Chapter Twenty Five.

Chapter Twenty Five.Trouble at Knock.The Major was lying on the bank of the stream, white and motionless, while Black Bess was pawing the air in agony a few yards away. Esmeralda slipped from her saddle and ran to his side, and he opened his eyes and smiled at her feebly.“Joan, my girl! That’s right. My—own—fault! I had no business to try it, but I was—mad, I think. That poor beast!” and he turned away his head, unable to look upon the animal’s struggles. “I can’t move. Get a cart—O’Brien’s farm.”“I’ll go! I can see the chimneys. I’ll bring help at once. I’ll bring back men with me, and we’ll lift him with less pain.”Hilliard dashed off in the direction of the farm, and Joan knelt down and lifted her father’s head on to her knee. He tried to smile encouragement into the ashen face.“It might have been worse, dear! She threw me clear of the water, and I’ve no pain. I shall be all right when I get home, and have a rest.”“Yes, darling, yes. Of course you will,” answered Esmeralda bravely. Accidents in the hunting-field were unfortunately no new thing to her, and her heart died within her as she looked at the helpless limbs, and heard her father’s words. Over and over again had she heard old huntsmen marvel at the unconsciousness of those who were most mortally injured. Absence of pain, combined with loss of power in the limbs, meant serious injury to the spine, yet it seemed as if, with the comparative comfort of the body, there must be a dulling of the mental powers, since the victim frequently congratulated himself on his escape, and seemed to forget the experiences of others!As Esmeralda sat holding her father’s head on her knee, the future stretched before her, transformed by the accident of a moment. The Major would never again ride by her side, never again mount his horse and gallop over the wide green land; while he lived he must lie even as he lay now, still and straight, a child in the hands of his nurses! Poor father! oh, poor, poor father! what a death in life, to one of his restless nature! what grief, what agony to see his sufferings! The spring would come, and the summer, and the autumn, but there would be no sunshine at Knock Castle, nothing but clouds and darkness, and dull, settled gloom. Esmeralda had been her father’s darling, and had returned his love with all the fervour of a passionate Irish heart, so that the sight of him in his helplessness hurt like a physical pain, and the moments seemed endless until Hilliard returned accompanied by the farmer and three of his men.An hour later the Major was carried upstairs to his own room in the Castle, and laid gently upon the old four-poster bed. Hilliard had ridden on in advance to prepare the young mistress, and there she stood at the doorway, white to the lips, but smiling still, a smile of almost motherly tenderness as she bent over the prostrate form.“More trouble to ye, Bridgie!” murmured the Major faintly. “A little rest—that’s all I need; but that poor beast! Tell Dennis to go and put her out of her misery.” He shut his eyes and remained silent until the doctor arrived, galloping up to the door on Hilliard’s horse, which he had lent to save time, and tearing up the staircase to the sick-room with the unprofessional speed of an old and devoted friend.The examination was soon over, and fortunately the patient asked no questions; he was tired and inclined for sleep, unperturbed on his own account, but greatly distressed for the noble animal for whose agony he held himself responsible. He was soothed by the assurance that everything possible should be done to cure, or, if that were impossible, to end its sufferings, and was then left to rest while the doctor returned to the morning-room to face the sisters with what courage he might. Bridgie lay back in a deep, old-fashioned chair, a slight, almost childlike figure, her hands clasped in her lap, her shoulders bowed as by too heavy a burden—the burden of all those five motherless,—it might soon be fatherless?—children. Esmeralda, straight and defiant by the fireplace, her stormy eyes challenging his face.“I—I—there is very little to say!” The doctor passed his hands helplessly through his grey locks and wished himself at the other end of the county. “I didn’t want to fatigue him to-day, but to-morrow we can have a better examination. Perhaps Trevor would come over in consultation. He seems quite easy—quite easy and comfortable. I think he will sleep. You must keep up your hearts, and not let him think you are anxious. A great thing to keep up the spirits!”“Why do you talk like that? Why do you try to deceive us? My father will never get better. You know perfectly well that it is hopeless!” Esmeralda’s voice sounded clear and cold as falling water; her lips did not tremble, she looked the doctor full in the face with hard, defiant eyes. “I have seen other accidents before this, and know what it means. It is useless to pretend. He has no pain because his spine is too much injured. If he suffered, there might be some hope; as it is, there is none. He will lie there days, weeks, months, whichever it may be, but he will never move out of that room. He is dead already, my father, the father I love, and it will be cruel and wicked of you if you try to keep him alive!”“Joan, Joan! Oh, darling, don’t! Think what you are saying!”Tender-hearted Bridgie burst into tears, but Esmeralda would not be restrained. She turned to her sister ablaze with righteous anger.“What! You too? Would you keep him here, existing—merely existing—not able to do anything—he who has been so active all his life! It’s cruel, I tell you—cruel and selfish! You ought not even to wish such a thing!”“My child, the issues of life and death are not in our hands!” The voice of the old man sounded solemn and deep after the girl’s heated accents, and she caught her breath as she listened. “It is not for you to decide what is best. If your father lingers in helplessness, it will be for some wise purpose, and you will see that it will be less trying than you expect. Nature herself will work in his favour, for, when paralysis comes, on the brain is mercifully deadened against the worst. He will not suffer, and in all probability he will be patient and resigned. Is not that something for which to be thankful?”Bridgie covered her face with a low, heart-broken cry, for the doctor’s silent assent to Esmeralda’s verdict—the undisguised conviction that the case was hopeless—came to her with a shock of surprise before which her courage wavered.“Mother dead—father dead! All those children alone in the world, and no money for them, and only me—only me—” Her heart swelled with a great wave of protecting love; she held out her arms and cried brokenly, “Esmeralda, come—come to me. Darling, if we are to be alone, we must help each other, we must love each other more! Oh, Esmeralda, be brave, for I am frightened—I can’t do everything alone!” And at that Esmeralda gave a great cry and rushed across the room, and the old doctor groped his way downstairs, leaving the sisters sobbing in each other’s arms.

