"Leave them to themselves," she said confidingly to Pixie when the kitchen was reached. "They'll shake down better without us. Pat's fractious; he always was from a child when he was crossed, but the potato cakes will soothe him. I'm sorry for Mr Glynn. Really, you know, dear, Pat's exacting!"

"'Deed he is. It's no wonder he is tired of it." Bridgie needed no explanation as to the significance of that second he. "He's been fussing about us for weeks, and now he'll go home and rest. It's a good thing! Will I mash the potatoes for you, Bridgie?"

"Thank you, darling," said Bridgie humbly, but her face remained troubled. Once more, and with all her heart, she wished that Pixie were safe at home.

The rumble of men's voices could be heard from the kitchen—an amicable rumble it appeared to be, though with mysterious breaks from time to time. Bridgie bustled in, tea-tray in hand, in the middle of one of these breaks, and surprised a look of sadness on each face. She decided that Stephen was to depart forthwith, but such was not the case, since over tea he alluded to an old promise to take Pixie to the Temple, and included Bridgie in an invitation for the following Sunday.

"And then I must be off—on Monday—or—or perhaps on Tuesday," he said vaguely. "One day next week."

"I leave on Monday too," said Bridgie, and ate her potato cake with recovered zest.



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

HE LOVES YOU.

That evening Pat showed early signs of fatigue, and requested Bridgie to settle him for the night, bidding the while so marked a farewell to Pixie that she had no alternative but to retire forthwith to her own room. Truth to tell she was not sorry, for sleep had been an uncertain quantity of late, and the prospect of a long undisturbed night was agreeable. She dallied over her undressing, and when Bridgie joined her half an hour later, sat perched upon the bed, dressing-gowned, her hands clasped round her knees, watching with admiring eyes the picture of her sweet-faced sister seated before the dressing-table engaged in brushing out her long fair hair.

"You've a fine head of hair, me dear! It's wearing well. ... D'you remember the day you and Esmeralda had the trick played on you about going to bed, and sat up half the night brushing and combing to tire out the other?"

"I do so," answered Bridgie, but it was but a faint smile which she gave to the memory of that youthful joke. She parted her hair with a sweep of the brush, and gazing at her sister between the long gold strands said suddenly, and earnestly, "Pixie!"

"Me dear?"

"There's something I want to say. ... To-morrow Mr Glynn will be here. Pat's asked him to come back after church. He is going away on Monday, so it will be the last time. Be careful, darling! Think what you're about. You don't want to be unkind—"

Pixie stared—a stunned, incredulous stare.

"Unkind! To him! Are you raving? What am I to be careful about?"

"Oh—oh—everything!" Bridgie's breath came in a gasp of helplessness. It had been difficult to speak, but a sense of duty had driven her on, and now it was too late to stop. "Don't—don't talk to him so much. Don't look at him." (Did Pixie realise how instinctively her eyes sought Stephen's for sympathy and appreciation?) "Don't sit by the fire and sing."

A flush spread over Pixie's cheek; her eyes widened.

"Why? Doesn't he like it? Isn't it nice?"

"Oh-oh, Pixie!" cried Bridgie helplessly. A vision rose before her of a little figure in a rose-coloured gown, of the firelight playing on the upturned face. She heard again, the deep crooning notes which filled the room with sweetness. To herself, a sister, the picture was full of charm—what must it be to a lonely man, in love for the first time in thirty-five years? She rose from her chair and came across to the bed: face to face, within the stretch of an arm, the sisters waited in silence, while the clock on the mantelpiece ticked out a long minute. "Pixie," whispered Bridgie breathlessly, "don't you know?"

"What?"

"Don't you know, Pixie, that he loves you?"

"Who loves me?"

"Stephen Glynn. Oh, Pixie, didn't you see?"

The colour faded from Pixie's face; she threw out her hand as if to ward off a threatened danger. There was a note almost of anger in her reply—

"It's not true; it's not! It couldn't be true. ... He care for me! For Me! You're mad, Bridgie! You're dreaming! There's nothing..."

"Oh, Pixie, there is! I saw it the first evening. I'd have spoken before, but Pat was so ill. Then I tried—you know how. I tried!—to send you away. I knew that every day was making it harder for him, more difficult to forget. I was so sorry for him! Pixie, he is thirty-five, and has suffered so much. It's hard on a man when he gets to that age, and—"

"Don't!" cried Pixie sharply. She thrust out her hand once more, and cowered as if from a blow. "Bridgie, I can't bear it! Don't torture me, Bridgie. ... It isn't true! You are making it up. Ah, Bridgie, it's because you love me yourself that you think every one must do the same! He's—Stanor's uncle ... Pat's friend—he was just kind like other friends. ... He never said a word ... looked a look." Suddenly, unexpectedly the blood flared in her face as memory took her back to the hour when she stood at the door of the flat and watched Stephen's abrupt descent down the flagged stairway. "Oh, Bridgie, are ye sure? Are ye sure? How are ye sure? It's so easy to be deceived! Bridgie, you've no right to say it if you are not sure. I don't believe you! Nothing could make me believe unless he said—"

"Pixie, he has said!" The words fell from Bridgie's lips as though in opposition to her judgment she were compelled to speak them. "Pat was hurt that he was going; he reproached him to-night after we left; they had a discussion about it, and he said Stephen Glynn said that he daren't stay, he daren't see more of you. ... Pat does not think he meant to say it, it just—said itself! And afterwards he set his lips, and put on his haughty air, and turned the conversation, and Pat dared not say another word. But he had said enough. ... His face! ... his voice! ... Pat did not believe he could feel so much. He cares desperately, Pixie."

Pixie sat motionless—so silent, so motionless, that not a breath seemed to stir her being. Bridgie waited, her face full of motherly tenderness, but the silence was so long, so intense, that by degrees the tenderness changed into anxiety. It was unlike emotional Pixie to face any crisis of life in silence; the necessity to express herself had ever been her leading characteristic, so that lack of expression was of all things the most startling, in her sister's estimation. She stretched out her hand, and laid it on the bowed shoulder with a firm, strengthening touch.

"Pixie! Look up! Speak to me! What are you thinking, dear?"

Pixie raised her face, a set face, which to the watching eyes seemed apiece with the former silence. There seemed no expression on it; it was a lifeless mask which had been swept of expression. As the blank eyes looked into her own and the lips mechanically moved, Bridgie had the sensation of facing a stranger in the place of the beloved little sister.

"I am honoured!" said Pixie flatly. "I am honoured!"

She rose slowly from the bed, moving stiffly as though the mere physical effort were a strain, and passing by Bridgie's inviting arms walked over to the dressing-table and began to loosen her own hair.

