her eyebrows together in a frown.

"Now, Pixie O'Shaughnessy, don't you go taking his part! I guess I've got about as much sense of justice as most, and in a few months' time I'll see the matter in its right light, but for the moment I'm injured, and I choose to feel injured; and I expect my friends to feel injured too. I've offered myself to an Englishman, and he's refused to have me. There's no getting; away from that fact, and it's not a soothing experience for a free-born American. I'm through with Englishmen from this time forth!"

"Except Stanor! Be kind to Stanor. He's always liked you, Honor, and he knows no one in America. Promise me to be kind to Stanor, and see him as often as you can!"

Honor's brown eyes searched Pixie's face with a curious glance. Then, rising from her chair, she crossed the room and kissed her warmly upon the cheek.

"Yes, I'll look after him. I'll do anything you want, and nothing you don't want. You can trust me, my dear. Remember that, won't you? You're a real sweet thing, Patricia!"

Pixie laughed with characteristic complacence.

"Yes; but why especially at this moment? I always am, aren't I? And how superfluous, me dear, to talk of trust? What have I got to trust?"

————————————————————————————————————

A fortnight later Geoffrey and Joan Hilliard, Stephen Glynn, and Pixie journeyed to Liverpool to see the last of the travellers. The little party stood together on the deck of the great vessel, surrounded on every side by surge and bustle, but silent themselves with the silence which falls when the heart is full. Travelling down to Liverpool they had been quite a merry party, and there had been no effort in keeping the conversation afloat; but the last moments sealed their lips. Honor drew a few yards apart with the elderly, kindly-faced maid who was her faithful attendant; Stephen Glynn and the Hilliards strolled away in an opposite direction. Pixie and her lover stood alone.

"Well, little girl... this is good-bye! Don't forget me, darling..."

Pixie gulped.

"Take care of yourself, Stanor. Be happy! ... I want you to be happy."

"I shall be wretched!" said Stanor hotly. "I'm leaving you. Oh! Pixie—" He broke off suddenly as the last bell sounded its warning note, and bent to kiss her lips; "Good-bye, my little love!"

The tears poured down Pixie's face as she turned aside, and Geoffrey Hilliard led her tenderly down the gangway on to the landing-stage, where they stood together, tightly jammed in the crowd which watched the great steamer slowly move into the stream. Stanor and Honor were standing together leaning over the towering hull; their faces were pale, but they were smiling bravely, and Pixie wiped away her own tears and waved an answering hand. Esmeralda was holding her hand in a tender pressure; Geoffrey on one side, and Stephen Glynn on the other were regarding her with anxious solicitude. She smiled back with tremulous gratitude and gripped Esmeralda's hand. Though Stanor was going, there was still much left, so many people to care and be kind.

The great vessel quivered and moved slowly forward. Honor drew a little white handkerchief from her bag and waved it in the air; on all sides the action was repeated, accompanied by cries of farewell mingled with sounds of distress. Pixie caught the sound of a sob, and craned forward to look in the face of a girl about her own age who stood on the other side of Stephen Glynn. She wore a small, close-fitting cap, which left her face fully exposed as it strained towards that moving deck, and on the small white features was printed a very extremity of anguish. She was not crying; her glazed eyes showed no trace of tears, she seemed unconscious of the deep sobs which issued from her lips; every nerve, every power was concentrated in the one effort to behold to the last possible moment one beloved face. Instinctively Pixie's eyes followed those of the girl's, and beheld a man's face gazing back, haggard, a-quiver, almost contorted with suffering. The story was plain to read. They also were lovers—this man and this girl. They also were facing years of separation, and the moment of parting held for them the bitterness of death. Pixie O'Shaughnessy glanced from one to the other, and then thoughtfully, deliberately along the deck to the spot where stood her own lover, handsome Stanor, bending his head to overhear a remark from Honor, stroking his blonde moustache. He looked dejected, depressed; but compared with the depth of emotion on the other man's face, such meagre expressions faded into nothingness. The moment during which she gazed at his face held for Pixie the significance of years; then once more her eyes returned to the girl by her side...

With every minute now the great vessel was slipping farther and farther from the stage; the faces of her passengers would soon cease to be distinguishable; in a few minutes they would be lost to sight, yet Pixie's gaze remained riveted on the girl by her side, and on her own face was printed a mute dismay which one onlooker at least was quick to read.

"She understands!" Stephen Glynn said to himself. "That girl's face has been an object lesson stronger than any words. She understands the difference."

A moment later he met Pixie's eyes, and realised afresh the truth of his diagnosis; but she drew herself up with a sort of defiance, and turned sharply aside.

————————————————————————————————————

In the train returning to town Pixie sat mute and pallid, and was waited upon assiduously by her sister and brother. To them it seemed natural enough that the poor child should collapse after the strain of parting. Only one person understood the deepest reason of her distress. He offered none of the conventional words of sympathy, and forebore to echo Esmeralda's rosy pictures of the future. It brought another pang to Pixie's sore heart to realise that he understood. "But I will be true," she repeated to herself with insistent energy; "I will be true. I have given my word." She felt very tired and spent as she lay back in the corner of her cushioned seat. On heart and brain was an unaccustomed weight; her very limbs felt heavy and inert, as if the motive power had failed. Virtue had gone out of her. At the sight of that anguished face, the years of Pixie's untroubled girlhood had come to an end. Henceforth she was a woman, carrying her own burden. "But I will be true," she repeated gallantly; "I will be true!"



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

PIXIE SEEKS ADVICE.

A tall young man lay stretched upon a narrow bed which filled an entire wall of the one and only sitting-room in a diminutive London flat. On the wall opposite was a fireplace and a small sideboard; against the third wall stood a couple of upright chairs. In the centre of the room stood a table. A wicker arm-chair did duty for an invalid tray, and held a selection of pipes, books, and writing materials, also a bottle of medicine, and a plate of unappetising biscuits.

The young man took up one of the biscuits, nibbled a crumb from the edge, and aimed the remainder violently at a picture at the other end of the room. It hit, and the biscuit broke into pieces, but the glass remained intact, a result which seemed far from satisfactory to the onlooker. He fumbled impatiently for matches with which to light his pipe, touched the box with the tips of his outstretched fingers, and jerked it impatiently, whereupon it rolled on to the floor to a spot just a couple of inches beyond the utmost stretch of his arm. There it lay—obvious and aggravating, tempting, baffling, inaccessible. Pipe and tobacco lay at hand to supply the soothing which he so sorely needed at the end of a lonely, suffering day, and for the want of that box they might as well have been a mile away! A bell was within reach, but what use to ring that when no one was near to hear? The slovenly woman who called herself a working housekeeper found it necessary to sally forth each afternoon on long shopping expeditions, and during her absence her master had to fend for himself as best he might.

Dislocation of the knee was the young man's malady, just a sharp, swift rush at cricket, a slip on the dry grass, and Pat O'Shaughnessy shuddered every time he thought of the hours and days which followed that fall. He had asked to be taken home, for the tiny flat was a new possession, and as such dear to his heart. And to his home they carried him, and there he had lain already for longer than he cared to think. He had progressed to the point when he had been able to dismiss an excellent but uncongenial nurse, and manage with an hour's assistance morning and night; and what with reading the newspapers, smoking his pipe, and writing an occasional letter the first part of the day passed quickly enough.

Lunch was served at one o'clock on a papier-mache tray spread with a crumpled tray cloth. It was a tepid, tasteless, unappetising meal, for the working housekeeper knew neither how to work nor to cook, and Pat invariably sent it away almost untasted; yet every day he looked forward afresh to the advent of one o'clock and the appearance of the tray. It was something to happen, something to do, a change from the reading, of which he was already getting tired. But, after lunch, after he had wakened from the short siesta; and realised that it was not yet three o'clock, and that six, seven hours still remained to be lived through before he could reasonably hope to settle for the night—that was a dreary time indeed, and Pat, whose interests lay all outdoors, knew no means of lightening it.

For the first week of his confinement Pat had had a string of visitors. The members of his cricket team had appeared to express sympathy and encouragement; some of the men against whom he had been playing had also put in an appearance; "fellows" had come up from "the office," but in the busy life of London a man who goes on being ill is apt to find himself left alone before many weeks have passed. There was only one man who never failed to put in an appearance at some hour of the day, and on that man's coming Pat O'Shaughnessy this afternoon concentrated every power in his possession.

"They say if you wish hard enough you can make a fellow do what you like. If there's any truth in it, Glynn ought to come along pretty soon. How am I going to lie here all afternoon and stare at those miserable matches? That wretched woman might be buying the town ... wish to goodness she'd fetch something fit to eat. If that doctor fellow won't tell me to-morrow how much longer I have to lie here, I'll—I'll get up and walk, just to spite him!" Pat jerked defiantly and immediately gave a groan of pain. Not much chance of walking yet awhile!