The Major was lying on the bank of the stream, white and motionless, while Black Bess was pawing the air in agony a few yards away. Esmeralda slipped from her saddle and ran to his side, and he opened his eyes and smiled at her feebly.

“Joan, my girl! That’s right. My—own—fault! I had no business to try it, but I was—mad, I think. That poor beast!” and he turned away his head, unable to look upon the animal’s struggles. “I can’t move. Get a cart—O’Brien’s farm.”

“I’ll go! I can see the chimneys. I’ll bring help at once. I’ll bring back men with me, and we’ll lift him with less pain.”

Hilliard dashed off in the direction of the farm, and Joan knelt down and lifted her father’s head on to her knee. He tried to smile encouragement into the ashen face.

“It might have been worse, dear! She threw me clear of the water, and I’ve no pain. I shall be all right when I get home, and have a rest.”

“Yes, darling, yes. Of course you will,” answered Esmeralda bravely. Accidents in the hunting-field were unfortunately no new thing to her, and her heart died within her as she looked at the helpless limbs, and heard her father’s words. Over and over again had she heard old huntsmen marvel at the unconsciousness of those who were most mortally injured. Absence of pain, combined with loss of power in the limbs, meant serious injury to the spine, yet it seemed as if, with the comparative comfort of the body, there must be a dulling of the mental powers, since the victim frequently congratulated himself on his escape, and seemed to forget the experiences of others!

As Esmeralda sat holding her father’s head on her knee, the future stretched before her, transformed by the accident of a moment. The Major would never again ride by her side, never again mount his horse and gallop over the wide green land; while he lived he must lie even as he lay now, still and straight, a child in the hands of his nurses! Poor father! oh, poor, poor father! what a death in life, to one of his restless nature! what grief, what agony to see his sufferings! The spring would come, and the summer, and the autumn, but there would be no sunshine at Knock Castle, nothing but clouds and darkness, and dull, settled gloom. Esmeralda had been her father’s darling, and had returned his love with all the fervour of a passionate Irish heart, so that the sight of him in his helplessness hurt like a physical pain, and the moments seemed endless until Hilliard returned accompanied by the farmer and three of his men.

An hour later the Major was carried upstairs to his own room in the Castle, and laid gently upon the old four-poster bed. Hilliard had ridden on in advance to prepare the young mistress, and there she stood at the doorway, white to the lips, but smiling still, a smile of almost motherly tenderness as she bent over the prostrate form.

“More trouble to ye, Bridgie!” murmured the Major faintly. “A little rest—that’s all I need; but that poor beast! Tell Dennis to go and put her out of her misery.” He shut his eyes and remained silent until the doctor arrived, galloping up to the door on Hilliard’s horse, which he had lent to save time, and tearing up the staircase to the sick-room with the unprofessional speed of an old and devoted friend.

The examination was soon over, and fortunately the patient asked no questions; he was tired and inclined for sleep, unperturbed on his own account, but greatly distressed for the noble animal for whose agony he held himself responsible. He was soothed by the assurance that everything possible should be done to cure, or, if that were impossible, to end its sufferings, and was then left to rest while the doctor returned to the morning-room to face the sisters with what courage he might. Bridgie lay back in a deep, old-fashioned chair, a slight, almost childlike figure, her hands clasped in her lap, her shoulders bowed as by too heavy a burden—the burden of all those five motherless,—it might soon be fatherless?—children. Esmeralda, straight and defiant by the fireplace, her stormy eyes challenging his face.

“I—I—there is very little to say!” The doctor passed his hands helplessly through his grey locks and wished himself at the other end of the county. “I didn’t want to fatigue him to-day, but to-morrow we can have a better examination. Perhaps Trevor would come over in consultation. He seems quite easy—quite easy and comfortable. I think he will sleep. You must keep up your hearts, and not let him think you are anxious. A great thing to keep up the spirits!”