"You have finished, Bridgie? I'm not in your way?" she asked quietly, and Bridgie faltered a weak "No!" and felt that the world was coming to an end.

Pixie silent; Pixie dignified; Pixie quietly but unmistakably holding her sister and guardian at arm's length, this was an experience petrifying in its unexpectedness! She had not spoken on the impulse of a moment; for days past she had been nerving herself to open Pixie's eyes. At the bottom of her heart had lain a dawning hope that such an opening might not be in vain, for Pixie had never really loved Stanor Vaughan. At the time of their engagement she had not even understood what love meant; during the years of their separation there had been nothing but an occasional letter to preserve his image in her mind, and when the allotted two years were over, Stanor himself had voluntarily extended his exile. Bridgie set her lips as she recalled a fact so hurtful to her sister's dignity. She heard again Pat's voice, echoing the sentiments of her own heart. "Tell her, Bridgie! She ought to know. He's worth a thousand of that other fellow. Don't let her throw away the substance for the shadow."

So she had spoken, and a new Pixie—a Pixie she had never even imagined in dreams—had listened, and made her reply. "I am honoured!" she had said, and straightway, sweetly, courteously, irrevocably, had closed the subject.

Bridgie bent her head and plaited her hair in the two long ropes which made her nightly coiffure. She was thankful of the employment, thankful of an excuse to hide her face; she listened to the ticking of the clock upon the mantelpiece and asked herself what she should do next. The incredible had come to pass, and she, Bridgie, sister, guardian, married woman, mother of a family, was nervous in Pixie's presence! Not for any bribe that could have been offered would she have ventured to hint at that hope which she and Pat had shared in common.

Suddenly through the little flat rang the sound of the postman's knock. The last of the many deliveries of the day had arrived, and Bridgie peeping out of the door spied a couple of white envelopes prone on the mat. She crept out to get them, thankful of the diversion, and was overjoyed to behold on one her husband's writing.

"One for me, Pixie, and one for you—an enclosure forwarded from home. I'm so glad to get mine. It's nice for the postmen in London to have Sundays free, but we country people do miss letters," she said glibly, as she handed Pixie her share of the spoil, and seated herself in the one comfortable chair which the room afforded, to enjoy to the full the welcome message from home.

Perhaps Dick had divined the double anxiety which was burdening his wife, perhaps he realised how long she would feel a Sunday without news, perhaps out of his own loneliness had arisen a need for words—in any case, that special letter was the longest and, to Bridgie's heart, the dearest which she had received since her departure from home. He told her of the children, and of their latest sayings; he told her of himself and his work; he comforted her, where she needed comfort, cheered her, where she needed cheer, called her by the sweet love names which she most loved to hear, and held before her eyes the prospect of a swift return. And Bridgie reading that letter thanked God for the thousandth time, because on her—undeserving—had been bestowed the greatest gift which a woman can receive—the gift of a faithful love!

Ten minutes had passed before she had read and re-read her precious letter, but when she turned her head it was to find Pixie standing in the same position as that in which she had seen her last, gazing down upon a sheet of paper on which a few short lines were written in a masculine writing. At Bridgie's movement she raised her head, and spoke in a curiously low, level voice—

"It is from Stanor. He has sailed for home. Honor Ward and a party of friends were crossing, and he decided at the last moment to come with them. We shall see him on Thursday next."



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

STANOR COMES BACK.

It was Thursday morning. With the doctor's permission Pat's bed had been carried back to the minute apartment which was grandiloquently termed a "dressing-room." A sofa took its place in the dining-room, and with the aid of a stick he could walk from one refuge to another, and enjoy what—after the confinement of the past months—appeared quite an exciting variety of scene.

Bridgie Victor was still a joint occupant of the "best" bedroom, for since Pat refused to part with Pixie it was plainly the elder sister's duty to stay on over the important meeting with Stanor Vaughan. The modern girl scoffs at the idea of chaperonage, but the O'Shaughnessys were not modern. Bridgie felt the impulse to protect, and Pixie's piteous "Stay with me, Bridgie!" marked the one moment of weakness which she had shown. So Bridgie remained in London, comforted by the knowledge that her husband was well and her children in good hands, and seldom in her life had five days passed so slowly. Sunday itself had seemed a week long, the atmosphere strained and unreal, each member of the little party talking to pass the time, uttering platitudes, and discussing every imaginable subject under the sun but just the one which filled every mind. No need to bid Pixie to be discreet, to warn her not to sing, nor glance too frequently in a certain direction—a talking automaton could not have shown less sign of feeling.

As for Stephen Glynn, the news of his nephew's sudden return obviously came to him as a shock, but as a man of the world he was an adept in hiding his feelings, and though he curtailed his visit, so long as he was in the flat he exerted himself to preserve an ordinary demeanour. His adieux also were of the most commonplace description.

"It's hardly worth while to say good-bye. We shall meet, we shall certainly meet before long. I will write to welcome Stanor, and you—" he held Pixie's hand and looked down at her with an inquiring glance—"you will let me hear your—news?"

"I will," answered Pixie simply.

Bridgie would have given a fortune to be able to see what was in "the child's" head at that moment, to know what she was really thinking. The sisters walked together to the door, Pat, on his stick, bringing up the rear, and stood watching Stephen descend. Once and again he looked up, smiled, and waved his hand, and as he did so his eyes had the same piteous glance which Pixie had noticed on their first meeting. The expression of those upturned eyes hurt all three onlookers in different degrees, and sent them back to their little room with downcast looks.

"Now he'll bury himself in the country again and mope! It's been the making of him being here in town. Goodness knows what will happen to him now!" said Pat, dropping on to the couch with an impatient sigh, and Bridgie murmured softly—

"The dear, man! The dear man! So hard for, him to be alone. But you needn't be anxious, Pat. He's so good. He'll be looked after! ... Don't you think, now, his eyes are the least thing in the world like Dick's?"

"Not the least least!" snapped Pixie, and that was her one contribution to the conversation.

And now it was Thursday—Thursday afternoon, within an hour, of the time fixed by telegram for Stanor's arrival. Pat had elected to stay in bed, in consequence of what he called headache and his sisters translated as "sulks." He didn't want to see the fellow. ... What was the fellow to him? Didn't know how the fellow had the face to turn up at all, after dawdling away an extra six months. Hoped to goodness the fellow would make short work of it and be off, as he wanted to get up for dinner.

In her heart Bridgie agreed with each sentiment in turn, but she felt it her duty to be stern and bracing.