He wriggled to the edge of the sofa, and made another unsuccessful stretch for the matchbox, but those baffling two inches refused to be mastered. Pat looked around in a desperate search for help, seized a biscuit, and aimed it carefully for the farther edge of the box, which, hit at the right angle, might perhaps have been twitched nearer to the sofa, but though Pat had considerable skill in the art of throwing, he had no luck this afternoon. Biscuit after biscuit was hurled with increasing violence, as temper suffered from the strain of failure, and each time the matchbox jumped still farther away, while another shower of biscuit crumbs bespattered the carpet. Then at last when the plate was emptied, and the last hope gone, deliverance came at the sound of the opening of the front door, and a quick, well-known whistle. Glynn! No one else knew the secret of the hidden key. Pat halloed loudly in response, and the next moment Stephen stood in the doorway, looking with bewildered eyes at the bespattered carpet.

"What's this? Playing Aunt Sally? Rather a wanton waste of biscuits, isn't it?"

"Try 'em, and see! Soft as dough. Give me that matchbox, Glynn, like a good soul. It fell off my chair, and I've been lying here pining for a smoke, and making pot shots of it, till I felt half mad.—If you only knew—"

Stephen Glynn did know. It was that knowledge which brought him regularly day by day to the little flat at the top of eighty odd stairs.

He walked across the room, his limp decidedly less in evidence through the passage of the years, reclaimed the matchbox, and seated himself on the edge of the couch.

"Light up, old fellow! It will do you good."

Pat struck the match and sucked luxuriously. There was no need to make conversation to Glynn. He was a comfortable fellow who always understood. It was good to see him sitting there, to look at his fine, grave face, and realise that boredom was over, and the happiest hour of the day begun.

"I say, Glynn, I made you, come! Mesmerised you. It drives a fellow crazy to be done by a couple of inches. They say if you concentrate your thoughts—"

"I arranged this morning to call at five o'clock. I should say by the look of things you had concentrated on biscuits. ... Where's that old woman?" Glynn inquired.

"Shopping. Always is. And never buys anything by the taste of the food. You should have seen my lunch! I'll be a living skeleton at this rate."

Pat spoke laughingly, but the hearer frowned, and looked quickly at the sharpened face, on which weeks of solitary confinement had left their mark.

"Why don't you round into her?"

"Daren't! Might make off and leave me in the lurch. They do, you know. Fellows have told me. Any one is better than no one at all when you are minus a leg."

"And about that letter? The time limit runs out to-morrow. You know what I threatened?"

Pat shrugged impatiently.

"You and your threats! What's the sense in worrying when it's got to end in worrying, and can do no good? I've told you till I'm tired— the Hilliards are abroad, Dick Victor is down with rheumatism, and Bridgie makes sure he's going to die every time his finger aches. She'd leave him if I died first, I suppose, but I wouldn't make too sure even of that. 'Twould have finished her altogether to know that I was lying here all these weeks. However!" Pat shrugged again, "you've got your way, bad luck to you! Bridgie wrote to ask me to run down over a Sunday, to cheer Victor, so there was nothing for it but to own up. She'll write me reams of advice and send embrocations. Serve you jolly well right if I rubbed them on you instead!"

"Fire away, I don't mind! Your muscles would be the better for a little exercise."

Stephen Glynn leaned back in his chair and looked affectionately at Pat's dark, handsome face.

Twelve months before the two men had been introduced at a dinner following a big cricket match in which Pat had distinguished himself by a fine innings.

Stephen Glynn from his seat on the grand stand had applauded with the rest of the great audience, and looking at the printed card in his hand had wondered whether by chance P.D. O'Shaughnessy was any relation of the Irish Pixie to whom Stanor Vaughan had wished to be engaged. The wonder changed to certainty a few hours later on as he was introduced to the young player, and met the gaze of his straight, dark eyes! Pat was the handsomest of the three brothers, nevertheless it was not so much of beautiful Joan Hilliard that the beholder was reminded, at this moment, as of the younger sister, who had no beauty at all, for Esmeralda's perfect features lacked the irradiation of kindliness and humour which characterised Pat and Pixie alike.

Stephen Glynn was not given to sudden fancies, but Pat O'Shaughnessy walked straight into his heart at that first meeting, and during the year which followed the acquaintance so begun had ripened into intimacy. Stephen spent a great part of his time in chambers in town, where the young man became a welcome guest, and no sooner had Pat soared to the giddy height of possessing a flat of his own, and settled down as a householder, than the accident had happened which made him dependent on the visits of his friends.

Pat was aware of Stephen's connection with his family, and more especially with Pixie, but after one brief reference the subject had been buried, though Pixie herself was frequently mentioned. There was a portrait of her on Pat's mantelpiece to which Stephen's eyes often strayed during his visits to the flat. Truth to tell it was not a flattering portrait. Pixie was unfortunate so far as photography was concerned, since all her bad points were reproduced and her charm disappeared. Stephen wondered if Stanor were gazing at the same photograph in New York, and if his imagination were strong enough to supply the want. For himself he had no difficulty. So vivid was his recollection that even as he looked the set face of the photograph seemed to flash into smiles...

"Well, I am glad you have given in," he said, continuing his sentence after a leisurely pause, "because my threat was real. I should certainly have written to your people if you hadn't done it yourself. You are not being properly looked after, young man. To put it bluntly, you are not having enough to eat. When do you expect that obnoxious old female to come back and make tea?"

"'Deed, I've given over expecting," said Pat despondently. "Most days I'm ready to drink the teapot by the time she brings it in. It's a toss up if we get it at all to-day as she's gone out."

Stephen rose to his tall height and stood smiling down at the tired face.

"You shall have it, my boy. I'll make it myself. It won't be the first time. Have you any idea where the crocks live? I don't want to upset—"

Before he could complete his sentence, a thunderous knocking sounded at the front door, causing both hearers to start with astonishment. So loud, so vigorous, so long continued was the assault, that the first surprise deepened into indignation, and Pat's dark eyes sent out a threatening flash.

"This is too strong! Lost her key, I suppose, and expects me to crawl on all fours to let her in. You go, Glynn, and send her straight here to me! I'll give her a bit of my mind. I'm just in the mood to do it. Leaving me alone for hours and then knocking down my door—!"

Stephen Glynn crossed the floor, his face set into an alarming sternness, for his irritation against his friend's neglectful domestic had been growing for weeks, and this was the culminating point. He seized the handle, turned it quietly, and jerked the door open with a disconcerting suddenness which had the effect of precipitating the new-comer into his arms.

"Me dear!" she cried rapturously, as she fell, but the same moment she was upright again, bolt upright, scorching him with disdainful glance. "It's not!—Where am I? ... They said it was Mr O'Shaughnessy's flat!"

"It is! It is! Pixie! Pixie! Come in, come quick! Oh, you blessed little simpleton, what's the meaning of this? You'd no business to come. There's no room for you. I'm nearly well now. There's no need— I—I—oh, Pixie!" and poor, tired, hungry Pat lay back weakly in his sister's arms, and came perilously near subsiding into tears. It had been hard work keeping up his pecker all these long weeks, it was so overwhelmingly home-like to see Pixie's face, and listen to her deep mellow tones...

"There's got to be room, me dear, for I've come to stay. How dare you be ill by yourself? It's a bad effect London has had on you to make you so close and secretive. You! Who yelled the roof down if you as much as scratched your finger! We got the note this morning—"

"Glynn made me send it. He's been worrying at me for weeks. Glynn!" Pat raised his voice to a cry. "Where are you? Come in, you beggar. It's Pixie! My sister Pixie. Come and shake hands."

Stephen and Pixie advanced to meet each other, red in the face and bashful of eye. The encounter at the door had been so momentary that she had hardly had time to recognise the pale face with the deep blue eyes, but for him the first note of her voice had been sufficient.

"I—I thought you were Pat!"

"I—I thought you were the cook."

She straightened at that, with a flash of half-resentful curiosity.

"Why? Am I so like her? And do you always—"

"No, I don't. Never. But to-day she was out and your brother wanted—"

"Oh, never mind, never mind!" Pat was too greedy for attention to suffer a long explanation. "What does it matter? She's a wretch, Pixie, and she goes out and leaves me to starve. That good Samaritan was going to make tea when we heard your knock."

"I'll make it for you!" Pixie said smiling, but she seated herself by Pat's side as she spoke, and slid her hand through his arm, as though realising that for the moment her presence was the most welcome of all refreshments. She wore a smartly cut tweed coat and skirt, and a soft felt hat with a pheasant's wing, and her brown shoes looked quite preposterously small and bright. In some indefinable way she looked older and more responsible than the Pixie of two years before, and Stephen noticed the change and wondered as to its cause.

"I think I will go now," he said hastily; "your sister will look after you, O'Shaughnessy, and you will have so much to talk about. I'll come again!"

But Pat was obstinate; he insisted that his friend should stay on, and appealed to Pixie for support, which she gave with great good will.

"Please do! We'll talk the better for having an audience. Won't we now, Pat? We were always vain."