"'Deed, and I hope so, too! Else I shall have to sit here, and you're not the best company. I'm your guest, me dear—if you haven't the heart to be civil ye might at least have the good manners! My little Jack would never dr-eam—"

"Little prig he must be, then," mumbled Pat; but the reproof went home, and he grumbled no more.

Just before the clock struck the hour Bridgie paid a flying visit to the little sitting-room to see that the tea-table was set, the kettle on the hob, the dish of hot scones on the brass stand in the fender, and everything ready to hand, so that no one need enter unless specially summoned. She found Pixie standing gazing into the fire, and started with surprise and disappointment.

"Pixie, your dress! That dull old thing? Why not your pink? Me dear, you've time. ... There's still time. ... Run off and change it!"

But Pixie shook her head.

"Bridgie, don't fuss!" she said, and there was a note in her voice which checked the words on Bridgie's lips. She literally dared not say any more, but her heart was heavy with disappointment.

She had been so anxious that Pixie should look her best for this important interview, had been so complacently satisfied that the rose-coloured gown was as becoming as it could be, and now the aggravating, mysterious little thing had deliberately left it hanging in the wardrobe, and put on instead an old brown dress which had been a failure at the beginning, and was now well advanced in middle age. One result of Pixie's sojourn in Paris had been an acquired faculty for making the best of herself: she put on her clothes with care, she wore them "with an air," she dressed her hair with neat precision, and then with a finger and thumb gave a tweak here, a pat there, which imparted to the final effect something piquant and attractive. To-day it appeared as if that transforming touch had been forgotten, and Bridgie, looking on, felt that pang of distress which all motherly hearts experience when their nurslings show otherwise than at their best.

"Are you not going to sit with Pat?" inquired Pixie at the end of a pregnant silence, and at that very obvious hint Bridgie retired perforce, repeating gallantly to herself, "Looks don't matter! Looks don't matter! They don't matter a bit!" and believing just as much of what she said as would any other young woman of her age.

Another ten minutes and the sound of the electric bell rang sharply round the flat. The door opened and shut, and Moffatt, entering the sitting-room in advance, announced loudly—

"Mr Vaughan!"

A tall, fair man entered with a rapid step. Pixie looked at him, and felt a consciousness of unutterable strangeness. This was not the man from whom she had parted on the deck of that ocean-bound steamer! This man was older, broader; the once lazy, laughter-loving eyes were keen and shrewd. His shoulders also were padded into the exaggerated square, characteristic of American tailors.

"Well—Pixie!"

Even the voice was strange. It had absorbed the American accent, the American clip and drawl. Pixie had the consciousness of struggling with stiffened features which refused to smile.

"Well—Stanor!"

He took her hand and held it in his, the while he stared down at her upturned face. His brows contracted, as though what he saw was more painful than pleasant. "I guess you've been having a bad time," he said. "I was sorry to hear your brother's been sick."

"He is better now," Pixie said, and gently withdrew her hand.

Two and a half years' waiting, and this was the meeting! She drew herself up, with the little air of dignity which she knew so well how to assume, and waved him to a seat.

"Won't you sit down? I will give you some tea. It is all ready, and the kettle is boiling. When did you arrive in town?"

"Two hours ago. I went straight to my hotel to write some letters, and then came along here. ... This is your brother's apartment? Nice little place! It's good news that he is better! Hard luck on him to be bowled over like that!"

The accent, the intonation carried Pixie's thoughts irresistibly towards another speaker, whose memory war associated with her own first meeting with Stanor. On the spur of the moment she mentioned her name.

"Where is Honor Ward? Is she in London, too?"

Stanor started; over his features passed a quiver as of anxiety or dread. He glanced across the fireplace, and the new keenness in his eyes became still more marked.

"Er—no! She stopped half way. Later on ... perhaps—"

"She is quite well?"

Again a moment's hesitation.

"Fairly well, only ... Very tired."

"I don't wonder she is tired; she does so much. Always rushing about after something new. They seem very restless people in America."

"They're alive, anyway; they don't rust! They're bound to get the most that's possible out of life, and they get it! It shakes a fellow up to get out of the rut here and have a taste of their methods."

"You like it—better than home?" Pixie paused, teapot in hand, to cast upon him a glance full of patriotic reproach, whereat he laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

"Isn't home the place where one settles down, and which feels to be most congenial?"

"You find America more congenial than England?"

He shrugged again, and the old gleam of laughter showed in his eyes.

"Now look here, isn't it bad luck to begin asking embarrassing questions straight away off? I hoped I was going to avoid this point! If you must have the truth—I do! America suits me!"—his smile was full of complacence—"I suit America. That's not by any means a sure thing. Many Englishmen throw up the sponge and return home. They can't adapt themselves, don't want to adapt themselves. In my case I had had no business experience in England, so I began with an open mind without prejudice, and—it went: I like the life, I like the people. I like the climate. The climate is answerable for a lot of the extra energy which you over here call 'restlessness.' You want to do just about twice as much beneath those skies!" He cast an impatient glance towards the window. "It's all so grey! ... I've had a headache straight on the last two days."

"Tea's ready now; it will do you good. There are hot scones in that dish," Pixie said quietly. The greyness of the street seemed to have entered the room—to have entered her heart. It was all grey. ... "We knew, of course, that you must like it, when you stayed so long."

Now there was something which was not grey. Stanor's face flushed a painful red; he looked at his cup, at the floor, in the fire, at anything but in Pixie's face. His voice was hard with repressed embarrassment.

"Er—just so; you would, of course! There was work on hand. I waited to see it through. When a man has spent two years in the same place so many claims arise, in social life as well as in work. It is difficult for him to break away at a moment's notice. He is hardly his own master."

"I'm sure it is. And when there was work you were quite right to stay on. It would have been wrong to have left it unfinished."

Stanor, looked up sharply, met clear, honest eyes, which looked back into his without a trace of sarcasm. She meant it! Voice and look alike were transparently genuine. At that moment she was essentially the Pixie of old, the Pixie to whom it came naturally to believe the best. The flush on Stanor's cheeks deepened as he realised the nature of the "work" which had made his excuse. His voice deepened with the first real note of intimacy.

"That's like you, Pixie! You always understood. ... And now tell me about yourself. What's happened to you since I heard last? Six months ago, was it? No! barely four. Didn't you write for Christmas? Been jogging along as usual at home, playing games with the babies?"

"Yes; just jogging," said Pixie. Then of a sudden her eyes flashed. "'Over here' we don't find the 'best of life' in a rush! It comes to some of us quite satisfactorily in a jog! 'I guess,' as you say, that my life as been as much 'worth while' as if I'd spent it in a round of pink luncheons and green teas, as your American friends seem to do."

The unexpected happened, and, instead of protesting, Stanor sighed, and looked of a sudden grave and depressed.

"You're right there, Pixie; that's so, if you are built the right way! But some of us—" He checked himself, and began afresh in a voice of enforced enthusiasm. "Well!—and then you came up here to nurse your brother, and found the Runkle already in possession. I was surprised to read about that in your letter at Liverpool. Odd, isn't it, how things come about? And how is the old fellow?"

Again Pixie's eyes sent out a flash. How was it that every fresh thing that Stanor said seemed to hurt her in a new place?

"Considering his great years and infirmities, the old fellow seems surprisingly well."

"Halloo, what's this?" Stanor stared in surprise. "Said the wrong thing, have I? What have I said? He seems old, you know, if he isn't actually so in years. I used to look upon him as a patriarch. Not so much his looks as his character. Such a sombre old beggar!"

"He wasn't sombre with us!"

Memory flashed back pictures of Stephen's face as he sat in the arm-chair by the fire, listening to those impromptu concerts which had enlivened Pat's convalescence. Pixie saw him as he leaned forward in his chair, waving his hand baton-like, heard his voice, joining lustily in the "Matches" chorus. In that very room—in the very chair in which Stanor now sat. ... What centuries seemed to have lolled by, between that day, and this!

"Wasn't he? That's good! I'm glad to hear that," Stanor said perfunctorily. "It takes time, of course, to get out of invalid ways. I shall have to be running down to see him one of these days."

"Oh, of course; he'll expect you. And then—then you'll begin your work over here. In London, I suppose?"

"I ... er ... the firm is in town. There—er—there will be a lot to arrange." Suddenly Stanor leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his eyes searching her face. "Pixie, this is an odd sort of conversation for our first meeting! ... We've got wrong somehow. ... Can't we get right? Why waste time on generalities. ... Are you glad to see me back, Pixie?"

"I am!" Pixie's eyes gazed back without a flicker. "When I got your letter I was—thankful! I think it was—time—you came back."

"Have you missed me, Pixie, while, I've been away?"

Now she hesitated, but her eyes remained steady and candid.

"It had been such a little time, you know; and you had never stayed with us at home. I could hardly miss you out of my life, but I ... thought of you!"

"Did you, Pixie? Did you, little Pixie? ... I wonder what you thought!"

Pixie did not answer that question. The answer would have been too long, too complicated. She smiled, a wistful little smile, and turned away her head.

Then Stanor rose. She heard him rise, heard the chink of the tea-things on the tray as he pressed upon it in rising, heard his footsteps passing round the table towards her chair, heard in a sickening silence his summoning voice—

"Pixie!"

"Stanor!"

They looked at each other;—white, strained, tense.

"Pixie, will you marry me?"

"Yes, Stanor, I will. If you want me..."



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

"WHAT HAVE I DONE?"

There was a moment's silence, a moment which seemed like an hour. Then Stanor spoke—

"Thank you, Pixie!"

He put his arms round her, made as if to kiss her cheek, but the small hands held him off with unexpected strength.

"Not yet! Not yet! You haven't answered my question!"

"What question?"

"If you want me?" The grey eyes were very near his own. They seemed to search into his very soul. "Do you want me, Stanor?"

"Pixie, what a question! You ... you know the answer."

"I think I do." She nodded her head with a grave certainty. "I'm sure I do. ... You don't want me, Stanor!"

He started at that, and his hands relaxed their hold. The dull red flush mounted once more to his forehead, his lips twitched, and twitched again. The man was suffering, and the marks of his pain were plain to read.

"Why ... should you say that? Pixie, what is it? I explained about that extra six months. ... You said you understood. It was part of the agreement that we were not to write except on occasions. Were my letters wrong? Didn't they please you? I was never a good hand at letter-writing. Was that it? What was it? What have I done, Pixie, to make you doubt me?"

"I don't think," said Pixie dreamily, "you have done anything." It seemed for a moment as if she had nothing more to say, then suddenly she asked another question: "Stanor! That day in Liverpool, on the landing-stage, did you notice a girl standing near me—a girl with a fur cap?"

"No, Pixie. I noticed only one girl—yourself!"

"She was parting from a man—her lover or husband—who was leaning over the rail and looking down at her. Stanor ... they ... cared! They loved each other. ... All these years I have had their faces in my heart. I looked at them, and I looked at you, and I understood the difference!"

"I was miserable enough, Pixie. All men do not show their feelings in the same way."

"I knew you were sorry. I was sorry, too. ... I'm not blaming you. I've no right to blame you. I have waited for you, and you've come back. You have asked me to marry you. Stanor!" She clasped his arms with her hands, her eyes intently gazing into his. "I'll tell you the truth about myself.—I was a child when you went away. I didn't know how to love. Now I do! If you love me, Stanor, with your whole heart and soul, more than any one in the world, more than anything in the world, then marry me, dear, and I'll make you happy! If you don't ... if there is any doubt in your mind, if there is some one else who has grown nearer to you while you've been away—I shouldn't be angry, Stanor, only," her voice shook, a quiver passed over the upturned face, "please tell me now! Be honest! It's for all our lives, remember. ... We've no right to spoil our lives. God gave them to us; we're responsible to Him. It will spoil them, Stanor, if there's not real, real love between us. Now tell me ... look in my eyes and tell me, Stanor ... do you want me?"

But he could not face her. He wrenched himself free of her grasp, turned towards the mantelpiece, and with a groan buried his face in his hands.

"Pixie, you ... you shame me ... you cover me with shame! I ought to have known that I could not deceive you. ... You are not the sort to be deceived. ... It's worse than you think. ... When the temptation came, I could have kept out of the way ... she wanted me to keep away, but I wouldn't do it. I followed her wherever she went—I—you'd better know the whole truth, and then you'll understand the kind of fellow I am. It's not my fault that I wasn't married months ago, that you didn't read it in the papers without a word of preparation! That's what I wanted ... what I proposed. It was she who refused. It is her doing that I am here to-day. She would have nothing to say to me till I had asked you first.—I wanted to stay on in America, settle down there, and keep out of the way—"

He had spoken with his face hidden; now, as he finished speaking, he remained in the same position, and not a sound came to his ears but the ticking of the clock in the corner. He might have been alone in the room; a miserable conviction seized him that he was alone, that between himself and the girl by his side there had arisen an impenetrable wall.