"We were!" Pat assented with unction. "Especially yourself. Even as a child you played up to the gallery." He took her hand and squeezed it tightly between his own. "Pixie, I can't believe it! It's too nice to be true. And Bridgie, what does she say? Does she approve of your coming?"

"She did one moment, and the next she didn't. She was torn in pieces, the poor darling, wanting to come to you herself, and to stay with Dick at the same time. You know what she is when Dick is ill! His temperature has only to go up one point, to have her weeping about Homes for Soldiers' Orphans, and pondering how she can get most votes. He's buried with military honours, poor Richard, every time he takes a cold. So I was firm with her, and just packed my things and came off. At my age," she straightened herself proudly, "one must assert oneself! I asked her what was the use of being twenty-two, and how she'd have liked it herself if she'd been thwarted at that age, and she gave in and packed up remedies." Pixie picked up the brown leather bag which lay on the floor, and opening it, took out the contents in turns, and laid them on the sofa. "A tonic to build up the system. Beef-juice, to ditto. Embrocation to be applied to the injured part. ... Tabloids. Home-made cake. ... Oh, that tea! I'd forgotten. I'll make it at once, and we'll eat the cake now." She jumped up and looked appealingly towards Stephen. "Will you show me the kitchen? I don't know my way through these lordly fastnesses!"

They went out of the room together, while Pat called out an eager, "Don't be long!"

It was only a step into the tiny kitchen. In another moment Stephen and Pixie stood within its portals, and she had closed the door behind with a careful hand. Her face had sobered, and there was an anxious furrow in her forehead.

"He looks ill!" she said breathlessly. "Worse than I expected. He said he was getting well. Please tell me honestly—Is it true?"

"Perfectly true in one sense. The knee is doing well, but his general health has suffered. He has been lonely and underfed, and at the first there was considerable pain. I did my best to make him write to you before, for he is not fit to be left alone. That servant is lazy and inefficient."

Pixie glanced round the untidy room with her nose tilted high.

"'Twill be a healthful shock for her to come back and find a mistress in possession. We'll have a heart to heart talk to-morrow morning," she announced, with so quaint an assumption of severity that Stephen was obliged to laugh. She laughed with him, struggling out of her coat, and looking round daintily for a place to lay it.

"That nail on the door! There's not a clean spot. Now for the kettle! You fill it, while I rummage. What's the most unlikely place for the tea? It will be there. She's the sort of muddler who'd leave it loose among the potatoes."

"It's in the caddy. The brown box on the dresser. I've found it before."

"The caddy!" Pixie looked quite annoyed at so obvious a find. "Oh, so it is. Where's the butter then, and the bread, and the sugar? Where's the spoons? Where does she put the cloths? Rake out that bottom bar to make a draught. Does he get feverish at nights? It's a mercy I brought a cake, for I don't believe there's a thing. Does he take it strong?"

She was bustling about as she spoke, opening and shutting drawers, standing on tip-toe to peer over kitchen shelves, lifting the lids of dishes upon the dresser. One question succeeded fast upon another, but she did not trouble herself to wait for a reply, and Stephen, watching with a flickering smile, was quite nonplussed when at last she paused, as if expectant of an answer.

"What strong?"

"Tea! What else could it be? We were talking of tea."

"I beg your pardon. So we were. Yes, he does like it strong, and there's only one set of cups, white with a gold rim. There were two left the other day, but it's quite possible they have disappeared. She is a champion breaker."

"We'll have tumblers then," Pixie said briskly. "The nicest tea I ever had was at a seaside inn where we made it ourselves in a bedroom to save the expense. Oh, here they are, and here's the milk. Now we shan't be long!" Then suddenly, standing before the cupboard door, and tilting her head over her shoulder, "When did you hear from Stanor?" she asked, in a still, altered voice which struck like a blow.

Stephen Glynn gave no outward sign of surprise, yet that sudden question had sent racing half a dozen pulses, as voicing the words in his own mind. "When did you hear from Stanor? What do you hear from Stanor?" The first sight of the girl's face had added intensity to the curiosity of years—a curiosity which within the last months had changed into anxiety. He hesitated before answering the simple question.

"He does not write often. We had a good deal of correspondence when he decided to stay in New York the extra six months. He seems to have acclimatised wonderfully, and to be absorbed in his work, unusually absorbed for his age."

"But that is what you wanted. You must be pleased about that," Pixie said quietly. She was arranging the cups and saucers on the tray, but she looked at him as she spoke, a straight, sweet look, which yet held so much sadness that it cut like a knife.

"Miss O'Shaughnessy," he cried impetuously, "can you forgive me? I took too much upon myself. I did it for the best, but—two years is too long. One settles down. It was a blow to me when he stayed on, for my own sake, and—"

Pixie nodded gravely.

"Yes. We were both sorry. We wanted of course to see him, but you should not blame him for loving his work. You blamed him before because he was changeable; now he has done so well, you must be proud." She smiled at him with determined cheerfulness. "I am proud. And it is not as if it were making him ill. He finds time to play. Honor Ward often writes and she tells me—"

"Miss Ward seems an adept at play," returned Stephen dryly.

In truth, the lavishness of the entertainments which Honor had planned during the past two years had called the attention of even the English papers. Pixie had read aloud descriptions thereof in the journals in the northern town where Captain Victor was still stationed, and Bridgie listening thereto had exclaimed in horror: "Special liveries for all the men-servants just for that one evening! How wicked! All that money for a few hours, when poor children are starving, and myself wanting a velvet coat..."

At first Pixie had divined that Honor was trying to drown her sorrow in gaiety, and was even guilty of a girlish desire to "show off" before her former lover, but as the months grew into years it was impossible to read her letters and not realise that her enjoyment was real, not feigned, and that she had outgrown regret. Yes, Honor was happy; and to judge from her accounts Stanor was happy too, able even in his busiest days to spare time to join the revels, and, indeed, to help in their organisation.

"Miss Ward is an adept at play. I don't approve of these gorgeous entertainments," said Stephen, and Pixie's eyes lightened with a mischievous flash.

"Seems to me you are never satisfied! Now for myself nothing could be gorgeous enough!" She held out a brown teapot with a broken spout. "The water's boiling. Pour it in please, and don't splash! I'll carry it right in, for Pat is impatient. We mustn't keep him waiting." She waited until the pot was safely on the tray, and then added a warning: "Please don't talk about—things—before Pat. He'd worry, but I'd like your advice. Another time, perhaps, when we are alone." Her eyes met his, gravely beseeching, and he looked searchingly back.

Yes, she had suffered. It was no longer the face of a light-hearted child. Loyal as ever, Pixie would not listen to a word against her friend, but what secret was she hiding in her heart?



CHAPTER TWENTY.

STEPHEN IS ANSWERED.

For three days after Pixie's arrival Stephen Glynn absented himself from the flat, and on the fourth day found a stormy, welcome awaiting him.

"Ah, Glynn, is that you?" drawled Pat coldly. "Hope you haven't inconvenienced yourself, don't you know. After so many duty visits you are evidently thankful to be rid of me. Pray don't put yourself out any more on my account."

Stephen shook hands with Pixie and seated himself beside the bed with undaunted composure.

"Rubbish, old fellow! And you know it. If you have enjoyed my visits, so have I. But of course now that Miss O'Shaughnessy—"

"If it's myself that's the obstacle I can stay in my room, but if you've any pity on me, come!" interrupted Pixie. "My life's not worth living towards the end of the afternoon when Pat is watching the clock, and fidgeting for the ring of the bell. I'm only his sister, you see, and he wants a man! I'll stay out of the room if you'd rather; though I'm not saying," she concluded demurely, "that I wouldn't be glad of a change of society myself!"

"It's horribly dull for the poor girl! She doesn't like to leave me, and I don't like her going about alone. You might take her about a bit, Glynn, if you weren't so neglectful and unfriendly! To-morrow's Sunday, and she's dying to go to the Abbey..."

"May I have the pleasure, Miss O'Shaughnessy?" cried Stephen promptly, and Pixie wrinkled her nose and said—

"You couldn't say anything else but yes, but I'll not spite myself just for the sake of seeming proud. Come and take me, and come back to lunch. You'll get a good one. I've made some changes in this establishment."

"She telegraphed to the Hilliards' housekeeper, and she sent off a kitchen-maid—a broth of a girl who romps through the work. And cooks— You wait and see! I lie and dream of the next meal!" Pat chuckled, with restored equanimity. "But if I am living in the lap of luxury I'm not going to be chucked by you, old fellow," he added. "The more one has the more one wants. I've grown to count on your afternoon visit, and it upsets me to go without. My temperature has gone up every night from sheer aggravation. Isn't that true now, Pixie?"

"More blame to, you!" said Pixie. But her eyes met Stephen's with an anxiety which was not in keeping with her tone, and, in truth, after four days' absence the face on the pillow appeared to the onlooker, woefully drawn and white, Stephen registered a vow that Pat's temperature should not rise again through any neglect of his own.

"All right, Pat," he said. "I'll come as usual, and if it's inconvenient you can turn me out; and if Miss O'Shaughnessy will accept me for an escort I'll be proud to take her about. We'll begin with the Abbey to-morrow."

"That's all right; I thought you would. What's the good of a prospective uncle if he can't make himself useful!"

It was the first time Pat had made any reference to Stanor Vaughan, for, like the rest of the family, his pride had been stung by the non-appearance of Pixie's love, at the expiration of the prescribed two years. Pat knew that occasional letters passed between the young couple, and that the understanding between them appeared unbroken, but it was a poor sort of lover who would voluntarily add to the term of his exile. During the four days which Pixie had spent in the flat, almost every subject under the sun had been discussed but the one which presumably lay nearest the girl's heart, and that had been consistently shunned. It was only a desire to justify a claim on his friend's services which had driven Pat to refer to the subject now, and he sincerely wished he had remained silent as he noted the effect of his words. Stephen and Pixie stared steadily into space. Neither spoke, neither smiled; their fixed, blank eyes appeared to give the impression that they had not heard his words. In another moment the silence would have become embarrassing had not Pixie rung the bell and given an order for tea.

"Is this your first experience of living in a flat, Miss O'Shaughnessy? How do you like it, as far as you've got?" Stephen asked, with a valiant resolve to second Pixie's efforts, and she turned her face towards him, slightly flushed, but frank and candid as ever.

"I love it—it's so social! You know everyone's business as well as your own. The floors are supposed to be sound-proof, but really they're so many sounding-boards. The couple above had a quarrel last night—at the high points we could hear every word. It was as good as a theatre, though, of course—" she lengthened her face with a pretence of gravity—"'twas very sad! But they've made it up to-day, because she's singing. She has one song that she sings a dozen times every day ... something about parting from a lover. Pat says she's been at it for months past—'Since we parted yester eve.' ... She feels it, poor creature! I suggested to Pat that we might board him, so that he might always be on the spot, and she wouldn't have to part. He says it would be worth the money. ... The lady below sings 'Come back to Erin' by the hour. She's always singing it! We thought of sending a polite note to say that we had given her request every consideration, but that owing to the unsettled condition of politics in that country we really did not see our way to move. ... And they have anthracite stoves."

"Why shouldn't they?" Stephen asked. He had greeted Pixie's description with the delight of one who finds a painful situation suddenly irradiated by humour, but the anthracite stoves conveyed no meaning. "Why shouldn't they, if they choose?"

Pixie scowled disapproval.

"So selfish! Noise like earthquakes every time they rake. I wake every morning thinking I'm dead. This morning I counted sixty separate rakes! Now, here's a problem for you, Mr Glynn—How can you avenge yourself on an upstairs flatter? If it's below: it's quite easy—you just bang with the poker; but how can you do that on your own ceiling? 'Tis no consolation to break the plaster!"

The tea was carried in as she spoke, and she rose to seat herself at the table, giving a friendly smile at the trim maid who had replaced the arrant "housekeeper."

"Hot scones, Moffatt? You do spoil us!" she said cordially, and the girl left the room abeam with content.

"She adores me—all maids do," announced Pixie, with her complacent air well to the fore. "It's the way I treat them. My sister, now—Bridgie Victor—she's a coward with her maids. She lies awake half the night rehearsing the best ways of hinting that she'd prefer pastry lighter than lead, after begging us all as a personal favour to eat it in case cook should be hurt. When I have a house—" She stopped short and busied herself with her duties, and neither of her listeners questioned her further on the subject.

Tea was a merry meal, and Pat consumed the dainty fare with undisguised enjoyment.

"That's the pull of an accident," he declared, as he helped himself to a third scone, "ye can eat! It's awful to think of poor beggars on a diet. ... Let's have muffins to-morrow, Pixie, swimming with butter. Glynn's coming!"

"Don't tempt me! I am coming to lunch, but you won't want me to stay on."

"Rubbish! We do. Stay for the whole day, and Pixie shall sing to us. It's the least she can do, if you take her to church."

Stephen looked at his hostess with a glance curiously compounded of dread and expectation. Music was the passion of his life, so true a passion that it was torture to him to hear the travesties which passed under its name. Bearing in mind the very small proportion of girls who could really sing, he wished that the proposal had never been made, since the result would probably mean a jarring episode in a delightful day.

"But you have no piano," he said uncertainly. "How can—"

"It's not a piano would stop me, if I wanted to sing. I don't need an accompaniment," Pixie declared, and Stephen shuddered in spirit. Unaccompanied songs were terrible ordeals to the listeners. Eyes as well as ears were tortured. One never knew where to look! He pondered as he drank his tea how the situation could be ameliorated, if not escaped, and reminded himself thankfully that if necessary he could hire a piano and send it in. Then, looking up, he met Pat's eyes fixed upon him with a quizzical smile. Pat showed at times an uncomfortable faculty for, reading his friends' thoughts, and Stephen realised that it was in force at this minute, and was thankful that at least it did not find vent in words. Pixie's happy complacence about her own powers was so far removed from ordinary conceit that he dreaded to wound it. He therefore hastily changed the conversation, and avoided the subject of music for the rest of his call.

The next morning, after arranging for Pat's comfort, Pixie retired to her eerie, and spent what appeared to the invalid an unconscionably long time over her toilette. After the cheerful manner of flats, by slightly raising the voice it was easy to carry on a conversation with a person in an adjoining room, and Pat therefore favoured his sister with a statement that he "expected to see something pretty fetching, after all this time!" "Ha! Ha!" cried Pixie in return, and her voice gave no hint of modesty. Nevertheless, and for all his expectations, Pat gave a gasp of surprise when a few minutes later she sailed into the room.

She wore a coat and skirt of a soft, mouse-coloured velvet, very quiet and nondescript in hue, and the hat, with its curling brim, was covered with the same material. So far, very douce and quiet; but entirely round the hat, and curling gracefully over one side, was a magnificent ostrich plume, which was plainly the pride of its owner's heart. She tossed her head in answer to Pat's uplifted hands, pirouetted round and round, and struck a telling attitude.

"Yes! Ain't I smart? Me dear, regard the feather! I've longed for years to possess a scrumptious feather, and have talked by the hour, trying to convince Bridgie it was economical in the end. But she wouldn't. She said 'twas expensive at the start, and she couldn't see any further. Sometimes she is dense. She can't help it, poor creature, living with Dick! However, Esmeralda did, and she bought it in Paris to match my coat. It measures a yard, loved one! And isn't it kind of it to turn blue at the end? That little touch of blue just behind my ear does set me off! Honest Indian, Patrick! If you didn't know better, and came suddenly into the room, wouldn't you think I was a pretty girl?"

"I should!" answered Pat; but a moment later he added, with true brotherly candour, "But you're not."

"All the more credit to me!" retorted Pixie glibly. She lifted a chair which stood at the left of the fireplace, carried it to a similar position on the right, and seated herself upon it. "This side's the best.—I must sit here, and let Mr Glynn see my splendour in full blast. Won't he be pleased?"

"He'll never notice. Glynn's above hats," Pat maintained; but, nevertheless, he could not take his own eyes off the dainty grey figure, with the piquant face smiling beneath the brim of the wide hat, and that fascinating little tip of blue ending the long, grey plume. His admiration showed in his eyes, but he felt it his duty to be bracing in words.

"I never thought I should live to see you conceited about clothes!"

"Ye do get these shocks in life. It's a sad old world!" answered Pixie, and grimaced at him saucily, as she buttoned her glove.

And, after all, Stephen Glynn never did notice the feather. For a ten-pound note he could not have described the next day a single article of Pixie's attire. He was aware, however, it was pleasant to walk about with Pixie O'Shaughnessy, and that passers-by seemed to envy him his post, and he was relieved that she was disfigured by none of the extremes of an ugly fashion; and, after all, nine men out of ten rarely get beyond this point.

They sallied forth together, bidding Pat sleep all morning so as to be ready to talk all afternoon, and descended the gaunt stone stairs to the hall.

They walked quietly, but with enjoyment in each other's company. The usual crowd blocked the Abbey door, and Stephen and Pixie stood waiting under the statue of the "third great Canning" for some time, before at last they were escorted to seats in the nave. The sermon, unfortunately, they could not hear, but the exquisite service was to both a deep delight. Remembering the conversation of the night before, Stephen dreaded lest Pixie should be one of the mistaken ones who sing persistently through an elaborate choral service, thereby nullifying its effect for those around. He was thankful to find that his fears were unnecessary, but once or twice in an unusually beautiful refrain he imagined that his ear caught the sound of a deep, rich note—a soft echo of the strain itself, evoked by an irresistible impulse. He looked inquiringly at his companion, but her head was bent and the brim of her hat concealed her face. Her stillness, her reverence appealed to his heart, for it was easy to see that she was enjoying the music not as a mere concert, but, above all things, as an accompaniment to the words themselves. One time, when he glanced at her as she rose from her knees, he surprised a glimmer of tears in her eyes, and the sight brought a stab to his heart. Why should she cry? What was the reason of the air of repression and strain which from time to time flitted across her face? If it were Stanor's doing. ... Stephen frowned, and resolutely turned his attention to the service.