As for Pixie she had promised not to be angry, but it appeared to her at that moment that she had never before known what anger meant. It burned within her—a flame of indignation and wounded faith, a throwing back on herself of all the arduous mental battles of the last few days. Never, even to herself, had Pixie acknowledged that she had learned to love Stephen Glynn. That it hurt her to know of his love for her; hurt intolerably to see him depart, were truths which could not be ignored, but while Stanor lived and was faithful it was impossible even to contemplate love for another man. Pixie had enough knowledge of her own nature to realise that she could be happy in giving Stanor a happiness which he could only gain through her. It was as natural to her to be happy as for a flower to lift its face in the sun, but for both the sun was needed. A more introspective soul would have realised that there were degrees in happiness, and that she would be missing the best; Pixie with characteristic simplicity accepted what seemed to her the right step, and shut her mind against vain regrets.

But—Stanor did not want her. He was not faithful. He had had so little consideration for her feelings that he would have let her read of his marriage in a public print. He had appeared now only at the command of another.

"I think," said Pixie deeply, "you are a cowardly man. I am sorry for the girl you are going to marry. She seems to have a conscience, but it would have been kinder of her if she had made you tell me the truth without first trying to spoil my life. I suppose you would have married me if I had said 'yes,' or was it only a form which you never intended to keep?"

"You are hard on me, Pixie, but I deserve it. I have no excuses to make. My only comfort is that I have not ruined your happiness. Like you, I have learnt my lesson, and I can see one thing clearly: You don't love me, Pixie!"

"No, I don't love you, but I have kept myself for you. I have closed my heart to every other thought. I would have loved you if you had needed me. Nothing, nothing in the world could have made me deceive you!"

"I knew it! We both knew it! Honor said—"

"Honor!" Pixie's cry rang sharp. "Is it Honor? Honor Ward?" Somehow the knowledge seemed an additional hurt; she sat down on a chair and clasped her cold hands. The brain flashed back memories of occasions dating back to the very beginning of Stanor's life in America, when his name and Honor's had been coupled together. "Honor Ward and I." "Stanor Vaughan and I." ... Memories of an earlier occasion still when Honor had said with empressement. "You can trust me, Pixie!" Even then, had she foreseen what might happen—even then, with her knowledge of her own character and Stanor's, seen danger ahead? Well, Honor had been loyal! From Stanor's manner, even more than his words, it was obvious that had there been no impediment in the way as regards her own wishes, yet she had refused him, had sent him home to keep his troth. After that first sharp moment Pixie had no coldness in her heart towards Honor Ward.

Stanor was talking, moving restlessly to and fro, telling the story of the past years in jerky, disconnected sentences, blaming himself, exonerating Honor. The sound of his words penetrated to Pixie's brain, but not the sense. It seemed to her useless to listen; there was nothing more to be said.

Suddenly she rose from her seat with an air of decision.

"I think you had better go. Bridgie, my sister—Mrs Victor—is here. I would rather you didn't see her. She will be angry; they will all be angry. They are fond of me, you see; and they will think I have been humiliated. I am not humiliated! No one can humiliate me but myself; but just at first they won't be reasonable. ... Will you please go?"

"Pixie, don't think about me ... think of yourself! I will leave it to you to tell your own story.—I have asked you to marry me, and you have refused. ... Tell them that ... tell them that you refused, that it was your doing, not mine—"

The glance of the grey eyes gave him a hot tingling of shame.

"You don't understand," said Pixie softly. "I am proud of being the faithful one! You don't understand..." She laid her hand on the door, but Stanor stopped her with another question—

"And—Honor? What shall I say to Honor? She thinks so much of you. She'll do nothing without your consent. Some day when she comes to London ... will you ... see her, Pixie?"

Pixie shook her head.

"It would hurt us both, and do no good. Give her my love. As for you— I can't give her what is not mine. ... You belong to her, so there's nothing more to be said. ... I hope you will make her happy."

"I will—I will! At this moment I seem to you an unmitigated scoundrel, but things will be different. ... We shall settle in America. I will help her with her work. We'll work together. I'd give my life for her ... I will give it! I'll make amends..." He stood still, waiting as if there were still more to be said. "My uncle will be angry, but it is his doing. If it had not been for him, we should have been married years ago. He shouldn't blame me for what he has brought about. His is the blame. If I see him—when I see him—can I say anything from you?"

"Tell him," said Pixie clearly, "that I am grateful to him. His is the praise!"



CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

HONOR'S LETTER.

Bridgie was angry. It was rarely indeed that her placid nature was roused to wrath, but she did the thing thoroughly when she was about it. In a flow of eloquence, worthy of Esmeralda herself, she revived incidents in Pixie's life, dating from babyhood onwards, to prove to the chairs and tables, and any odd pieces of furniture which might happen to be listening, the blameless and beautiful character of the maid who had even been spurned ("spurned" was the word used) by a recreant unworthy the name of scoundrel. She dived into the past, and pictured the feelings of those past and gone; she projected herself into the future, and bequeathed a Corsican legacy of revenge. She lavished blame on Joan, Geoffrey, herself, Jack and Sylvia, Pat and Miles, even the beloved Dick himself, and refused to hear a word in Honor's defence. The only person who came unscathed through the ordeal was Stephen Glynn, whom, it would appear, had absorbed in himself the wisdom which every one else had so shamefully lacked.

When Bridgie ended Pat began. The news had had an unexpected effect, in rousing the invalid and restoring him to a feeling of health more powerfully than a hundred tonics could have done. For the first time for weeks past he forgot himself and his woes, and behold a new man, with a strength and vitality astounding to witness. Pat announced his intention of sallying forth and thrashing the beggar forthwith; he dealt bitterly with the squeamishness of the English law with regard to duels, declared in the same breath that he could never have believed in the possibility of such behaviour, and that he had prophesied it from the first. He adjured Pixie repeatedly, and with unction, to "Buck up!" and when the poor girl protested valiantly that she was bucking, immediately adjured her to be honest, for pity's sake, and "let herself go!"

An ordinary person would have found such a form of comfort far from soothing, but Pixie was an O'Shaughnessy herself, and it did soothe her. She understood that Bridgie and Pat were relieving themselves by saying all that they felt, more than they felt, and that presently the storm would pass and the sun shine again. By to-morrow all bitterness would have passed. She sat in her chair and submitted meekly to be lectured and cajoled, wrapped in a shawl, provided with a footstool, ordered to bed, supplied with smelling-salts, and even—tentatively— with sal-volatile, but she made no attempt to still the storm. She knew that it would be useless!

Finally Pat stumped off to his bedroom, to draft a rough copy of a letter intended to be the most scathing communication which had ever passed through the post; and Bridgie, very white and shaken, seated herself on a chair by her sister's side.

"Pixie, dear—I'm afraid we've not been helpful. ... I lost my head, but it was such a shock.—I flew into a passion without hearing what you had to say for yourself. ... Darling, tell me—tell me honestly—how do you feel?"

"I feel—" Pixie raised both hands, and moved them up and down above her shoulders, as though balancing a heavy load—"as though a great ton weight had been rolled off my shoulders. ... Bridgie! You are angry; I was angry too, but now I've had time to think. ... There have been two and a half years since he went away—that's about nine hundred days. ... Bridgie! If you only knew it—there's not been one day out of all that nine hundred when you hadn't more cause to pity me than you have to-day!—"

Suddenly, passionately, she burst into tears.

————————————————————————————————————

Two days later Bridgie Victor returned home. The need for chaperonage was over, and it was abundantly evident that Pixie was in no need of consolation. The first shock of disillusionment over, it was pre-eminently relief that she felt—relief from a bond which had weighed more and more heavily as time passed by. If Stanor had come home, looking his old self, caring for her, depending on her as he had done during the days of their brief engagement, she would have been ready and willing to give him her life, but it had been a strange man who had entered the sitting-room of the little flat, a man with a strange face, and a strange voice, and a heart that belonged to another girl. Pixie was free; the bonds which had bound her were loosed, and with each hour that passed her liberty became more sweet. She shared in her sister's relief that the understanding with Stanor had been known to no one outside the family, for no human girl enjoys being pitied for such an experience, and Pixie had her own full share of conceit. It was comforting to know that there would be no talk, no fuss; that she could go her way, free from the consciousness of watching eyes.

On the morning of Bridgie's departure two letters arrived by the first post, and were read in silence by their respective owners. Bridgie's was in a man's handwriting, and the perusal of its lines brought a flush to her cheeks and the glimmer of tears to her eyes. She put it in her pocket when she had finished reading, and remained densely oblivious of her sister's hints.

"What does he say?"

"Who?"

"Mr Glynn, of course. Don't pretend! I know his writing."

"He's very ... very—I don't know exactly what he is, Pixie. He is as we all were at first—upset!"

"What does he say?"

"Oh, er—er—the usual things. Sorry. Ashamed. It's so difficult for him, because, of course, in a certain sense it is his doing. ... Naturally, he feels—"

"What does he say?"

"Pixie, don't go on repeating that! It's stupid. I've told you! And there's a message for you. He thanks you for your message, (I didn't know you had sent one!) and says it was 'like you.' What did you say?"

But Pixie did not enlighten her.

"I think he ought to have written to me!" she said decisively. "After all, Bridgie, it is my business, not yours. I thought he would write."

Bridgie had the grace to blush.

"But just at first, dear, it is difficult.—He feels it so much. It's easier to a third person. Later on, in a few months' time, when things have settled down, he wants to come north to see us. It will be easier then..."

"Oh!" Pixie seemed of a sudden as eager to avoid the subject as she had been to continue it. She handed her own letter across the table with a short "From Honor! You may read it," and thereby protected herself against the scrutiny of Bridgie's eyes.

The sheet was covered with a large, straggling handwriting, and Pixie, reading it, had seemed to hear Honor's very voice speaking to her.

"My dear Patricia,—I guess you may not want to hear from me, but I'm bound to write, and maybe I can say a few things that will help us both. You're feeling pretty badly at the moment. But I want you just to realise that I've been feeling that way for a good year back, and to try to see both sides.

"It began, Patricia, through our both feeling lone and lorn and trying to comfort each other. You'll recollect you asked me to be good to him! Things went on all right for a spell, but before we knew where we were that friendship had got to be too important to us both. There wasn't a thought of disloyalty in it, Patricia, on his part or mine, and the very first time I had an inkling of what was happening I went off west for a tour of four months. I presume it was too late by that time, for when I went home (I was bound to go home!) matters didn't seem to have mended. After a while we had it out—it was bound to come some time—and I told Stanor straight he'd either got to make a clean breast of things to you or never see me again. Up till then, I guess, we'd behaved as well as any two youngsters could have been expected to do under the circumstances, but after that things went to pieces. He wouldn't tell, and he couldn't keep away! I'm not defending Stanor. He's shown up pretty badly over this business. He's been weak, and obstinate, and dishonourable. I don't delude myself a mite, but, you see, Pixie, I love him! It's the real thing with both of us this time, and that makes a mighty difference. I can see his faults and feel sorry about them, but it don't make me love him any the less; and if all my money were to pan out to-morrow he'd be sorry, but he'd love me just the same. So there it was, Pixie—and a wearing time I've had of it, fighting against his wishes—and my own! In the end I decided to join some friends and come over to Europe, and leave him to think things over by himself. Maybe I guessed he'd follow and be forced to meet you. It's difficult to understand one's own motives at these times. Anyway, before I knew where I was he'd taken a berth in the same boat, and—here we are!

"Stanor says you have grown-up, and look different. You are both different after these years apart, and, anyway, it was a mistake from the beginning, Patricia, and wouldn't have worked out. Now, we suit each other, and the life we are going to lead will bring out the best in us both! He seems to you pretty contemptible at this moment, but there's so many sides to one human creature, and that is only one side. He's got lots of others that are good and true—

"Yesterday I had an ordeal. I was introduced to the 'Runkle.' Why didn't I know he was like that? He was quite courteous—he couldn't be anything else. But his eyes, (what eyes!) made arches at me, as if to say, 'He prefers her!' and I felt frozen stiff. Now I shan't rest satisfied till that man's my friend, but it will take time—

"Pixie, we're going to be married quite soon—as soon as ever we can fix up the necessary formalities, spend a honeymoon in Switzerland, and get back to our work. I don't ask to see you—just at the moment it would do no good, but couldn't you just manage to send me a line to melt this stone in my heart? I'd be so happy if it wasn't there. But it won't melt till I hear from you, that you understand, and you forgive!

"Lovingly,—Honor."

Bridgie read and sighed, folded the sheet carefully, and sighed again.

"It's so difficult,"—she began.

"What is difficult?"

"To be as angry with people as you would like!" replied Bridgie unexpectedly. "You start by thinking that all the right is on your own side, and all the wrong on theirs, and that you're a martyr and they are brutes, and that your case is proven and there's not a word that could be said in their defence; and then of a sudden—" she lifted the letter in her hand—"you get this! And they have a side, and they are not brutes; and instead of being angry you have to be—you are forced into being—sorry instead! It does feel hard! I didn't want to be sorry for Honor Ward..."

"I'm not sorry for her," said Pixie softly, "I'm glad. She's going to be happy. ... Bridgie, dear, what can I send her, for a wedding present?"



CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

PIXIE FINDS HER HAPPINESS.