They came out of the Abbey to the majestic strains of the organ—out of the dim, blurred light shining shaft-like across the glowing mosaic of gold, and marble, and great jewelled windows, into the hard, everyday world. The pavements were crowded with pedestrians hurrying here and there; restaurants had opened their doors, tobacco merchants and newspaper vendors were hard at work, and country-bred Pixie stared around in amazed disapproval. They crossed the crowded thoroughfares and, led by Stephen, found quiet byways in which it was possible to talk in comparative comfort alone.

"It was better even than I expected, and that's saying so much! It does one good to go to a service like that. It's so big!"

"The—the Abbey?" queried Stephen vaguely, and Pixie gave a quick denial.

"No. No! Not only the building—everything! There's an atmosphere of peace, and dignity, and calm. One gets away from littleness and quarrelling. It's so sad when people quarrel about religion, and one sect disputes with another..."

"It is indeed," replied Stephen, sighing. "The chances of conciliation would be so much greater if they fought with honey, not with gall. ... The world needs kindness—"

"Oh, it does! There is such sorrow, such pain!" Pixie's voice rang suddenly sharp, and a wave of emotion flitted over her face. She raised her eyes to his, and said suddenly, in a voice of melting pathos: "Her face! ... That girl's face! All these years I've never forgotten. ... It's lain here!" She touched her heart with an eloquent finger. "All these years—every night—I've prayed that they might meet..." She shook her head with a determined gesture, as though shaking off a haunting thought. "I couldn't forget, you see, because—it taught me ... things I had not understood—!"

"Yes," said Stephen dully. For his life he could not have said another word. He waited with dread to hear the next words.

"But it was worth learning!" Pixie said bravely. "I was glad to learn. Love is such a big, big thing. When it is given to you it's a big responsibility. You must not fail; nothing in the world must make you fail!"

Stephen said no word. The questions which had filled his brain for the last five days were answered now. There was no more room for doubt. Pixie O'Shaughnessy was ready and waiting to marry Stanor Vaughan at any time when it pleased him to come home and claim her promise.



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

A MUSICAL EVENING.

Pixie had recovered her spirits by the time that the flat was reached, but the invalid was discovered in a distinctly "grumpy" mood. Like many enforced stay-at-homes, his unselfishness bore him gallantly over the point of speeding the parting guests, and expressing sincere good wishes for their enjoyment. But the long, long hours spent alone, the contrast between their lot and his own, the rebellious longing to be up and doing, all these foes preyed upon the mind, and by the time that the voyagers returned, a cool, martyr-like greeting replaced the kindliness of the farewell, which was sad, and selfish, and unworthy, but let those suspend their judgment who have never been tried!

"Really? Oh! Quite well, thank you. Did you really?" ... The cold, clipped sentences fell like ice on the listeners' ears, and Pixie, going out of the room, turned a swift glance at Stephen Glynn, and wrinkled her nose in an expressive grimace. Somehow or other Stephen felt his spirits racing upward at sight of that grimace. There was a suggestion of intimacy about it, amounting even to confidence: it denoted a camaraderie of spirit which was as flattering as it was delightful.

Pat, as usual, recovered his good humour at the sight of food, and thoroughly enjoyed the simple but well-cooked meal, while Pixie and Stephen tactfully avoided the subject of their morning's excursion. Time enough later on to describe the beauties of that Abbey service!

"Moffatt is going out this afternoon. A friend is to call for her and bring her back this evening. It will be a change for the creature," announced Pixie when the meal was finished, and, meeting Pat's eye, she added quickly, "I'll make tea."

"What about supper?" queried Pat sternly. "If there's a meal in the week which I enjoy better than another it is Sunday night supper. What's going to happen about it to-night?"

"'Deed I don't know. Don't fuss! It's beyond me to think two meals ahead. There's cold meat. ... I'll rummage up something when it comes to the time."

Pat turned gloomily to his friend.

"You'd better be off, Glynn. I asked you to stay for the day, but in view of unforeseen circumstances. ... Pixie evidently puts Moffatt's pleasure before our food."

"I do!" cried Pixie sturdily.

Stephen smiled, his bright, transforming smile, and said quickly—

"I'll stay! I'd like to, if you will just excuse me one moment while I telephone to my man. You have a telephone, I think, in the basement?"

Pixie shuddered.

"They have; in an ice-box, where every draught that was ever born whirls around your feet, and if you speak loud enough, every maid in the place will hear what you say. It's quite diverting to listen!"

Stephen went off laughing, and Pixie shook up Pat's pillows, bathed his hands, and kissed him several times on the tip of his nose, a proceeding which he considered offensive to his dignity, and then went off to change the crushable velvet skirt for a house dress of her favourite rose hue—a quaint little garment made in a picturesque style, which had no connection whatever with the prevailing fashion. When she returned to the sitting-room she seated herself on the floor beside the fire, and Pat, now entirely restored to equanimity and a little ashamed of his previous ill-humour, himself inquired about the morning's experiences. Like all the O'Shaughnessys he was intensely musical, and during his sojourn in London had taken every opportunity to hear all the good concerts within reach. He now wanted to hear about the music in the Abbey, and especially of the anthem, and at the mention of it Pixie drew a deep sigh of enjoyment.

"Oh, Pat, a boy sang 'Oh, for the wings'! If you could have heard it!— A clear, clear voice, so thrillingly sweet, soaring away up to that wonderful roof. And he sang with such feeling." ... She began softly humming the air, and Stephen knew then for a certainty whence had come those rich, soft notes which had come to his ears in the Abbey.

"Sing it, Pixie, sing it!" cried Pat impatiently. "You promised, and it's one of my favourites. Go on; I'll accompany!"

Stephen looked round inquiringly. No piano was in the room, no musical instrument of any kind, and Pat lay helpless upon his bed. How, then, could he accompany? The O'Shaughnessy ingenuity had, however, overcome greater difficulties than this, and it was not the first time by many that Pat had hummed an effective and harmonious background to his sister's songs. As for Pixie, she opened her mouth and began to sing as simply and naturally as a bird. She had a lovely voice, mezzo-soprano in range, and though she now kept it sweetly subdued, the hearer realised that it had also considerable power. She sang as all true singers do—as if the action gave to herself the purest joy, her head tilted slightly on one side, as if to listen more intently to each clear, sweet note as it fell from her lips. ... "Oh, for the wings, for the wings of a dove; far away, far away would I roam." ... The words blotted out for the hearers the gathering twilight in the prosaic little room; far away, far away soared their thoughts to heights lofty and beautiful. "In the wilderness build me a nest, and remain there for ever at rest." ... How had so young a thing learnt to put so wonderful a meaning into that last word? Pat's rolling accompaniment swelled and sank; now and again for a phrase he softly joined in the words, and in the concluding phrase still another voice joined in in a soft tenor note agreeable to hear.

Pixie's eyes met Stephen's with a glow of triumph. "He sings!" she cried quickly. "Pat, he sings—pure tenor! Oh, what music we can have, what trios! Isn't it delightful? You can have real concerts now, old man, without leaving the flat!"

"It was a very beautiful solo, Miss O'Shaughnessy," said Stephen gravely. He was still too much under the influence of the strain to think of future events. As long as he lived he would remember to-day's experience, and see before him the picture of Pixie O'Shaughnessy in her rose frock, with the firelight shining on her face. Her unconsciousness had added largely to the charm of the moment, but now that the tension was relaxed there was a distinct air of complacence in her reply.

"'Tis a gift; we all have it. The concerts we had at Knock, and every one playing a separate instrument, with not a thing to help us but our own hands! I was the flute. D'ye remember, Pat, the way I whistled a flute till ye all stopped to listen to me?"

"I do not," said Pat. "I was the 'cello myself, fiddling with a ruler on me own knees, double pedalling with two knees! I had no thought for flutes. Ye made the most noise, I'll say that for ye!"

As usual in any discussion, brother and sister fell back to the brogue of their youth, which time and absence had softened to just an agreeable hint of an Irish accent. Stephen smiled with amusement, and expressed a wish to hear the exhibition on another day.

"But do sing us something else now," he said; "something worthy to come after 'The Wings.'"

And for the next hour, while the light waned till they could no longer see one another across the room, Pixie sang one beautiful strain after another, always in the same soft, restrained voice, which could neither disturb the neighbours above or below, nor be too strong for the size of the little room. It was not show singing—rather was it a series of "tryings over," prefaced by "Oh, do you know this?" or "Don't you love that bit?" so that each man felt at liberty to join in as the impulse took him, till at times all three were singing together.