As soon as Pat had sufficiently recovered, he and Pixie travelled to Ireland to spend a few weeks in the old homestead, now blooming in fresh beauty under the management of Jack O'Shaughnessy and Sylvia his wife. The great hall which had been of old so bare and desolate was now embellished with Turkey carpets and tapestried walls: so far as the eye could reach there was not one shabby, nor broken, nor patched-up article; in sight; the damp and fusty odour which had filled the great drawing-room, and which for years had been associated with State apartments in Pixie's youthful mind, was a thing of the past. Even in the chilliest weather the room remained warm, for electric radiators, cunningly hidden from sight, dispelled the damp, and were kept turned on night and day, "whether they were needed, or whether they were not," to the delight and admiration of the Irish staff. For pure extravagance, for pure pagan delight in extravagance, the Irishman and woman are hard to beat. The very warmth and generosity of their nature makes it abhorrent to them to stint in any direction, which is one reason, out of many, for the prevailing poverty of the land.

Jack and Sylvia made delightful hosts, and it was a very happy and a very merry quartette which passed those spring days together in Knock Castle. They were complete in themselves, and any suggestion of "a party" was instantly vetoed by the visitors, who announced their desire to remain "just as we are."

Sylvia and Pixie rode or drove about the country, pulling up every half mile or so to chat with cottagers, who were all eager to see Miss Pixie, to invoke blessings on her head, and—begging her honour's pardon!—to sigh a sigh for the memory of the times that were no more.

On frequent occasions this same curious, and to English-bred Sylvia, inexplicable regret for the days of old was manifested by the dwellers on the country-side. "What did they want?" she asked herself impatiently. "What could they wish for that had not already been done?" Repaired cottages, improved sanitation, higher wages, perquisites without number—since the new reign all these things had been bestowed upon these ungratefuls, and still they dared to regret the past!

Sylvia had not yet grasped the fact that her birth and upbringing made a chasm between herself and her tenants which no kindness could span. They would burn her peat, waste her food, accept, and more or less waste again, all that she chose to bestow, but given a choice between the present days of plenty and the lean, bare years of the reign of the jovial "Major" and his brood, they would enthusiastically have acclaimed the latter's return.

Occasionally something of the same spirit would manifest itself in the O'Shaughnessys themselves, as when Jack's voice would take on an apologetic tone in telling his brother of some improvement in the estate, or Pixie gazing at the old Persian carpet in the dining-room would sigh regretfully, "There used to be a hole!" On such occasions Sylvia was sometimes forced to depart on a visit to the nursery and relieve her feelings by a stamp en route. When she returned Jack's twinkling eyes would search her face, and he would take an early opportunity of passing her chair and touching her with a caressing hand, and once more all would be peace and joy.

Jack and his wife heard from Pat's lips all details as to Stanor Vaughan and his approaching marriage, but to Pixie herself the subject was never mentioned.

"Anyway, she's not fretting!" said Jack. "Never saw her brighter and happier. Bless her big, little heart! I'm thankful the fellow has taken himself out of her way. She'd never have given him up of her own accord. We've all been so happy in our marriages that we can't stand any second-bests for Pixie! When are you going to settle down, old chap?"

"Oh, about next June year," replied Pat calmly. "Always said I would about twenty-eight. Nice time of year, too, for a honeymoon!"

"But ... but..." Jack stammered in surprise. "Have you met the girl?"

"My good man! Dozens! There's no difficulty there. Faith, I love them all!" sighed handsome Pat.

Well, it was a happy holiday, but there was no sadness when it came to an end, for Pat was ready and eager to get back to work, and Pixie to the northern town which meant Bridgie and home. Brother and sister parted with mutual protestations of gratitude and appreciation, and with several quite substantial castles in the air as regards future meetings, and within a few days both had settled down to the routine of ordinary life.

"Pixie is just the same. All this business has not altered her at all," Captain Victor said to his wife, and Bridgie smiled at him, the same sort of loving, indulgent smile which she bestowed on her small son when he guilelessly betrayed his ignorance.

She knew that Pixie had altered, felt the alteration every day of her life, in a subtle, indefinite manner which had escaped the masculine observation. There was a certain expression which in quiet moments had been wont to settle on the young face, an expression of repression and strain, which now appeared to have departed for good, a certain reserve in touching upon any subject connected with love and marriage, which was now replaced by eager interest and sympathy. Gradually, also, as the months rolled on there came moments when a very radiance of happiness shone out of the grey eyes, and trilled in the musical voice. The time of Stephen Glynn's visit was drawing near; another week, and he would actually arrive. What would be the result of that visit? Bridgie could not tell. In a matter so important she dared not take any definite role, but in her prayers that week she implored the Divine Father to send to the dearly loved little sister that which He in His wisdom knew to be best.

And then, as usual, Pixie did the unexpected thing. The sisters were sitting together at tea the day before Stephen was expected, when suddenly she looked across the room, and said as quietly and naturally as if she had been asking the time—

"Do ye think now, Bridgie, that he will ask me to marry him?"

Bridgie started. Up to her cheeks flew the red. It was she who was embarrassed, she who stammered and crumbled the hem of the tablecloth.

"My dear, I don't know! How should I? How can I possibly know?"

"I didn't ask you if you knew. I asked if you thought."

"I—don't know what to think. ... I know what he wants! But he is so sensitive, so humble about himself. He thinks he is too old, and ... and his lameness—he exaggerates things all round. From what he said to me in that letter—"

"That letter you wouldn't show me?"

"Yes. I couldn't, Pixie! It was in confidence, and besides, he said nothing definite. It was only inferred. It's just because he idealises you so much that he thinks he is not worthy. No one can tell what a man will do when it comes to the time, but what he means to do is evidently—to say nothing!"

"Oh!" said Pixie. She nibbled a fragment of cake for a thoughtful moment, and then said calmly—

"So now I know. Thank you, Bridgie. Please don't say any more!"

"No, darling, no, I won't; only please just one thing—it has puzzled me so much, and I have longed to know. ... There's never been any reserve between us—you have confided in me so openly all your life till just these last years. Why didn't you tell me you were unhappy about Stanor?"

"How could I, me dear, when I might be his wife? It wouldn't have been loyal. And it wasn't unhappiness exactly, only—a weight. I was trying to keep on loving him, and hating myself for finding it difficult, but I knew if he came back loving me, and wanting me to help him, the weight would go. But you see, he didn't!"

"Pixie, dear, one should not need to try. That sort of love ought to feel no strain."

"If Stanor had needed me, I should have married him," Pixie said obstinately, "but he didn't, and, me dear, excuse me! It's not the most agreeable subject. ... Let's talk of something else."