The hours sped by with wonderful quickness, and when tea-time arrived Stephen insisted upon his right to help his hostess to clear away the meal, and when they returned to the sitting-room, lo! Pat had fallen asleep, and there was nothing to do for it but to return to the kitchen, now immaculately clean and neat under the rule of the admirable Moffatt.

"We might as well begin to think about supper, and forage around," Pixie suggested, but Stephen echoed her own dislike of thinking of meals too far ahead, and pled for delay.

"It's rather a strain to sit and look at cold meat for a solid hour at a stretch, don't you think?" he asked persuasively. "It would spoil my appetite. Can't we just—be quiet?"

"You can," was Pixie's candid answer; "I'm going to write! I've the greediest family for letters; do as I will, there's never a time when somebody isn't grumbling! Never mind me, if you want to smoke; I approve of men smoking, it keeps them quiet. Can I get you a book?"

Stephen shook his head. Pat's library did not appeal to his more literary taste, and he announced himself content without further employment.

"Oh, well then, talk! It won't disturb me," said Pixie easily; "I'll just listen or not, according as it's interesting. I'm accustomed to it with Bridgie. If you want to set her tongue going, just sit down and begin to write..."

Stephen, however, had no intention of taking advantage of the permission. He was abundantly content to sit in his comfortable chair, enjoy his novel surroundings (how very cheerful and attractive a clean kitchen could be!) smoke his cigarette, and watch Pixie scribbling at fever pace over innumerable pages of notepaper. There were frequent snatches of conversation, but invariably it was Pixie herself who led the way.

"D'you illustrate your letters when you write them?" she asked at one time. "I always do! Realistic, you know, and saves time. At this present moment—" she drew back from the table, screwing up one eye, and holding aloft her pen in truly professional fashion—"I'm drawing You!"

"May I see?"

"You may. ... It's not quite right about the chair legs, they get so mixed up. Perspective never was my strong point," said Pixie, holding out a sheet and pointing to the masterpiece in question with the end of her pen. "There!"

Stephen looked and beheld a rough drawing of a preternaturally thin man, with preternatural large eyes, holding a cigarette in a hand joined to an arm which had evidently suffered severe dislocation. It was the type of drawing affected by schoolboys and girls, yet it had a distinct cleverness of its own. Despite the cart-wheel eyes and the skeleton frame there was a resemblance—there was more than a resemblance, it was actually like, and Stephen acclaimed the fact by a shout of laughter.

"I say! Could I have it? It's uncommonly good!"

Pixie shook her head.

"It's for Bridgie.—Ye notice the mouth? Did you know it twisted when you thought? Aren't they nice, narrow boots? I'll do one for you another day. ... Turn over the page! There's another of Pat, as he will look at the supper to-night."

The second drawing was even rougher than the first, but again the faculty for hitting off a likeness was displayed, for Pat, reclining on a bed sloping at a perilous angle towards the floor, gazed at a fragment of mutton-bone with drooping lids and peaking brows, which represented so precisely his expression when injured, that Stephen shouted once again.

"Succes fou!" commented Pixie jauntily, as she settled herself once more to her work. "Quite a gift, haven't I? Couldn't do pretties to save my life, but I can caricature! Now, please, do be quiet! I must get on..."

Half an hour later a loud rapping on the wall announced the awakening of the invalid, who was once more discovered in a fractious mood.

"Asleep! Nonsense! For two minutes, perhaps. How d'you suppose any fellow could sleep, with you two shrieking with laughter every two minutes! If you choose to keep your jokes to yourself, all right, it's nothing to me; but it's half-past seven. ... Where's supper?"

Even as he spoke another rap sounded on the front door—a brisk, imperative rap which brooked no delay. Pixie darted forward, imagining a surprise visit from the doctor, and found herself confronted by a man in black, standing sentinel over a hamper.

"Mr O'Shaughnessy's flat, madam? I have instructions from Mr Glynn—"

"All right, Saunders, bring it in, bring it in!" cried Stephen quickly. He met Pixie's eyes, flushed, and stammered—

"It's ... supper!" he said lamely. "I telephoned. It seemed a good plan, and I thought that, Pat.—Do you mind?"

"Mind!" repeated Pixie, laughing. "Faith I do! I mind very much; but it's the right way about; it won't be cold mutton, after all! I'll have to draw another picture."

The man carried the hamper into the sitting-room, unpacked it deftly, and laid the contents on the table. Soup, smoking hot from a thermos flask, chicken and salad, a shape of cream, and a fragrant pineapple. Pat's lips ceased to droop, his eyebrows to peak: his dark eyes lit with enjoyment.

"Good old Glynn!" he cried. "What a great idea! Now let's begin, and eat right through..."

As he took part in the happy meal which followed, Stephen Glynn reflected that generosity in giving went also with generosity in receiving. Pat and his sister would cheerfully give away their last penny to a friend in need. It never occurred to them to show less readiness to accept when it came to their own turn. Never was a surprise more happily planned; never was a surprise more heartily enjoyed.



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

HE LOVED HER.

For the next week all went well. Pat's improvement, though slow, was so sure that a definite date was named on which he should be allowed to take his first few steps. The doctor grimaced to Pixie as he gave this promise, as if to insinuate that the experiment would not be pleasant, but Pat was prepared—in theory at least—for anything and everything, if thereby he might regain his freedom.

Stephen Glynn paid daily visits to the flat, and, in addition, escorted Pixie to various "sights" of the great city, in which, to tell the honest truth, she showed but little interest. Music was a passion with her, but of pictures she had no knowledge, and little appreciation. The antiques in the National Gallery left her cold and bored, though she was full of interest in what seemed to her companion the most uninteresting men and women who were employed in copying the canvases.

When with the frankness of criticism which he had learned from herself he rallied her on this inconsistency, Pixie's answer was characteristic—

"One is dead, and the other's alive. The most uninteresting live person means more to me than a world of pictures. That girl in the grey dress had tears in her eyes. ... Did you see? She looks so poor. Perhaps she wants to sell her copy, and no one will buy! There was a man talking to the fat woman next to her as we passed through before. He was writing something in his pocket-book. I believe he was buying the picture, and the poor grey girl felt so sad.—If Esmeralda were here, I'd make her buy her copy, too."

"It's a very bad copy!" Stephen pronounced. Then he looked down at the girl, and the transforming smile lit up his face. "All the same— would I do instead of 'Esmeralda'? I'll buy it at once, if you wish it!"

The grey eyes brightened, beamed, then clouded with uncertainty.

"Really? Ought you? Are you sure? It may cost—"

"That's my affair! Leave that to me. Would you like me to buy it?"

"I would!" came back at once in the deepest tone of the eloquent Irish voice, and at that Stephen strode forward, his limp hardly observable on the wide, smooth floor, and came to a halt by the grey girl's side.

Then followed what was to one spectator at least, a delightful scene. The surprise on the grey girl's face, the incredulity, the illimitable content, as the tall stranger made known his request, took out his pocket-book and handed her a card. Emotional Pixie had the softness of tears in her own eyes as Stephen rejoined her, and they walked away together down the long room.

"Well," he said smiling, "on your head be it! Now she'll go on painting atrocities, and wasting good time, when she might be sweeping a floor! It's against my principles to encourage the desecration of art."

"Why did you do it then?" Pixie demanded heartlessly, but next moment she smiled a beautiful smile. "I know! Thank you! Never mind about desecration. Art can look after itself, and she can't! And even if that particular picture isn't beautiful, you have given me another that is, the picture of her happy face! I think," she concluded slowly, "it's going to help me.—It will be a contrast to turn, to, when I see—that other!" She sighed, as she invariably did, when referring to those moments on the Liverpool landing-stage, but she shook off the depression with a characteristic gesture, a defiant little shake not only of the head, but of the whole body, and cried briskly: "Now let's imagine what she does when she goes home with that cheque!"

At home in the little flat, music made part of every day's programme. Pixie, seated on the hearthrug, would sing Irish ballads in a voice of crooning sweetness, she and Pat would join in duets, occasionally Stephen was persuaded to join in a trio, and presently, as the performers became "worked up" to their task, they would recall one by one performances of bygone days, and perform them afresh for the delectation of their visitor. Pixie whistled a bird-like accompaniment to Pat's deep drone; Pat, retiring bashfully beneath a sheet, whistled in his turn not only an air, but actually at the same time an accompaniment thereto, a soprano and contralto combination of sounds, so marvellous to hear that he was compelled to repeat the performance unmasked, before Stephen would believe in its authenticity. Fired by the success of their efforts, combs were then produced, and, swathed in paper, turned into wind instruments of wondrous amenability. Surprising effect of a duet upon combs! Again, when towards the end of the week the repertoire gave out, and "What shall we sing next?" to fail of an answer, Pixie revived another old "Knock" accomplishment, which was neither more nor less than impromptu recitatives and choruses. A bass recitative by Pat, on the theme—"And she went—to find some mat-ches. And there—were—none... Tum-Tum!" led the way to the liveliest of choruses, in which, goaded by outstretched fingers and flashing eyes, Stephen was forced to take his part. "There were none!—there were none!" piped Pixie in the treble. "And she went—and she went!" rumbled Pat in the bass. "Matches! Matches!" fell from Stephen's lips, on a repeated high tenor note. Through ever-increasing intricacies and elaborations ran the chorus, until at last at a signal from the soprano it approached its close, the three singers proclaimed in unison that "there—were—none!" and promptly fell back in their seats in paroxysms of laughter. In the course of the last twenty years, had he laughed as much as he had done within the last wonderful week? Stephen asked himself the question as he walked home the night after the singing of the "Matches" chorus, and there was little hesitation about the answer.

A week, ten days of unshadowed happiness and companionship, and then a cloud arose. Pat was not well; he grew worse; he grew seriously ill. The knee itself had done all that was expected of it, but the first attempt at walking, to which the poor fellow had looked forward as to a festival, proved in reality a painful and depressing experience. Back in his bed, limp with pain and exhaustion, poor Pat realised his own weakness with a poignancy of disappointment. He had expected to be able to walk at once, though not perhaps for any length of time, and these few stumbling steps had been a bitter revelation. All these weeks of confinement and suffering, and now a long and dragging convalescence! Pat's heart swelled with bitterness and rebellion. Despite the presence of Pixie and the constant visits of his friend, he was sick, sick to death of the one small room, and the monotonous indoor life, and as a young man successfully started in a young business, he longed with ardour to get back to his work.

The world looked very black to Pat O'Shaughnessy for the rest of that day, and atmospheric conditions did not help to cheer him. It was raining, a slow, relentless rain, and in the air for days past had been a rawness, a chill which crept to the very bone. Pixie drew the curtains over every chink, and hung a shawl over the end of Pat's bed to still further screen him from draughts, but Pat was not in the mood to be coddled, and had that shawl whisked to the ground before one could say Jack Robinson. He was curt and silent in his manner, and—rare and significant sign!—partook of a fragmentary tea. Nothing was right; everything was wrong; his patience was exhausted, and though he remained studiously polite to his friend, with his sister he unrestrainedly "let himself go."

"Don't wriggle, Pixie! ... Don't shout!—Don't tell us that story all over again. ... Don't lean against my bed. ... Don't sit between me and the fire!" so on it went all through the afternoon, which as a rule was so cheery and peaceful, and if Pixie preserved a placid composure, Stephen Glynn was far from following her example. He relapsed into a frigid silence, which added but another element to the general discomfort.

The final stroke came when Pixie lifted the despised shawl and attempted to wrap it round Pat's shoulders, and was rudely repulsed, and told to mind her own business and not be a fool. Then, with his air of grand seigneur, Stephen Glynn rose from his chair and made his adieux. Cold as crystal was his manner as he extended his hand to the invalid on his bed, and Pixie followed him on to the little landing, apologetic and miserable.

"You are going so soon? If you could stay and talk hard it might divert him from himself. He needs diverting!"

"I cannot," Stephen declared. "It's beyond me. After all you have done—after all your care, to speak to you so rudely!—"

He had passed through the front door of the flat, and Pixie stood within the threshold, her hand clasping the handle of the door, her face, tired and strained, raised to his own.

"He didn't!" she cried quickly. "Oh, he didn't. It wasn't Pat who spoke—it was the pain, the pain, and the tiredness and the disappointment. They force out the words. Haven't you found that yourself? But his heart doesn't mean them. He's all raw and hurting, and I worried him. ... I shouldn't have done it! You must be angry with me, not with Pat."

Stephen gave her a long, strange look.

"I think I—" he began, and stopped short suddenly.

"What?" queried Pixie, and there was a long pause.

"I—don't know!" he answered dreamily then, and without a word of farewell turned away and descended the steps.

But he did know. In the moment in which he had stood facing her while she pled her brother's cause, the secret of his own heart was revealed. Never under any circumstances could he be angry with Pixie O'Shaughnessy. He loved her; she was for him the one woman in the world; with all the stored-up love of his empty life he loved her, and longed for her for his own. That was the reason of his happiness during the past days, of the extraordinary new zest and interest in life which had filled his mind; of his content in Pixie's contentment, his anxiety for her anxiety, his furious resentment when she was abused. And he loved her. He loved her when she lapsed into her Irish brogue, and said "Me dear"; he loved her when she assumed Frenchified airs, struck attitudes, and cried "Ma foi!" he loved her when she was sad, when she was glad, when she was youthful and mischievous, when she was serious and old, when she walked beside him in the street in the hat with the curling feather, when she sat on the hearthrug in her rose-hued dress crooning songs in her soft, sweet voice. Always, and always, he loved her; she had crept into his heart like a ray of sunshine lighting up unused rooms; she had melted his coldness, as the south wind melts the frost. He loved Pixie, and Pixie was going to marry Stanor Vaughan...

Stephen Glynn stepped shuddering into the clammy street, and away up on the fifth floor landing Pixie still stood motionless, holding the handle of that open door, repeating to herself dreamily that he would come back, he must come back! He had never said good-bye!



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

COMPLICATIONS.

On the following afternoon Stephen Glynn failed to pay his daily visit to the flat. After the revelation of the night before he had neither the strength nor the courage to encounter Pixie anew. Little use to shut the stable door after the steed had flown, but he must at least have time to think, to face the future, and decide upon his own course. And then at seven o'clock came the ring of the telephone, and Pixie's voice speaking piteously in his ear—

"Is it you? You yourself? Oh, why didn't you come? I was waiting for you. I wanted you. Pat's ill! He's ill, and he won't let me send for the doctor. Oh, do come round!"

"I'm coming!" Stephen said, and hung up the receiver. Pixie wanted him, that settled the matter. In half an hour's time his car stopped before the entrance to the flat, and the chauffeur was bidden to wait for further orders, while his master mounted the long flights of steps.

Pixie was seated beside the fire, and the glance of her eyes spoke of a warning which he was quick to understand. Pat was not to suspect that his friend had been summoned on his behalf. He turned towards the bed, and said lightly—

"Sorry to be late, old man. How goes it? Tried the walking again?"

"This morning. Yes. But—" Pat shrugged wearily—"not since. Got a head—"

Stephen looked at him critically. Bright eyes, flushed cheeks, shortened breath, all the danger signals to the fore.

"Bit feverish, old man, that's the trouble! Exerting yourself too much perhaps. Good thing I didn't come to tire you further. Get that doctor fellow to give you something to cool you down, and give you a good night's rest, and the little cherub will wake up bright as a button."

"Shan't!" Pat cried. "No more doctors! Sick of the sight of doctors! What have doctors done for me? Chained here all these weeks, and worse at the end! I can look after myself."

"Taken your temperature by any chance?"

"What's the good? Don't you start worrying, Glynn! I've had enough of it from Pixie. I'm not going to be worried with temperatures."

"Don't behave like a child, O'Shaughnessy. No one wants to worry you with doctors if it can be helped. I don't wonder you are tired of them, but you can't run risks. Take your temperature like a sensible fellow, and if it's under a hundred, I'll leave you in peace. Otherwise I go downstairs this minute and telephone for Braithey. Where's the thermometer, Miss O'Shaughnessy? Now then, in with it!"

Pat scowled, but submitted. The glass tube was held between set lips, and a silence ensued which Stephen made no effort to break. Pixie waited expectantly for him to join her, but he kept his position by the bed, without so much as turning his head in her direction. And upon entering he had avoided her glance, had dropped her hand after the most perfunctory, clasp, and last night he had gone away without even saying good-night. ... She had offended him: certainly she must have offended him, Pixie told herself, though how she was unable to think. She stared into the fire, feeling tired, and sad, and discouraged.

"Three minutes. Yes, that's enough. Let me see! I'm getting quite clever with these puzzling things. Ye-es!" With a deft jerk of his wrist Stephen shook the thermometer, and returned it to it's case. "Slightly up! No escape for it, Pat. Braithey must come!"

"I won't see him. I won't see him if he comes! Look here, Glynn, it's my affair! Leave me alone, there's a good fellow! I can look after myself..."

Stephen walked steadily to the door.

"I'll take good care you don't. That's enough, Patrick, don't waste your strength! I'm going downstairs to telephone, and if Braithey's at home my car shall bring him round. It's waiting outside."

He disappeared, and the storm burst over Pixie's head, but she bore it meekly, with a kind of stunned acceptance. Everything seemed going wrong! The sunny harmony of the last ten days had suddenly changed to gloom. Pixie's thoughts made a lightning review of those different days. How perfectly, incredibly happy they had been! Until this moment she had not fully realised their perfection.

"Ah, now, Pat, stop! Don't worry, boy! It's not my head! ... Wait till to-morrow and you'll be better than ever, and think of the trouble it'll give you to apologise. ... It's because we care!"

"Wish to goodness you didn't then," cried the impenitent one. However he might wish to apologise to-morrow, he was in no mood to begin to-night, but the pain in his head was so acute that by sheer exhaustion he was forced into silence.