The next day Stephen Glynn arrived, and put up at an hotel. An agricultural show which was being held in the town made an excuse for his visit; it also made a vantage ground for daily excursions, and gave opportunities of securing tete-a-tete to those anxious to do so. Pixie was conscious that several such opportunities had in Stephen's case been of intent ignored and allowed to pass by, but never once did she doubt the motive which prompted such neglect. From the moment of their meeting the consciousness of his love had enveloped her. He might set a seal on his lips, but he could not control his eyes, and the wistfulness of that glance made Pixie brave.

Almost the first opportunity for undisturbed conversation came on the afternoon of the third day, when Stephen paid an unexpected call at the house to propose an expedition for the evening, and found Pixie alone.

She was sitting writing in the pretty, flower-decked room, where the French window opened wide to the garden beyond. It was only a mite of a garden, not big enough for even a tennis-court, but so much love and ingenuity had been lavished on its arrangement that it had an astonishing air of space. The flower-covered trellis at the end had an air of being there because it chose, and not in the least because it marked an arbitrary division of land. The one big tree made an oasis of shade, and had a low circular seat round its trunk, and the flowers bloomed in grateful recognition of favours bestowed.

There are points in which the small garden has a pull over the large. Its owner can, for instance, remember just how many blooms a special plant afforded last summer, and feel a glow of pride in the extra two of the present season; she can water them herself, tie up their drooping heads, snip off the dead flowers, know them, and love them in an intimate, personal way which is impossible in the large, professionally-run gardens. Bridgie's garden this summer afternoon made a very charming background for the figure of Pixie in her white dress, with the jaunty blue band round her waist, and a little knot to match fastening her muslin Peter Pan collar. She looked very young and fresh and dainty, and the wistful expression deepened on Stephen's face as he looked at her.

For the first few minutes conversation was difficult, for the consciousness of being alone seemed rather to close the way to personal subjects than to open it. Stephen was grave and distrait, Pixie embarrassed and nervous, but the real deep sympathy between them made it impossible that such an atmosphere should continue. Before ten minutes had passed Pixie's laugh had sounded with the characteristic gurgle which was the very embodiment of merriment, and Stephen was perforce laughing in response. He had never been able to resist Pixie's laugh. Tea was brought in, and the young hostess did the honours with a pretty hospitality. It was the first meal of which they had partaken a deux, and its homely intimacy brought back the wistful look into Stephen's eyes. Perhaps Pixie noticed it, perhaps a point had been reached when she felt it impossible to go on talking generalities; in any case, she laid down her cup, straightened herself in her chair with an air of preparing for something big and momentous, and announced clearly—

"I had a letter this morning from Honor Vaughan."

Stephen Glynn started, and his face hardened. The subject was evidently unwelcome to the point of pain.

"She writes to you?"

"I write to her! Of course she answers. I was always fond of Honor."

"Possibly. Before her marriage. As Stanor's wife, however—"

Pixie bent forward, looking him full in the face.

"I have no quarrel with Stanor's wife. I was angry with him. There was something in me which he hurt very much.—I think," she slightly shrugged her shoulder, and a flicker of a smile passed over her face, and was gone, "'twas my pride! It hurt to think he had been forced to come back. If he'd trusted me and told the truth it would have saved suffering for us—all! At the time I felt I could never forgive him, but that passed. I don't say I can ever think of him as I did before, as quite honest and true, but—" The smile flashed back. "Can you go on being angry, yourself?"

"I—don't think," said Stephen slowly, "that 'angry' is the right word. I'm disappointed—disappointed with a bitterness which has its root in ten long years of hope and effort. Practically I have lived my life through that boy. My great object and desire was to secure for him all that I had missed. I had made no definite promises, it seemed wiser not, but in effect he was my heir, and all I have would have gone to him. Now that's over! The future has been taken from me, as well as the past. America has absorbed him. He has already, through his wife, more money than he can use, and the role of an English country gentleman has lost its attractions for him. There was a time in my first outburst of indignation when I should have felt it a relief to have had some power of retaliation, but, as you say, that passed. ... He was the only person whom I could in any sense claim as my own, and—I've lost him! He is independent of me now. I can do no more for him." The dark eyes were full of pain. "That is, after all, the thing that hurts the most. The lad has faults, but I loved him. I lived through him; now I can do no more, and our lives fall apart. There's a big blank!"

Pixie did not answer. Her face was very pale; in her ears was a loud thudding noise, which seemed mysteriously to be inside her own breast.

"As for his wife, she may be a good girl—she appears to have behaved in an honourable fashion—but to me it's a new type, and I can't pretend that I'm not prejudiced. There is only one thing that is satisfactory. The boy is honestly in love, even to the extent of abandoning his career to assist in the management of a pickle factory."

There was an inflection in the tone in which these last words were pronounced which brought Pixie's eyes upon him in reproach.

"They are very good pickles! I can't see that making them is any less dignified than 'bulling' and 'bearing' cotton—whatever that may mean!— Stanor used to write of it in his letters. Honor's father loved his workmen, and made her promise to go on looking after them as he had done. She doesn't need any more money; it would be easier for her to retire and hand over the factory to some one else. It's for the men's sake that she keeps it on, and to keep her promise to her father. Mr Glynn, you must love Honor. She's good, and true, and honourable, and she's—Stanor's wife!"

"How could he? How could he?" Stephen rose impetuously, and began pacing up and down, a rare excitement growing in voice and manner. "When he could have had You! ... Good? Yes! She may be good—I'm not denying the girl's good points. She has behaved well. She has her attractions—Stanor evidently thinks her beautiful—but—he might have had You! ... He has chosen this girl with her ordinary attractions, instead of your sweetness, your sunshine, your generosity, your kindness! Your voice, Pixie; your eyes ... Your love! He was so blind ... so deaf. ... The substance was his, and for a shadow—a poor, faint shadow—"

Pixie had risen in her turn. Red as a rose she stood before him, with shrinking eyes, but hands held out in sweet, courageous invitation.

"If ye think so much of me as all that," said the deep voice breathlessly, "wouldn't ye like me for yourself?"

————————————————————————————————————

Ten minutes later the miracle, the wonder, was as marvellous as ever: as incredible to the man whose life was suddenly irradiated with sunshine.

"Pixie! Pixie!" he cried. "My youth! ... Will you give it back to me, sweetheart—the youth that I lost?"

"Beloved!" said Pixie, and her voice was as the swell of a deep organ note. "It was not lost. It's been waiting for you—" she touched her heart with an eloquent gesture—"here!"

THE END.