Stephen did not return as had been expected after sending his telephone message. He preferred, it appeared, to go on the car, and personally bring back the doctor, and half an hour later the two men entered the room together. Then ensued the usual tapping and sounding, the enforced reiteration of "Ah-ah!" the feeling of the pulse, the ignominious presentation of the tongue. Pat went through the performance with the air of a martyr at the stake, sank back against the pillow when it was over, and hunched himself beneath the clothes.

"That's right! That's right! Lie still and rest. We'll soon have you all right again. Have a little nap if you can, while I give Miss O'Shaughnessy my instructions in the er—er—"

Doctor Braithey reminded himself in time that there was no second sitting-room, and concluded grandiloquently—"in the hall!"

They went out into the tiny passage, and Stephen and Pixie waited for the verdict.

"Well! The right lung is touched. He has taken a chill. Now we must see what we can do to prevent it from going farther."

He cast an inquiring glance at Pixie.

"D'you know anything about poulticing?"

"Yes, everything! I've helped my sister with her children, and I brought the things..."

"That's well! Poultice him then, a fresh one every two hours. Here! You understand, in this position," he tapped himself in illustration. "I'll send in medicines, and we'll see how he is to-morrow morning. If he is no better you'll need help. We'll see about that when I call."

A few more words and he was gone, racing down the long stairway, while Stephen lingered behind with an air of uncertainty.

"I—suppose I can be of no use! Pat ought to be quiet, and I'm no hand at poulticing. You are sure you can manage alone?"

Pixie nodded, struggling with a lump in her throat. Why wouldn't he stay? Why did he so obviously not want to stay?

"I can. It will be all right. Moffatt will help me."

"And to-morrow ... to-morrow you must get a nurse!"

"No!" cried Pixie with sudden energy, "I will not. I'll have no stranger. I'll have Bridgie." Her heart swelled at the sound of the beloved name; she felt a helpless longing to cast herself on that faithful breast. "Bridgie must come. There's no room for a nurse in this tiny place. Bridgie could share my room."

"We'll telegraph for her," Glynn said. "I will come round after breakfast, and if Pat is not quite himself, I'll telegraph at once. She could be with you by tea-time."

He was kind and considerate. He was thoughtful for her comfort, ready to help by deed as well as word. Pixie could not explain to herself wherein lay the want, but the reality of it gnawed at her heart, and darkened still further the hours of that long, anxious night.

Despite poultices, despite medicine, there was no doubt even to Pixie's inexperienced eyes that Pat was worse the next morning. His breathing was heavier, he was hotter, more restless. Without waiting for Stephen she sent the little maid to telephone to the doctor, and through the same medium dispatched a summoning wire to Bridgie in her northern home.

The succeeding hours were filled with a nightmare-like struggle against odds which palpably increased with every hour. Stephen came in and out, turned himself into a messenger to obtain everything that was needed, sent round a hamper of cooked dainties which would provide the small household for days to come, drove to the station to meet Bridgie and bring her to the flat, and oh! the joy, the relief, the blessed consciousness of help, which came to nurse and patient alike at the sight of that sweet, fair face! In one minute Bridgie had shed her hat and coat, in the second moment she was scorching herself by the fire, to remove all trace of chill before she approached the bedside, in the third she was sitting beside it—calm, sweet, capable, with the air of having been there since the beginning of time, and intending to stay until the end.

For the next few days Pat had a sharp struggle for his life. Pneumonia clutched him in its grip, and the sound of his painful breathing was heard all over the little flat. There was a dreadful night when hope was well-nigh extinguished, when Stephen Glynn and the two sisters seemed to wrestle with the very angel of death, and Pat himself to face the end. "Shall I—die?" he gasped, and Bridgie's answering smile seemed to hold an angelic sweetness.

"I hope not, dear lad. There's so much work for you to do down here, but if you do—it's going home! Mother's there, and the Major! They'll welcome you!"

But Pat was young, and the love of life was strong within him. He had loved his parents, but still more at that moment he loved the thought of his work. He fought for his life, and the fight was hard.

Into most lives there comes at times such a night as this; a night of dark, illimitable hours, a night when the world and all its concerns withdraws itself to unmeasurable distance, and the division between life and the eternal grows thin and faint. Would Pat live to see the morning? That was the question which to his sisters overwhelmed every other thought. Afterwards, looking back, Pixie could recall certain incidents registered by the sub-conscious self. Being gently forced into a chair; being fed with cups of something hot and nourishing, placed suddenly in her hands by Stephen Glynn, always by Stephen, who seemed by his actions to regard her as a secondary invalid, to be tended with tenderest care. Once, becoming suddenly conscious of his presence, as she stood in the kitchen preparing some necessary for the sick man, a growing fear burst into words, and she asked him pitifully—how pitifully she herself could never know—

"Was it my fault? Was there anything I could have done?"

"No, dear," he said simply. "It is not your fault."

Pixie was certain that he had said "dear." The rhythm of it remained in her ears, that, and the deep gentleness of his tone. He had been sorry for her, so sorry! And he was so much older, and he was Stanor's uncle. Why should he not say "dear?"

Short and sharp was the attack, but by God's mercy the crisis passed, and brought relief. Weak as a child, but peaceful and quiet, Pat slept, and took his first steps back towards life.

At last the danger was over, and Pat's natural vigour of constitution made the convalescence unusually quick, but even when he was comparatively well again, Bridgie refused in an altogether amazing and unprecedented manner to return to her beloved home. She suggested not once, but many times in succession, that Pixie should return in her place to take the head of the household, but here Pat grew obstinate in his turn.

No! Pixie had had all the dull work of nursing; he was not going to allow her to return until she had had some fun. And when he began to go out for walks, pray, who was going to accompany him, if Pixie went away? "You'd be off after her, the moment you saw me on my feet. Don't deny it, for I know better!" Pat declared, and Bridgie blushed, and did not deny it. Already she was pining for Dick and the children; already counting the hours to her return, but...

Movement was evidently in the air; perhaps it was caused by the bright, spring days which had replaced the former gloom. Pat on his bed discussed a possible holiday before returning to work. "It might hurry things," he said. "What do you say, Pixie, seaside or country? Must go somewhere where there's something to do! Winter garden, concerts, bands, people to look at. I want to be amused. We'll have a week somewhere, and blow expense. You might come too, Glynn, and bring the car."

Glynn was sitting in his usual place beside the fire; Bridgie was by the bed; Pixie prone on the hearthrug. During the last few days the invalid had been sufficiently strong to enjoy the society of his fellows, had even called upon Pixie to sing, and had apparently greatly enjoyed the hearing, though Bridgie seemed for once unappreciative, and had discouraged further efforts. Now his mind had turned on to holidays, and he had made this direct appeal to Stephen, which seemed to find scant favour from two out of the three hearers.

Bridgie frowned, and stared at the carpet; Stephen's pale face showed a discomfited flush.

"You shall have the car with pleasure. It shall take you wherever you decide to go, and be at your service for as long as you please, but for myself, I must get home. I—I am not usually in town for so long at a time. There are several things waiting attention which should not be delayed. I must get back..."

There was a dead silence, while each one of the three hearers realised the futility of the excuse. Stephen's estate was in the hands of a capable agent: an extra week's absence could make little difference; moreover, previous statements had made it plain that he had originally intended to stay for some considerable time in town. Plain, therefore, as print, and impossible to misunderstand was the fact that he did not want to accompany his friends on their holiday; that in addition he did not for the moment desire more of their company in town.

Bridgie raised her head: she was smiling, a bright, unaffected, relieved-looking smile.

"There's no end to the work on a big estate. The Major—my father—used to say that every man was his own best bailiff, though he made a fine muddle of it himself, poor darling! But my brother Jack agrees with him. He's educated Miles to look after the Irish property, and so does Geoffrey Hilliard. ... It's true he is away half his time—"

At the best of times Bridgie was scarcely a special pleader, and to-day she seemed no sooner to make a statement than she contradicted it straight away. She mumbled vaguely, and relapsed into silence.

"Of course we won't take your car. You will need it for your business excursions!" Pat said icily. "We are very much indebted to you for letting us have the use of it here. It's been of great service, hasn't it, Pixie?"

"It has! I don't know what we'd have done without it. We are grateful," agreed Pixie warmly. Her voice out of all the four was the only one which rang true; her eyes smiled across the room with unembarrassed friendliness. Nevertheless Bridgie, looking on, felt a cramp of pain. How much older Pixie had grown in appearance! The lines of strain and repression over which she had sighed more than once before now had surely deepened during the last weeks! Anxiety, no doubt, the strain of nursing—Bridgie comforted herself as best she might, but no explanation could take away the pang which the mother heart feels at the sight of pain on a young face!

"Come, Pixie," she said, rising, "we'll make tea! I promised Pat potato cakes as soon as the doctor allowed them, and that's to-day. We'll have a feast!—"