“Why do you talk like that? Why do you try to deceive us? My father will never get better. You know perfectly well that it is hopeless!” Esmeralda’s voice sounded clear and cold as falling water; her lips did not tremble, she looked the doctor full in the face with hard, defiant eyes. “I have seen other accidents before this, and know what it means. It is useless to pretend. He has no pain because his spine is too much injured. If he suffered, there might be some hope; as it is, there is none. He will lie there days, weeks, months, whichever it may be, but he will never move out of that room. He is dead already, my father, the father I love, and it will be cruel and wicked of you if you try to keep him alive!”

“Joan, Joan! Oh, darling, don’t! Think what you are saying!”

Tender-hearted Bridgie burst into tears, but Esmeralda would not be restrained. She turned to her sister ablaze with righteous anger.

“What! You too? Would you keep him here, existing—merely existing—not able to do anything—he who has been so active all his life! It’s cruel, I tell you—cruel and selfish! You ought not even to wish such a thing!”

“My child, the issues of life and death are not in our hands!” The voice of the old man sounded solemn and deep after the girl’s heated accents, and she caught her breath as she listened. “It is not for you to decide what is best. If your father lingers in helplessness, it will be for some wise purpose, and you will see that it will be less trying than you expect. Nature herself will work in his favour, for, when paralysis comes, on the brain is mercifully deadened against the worst. He will not suffer, and in all probability he will be patient and resigned. Is not that something for which to be thankful?”

Bridgie covered her face with a low, heart-broken cry, for the doctor’s silent assent to Esmeralda’s verdict—the undisguised conviction that the case was hopeless—came to her with a shock of surprise before which her courage wavered.

“Mother dead—father dead! All those children alone in the world, and no money for them, and only me—only me—” Her heart swelled with a great wave of protecting love; she held out her arms and cried brokenly, “Esmeralda, come—come to me. Darling, if we are to be alone, we must help each other, we must love each other more! Oh, Esmeralda, be brave, for I am frightened—I can’t do everything alone!” And at that Esmeralda gave a great cry and rushed across the room, and the old doctor groped his way downstairs, leaving the sisters sobbing in each other’s arms.

Chapter Twenty Six.The Sentence.That afternoon and the next day passed away like a nightmare, and still the Major lay in the same helpless calm. Mr Hilliard had gone over to Dublin on his own responsibility, and had come back late at night, bringing with him a trained nurse, at the sight of whom Bridgie shed tears of thankfulness; but during the daytime the sisters took it in turns to watch by the bedside, while Mademoiselle seemed to act the part of guardian angel to the whole household in turns. She soothed the excited servants and roused them to a sense of their duty. She cooked dainty little dishes for the nurses, and ministered to them when they were off duty. She interviewed callers, and, last and best of all, took Pixie in hand, and kept her interested and content. It was the strong wish of her brothers and sisters that Pixie should not suspect the dangerous nature of her father’s illness, for they knew her excitable nature, and trembled for the effect on the invalid of one of her passionate bursts of lamentation.“Besides, what’s the use? Let her be happy as long as she can! I want her to be happy!” cried Bridgie pathetically; and Mademoiselle assented, knowing full well that the very effort of keeping up before the child would be good for the rest of the household. There was no preventing one interview, however, for the Major was as much set on seeing his piccaninny as she was determined to see him; so on the evening of the second day Bridgie led her cautiously into the room, and the sick man moved his eyes—the only part of him that seemed able to move—and looked wistfully into the eager face.“Well, my Pixie, I’ve been getting into trouble, you see!”“Does it hurt ye, father? Have you got a pain?”“Never a bit, Pixie. I’m just numb. I feel as if I can’t move!”“I’ve felt the same meself. Many times! I feel it every morning at school when the gong rings and I’m made to get up. It’s the same as being lazy.”The Major smiled for the first time since his return home. He never could resist Pixie’s quaint speeches, and Bridgie watched with delight his brightening glance.“Is it, piccaninny? That doesn’t sound very serious. You’ll have to tell the doctor to be stern with me. What have you been doing with yourself all day?”“Fretting for you, but Mademoiselle’s going to play games with me, and I’ll enjoy them now that you’re comfortable. You’ve got on the very best pillow-cases, father. You do look smart! Are you tired now? Do you want to go to sleep? Will I sing to you awhile, the hymn you liked so much at church last Sunday?”Bridgie looked dismayed at the suggestion, but it appeared that Pixie knew best what would please her father, for once more his face brightened, and the eyes flashed an assent. On Sunday evenings in winter, when the long dark walk made it difficult to get to church, the O’Shaughnessys had been accustomed to sing hymns together, not in the drawling, slipshod method in which such singing is too often done, but with at least as much care and finish as they would have bestowed on secular music, the different parts being accurately represented, and due attention given to time and expression. In this way delightful hours had been spent, and many beautiful hymns imprinted on the memory, so that in this instance Pixie had no need to consult a book. She merely leant against the bed-post, clasped her hands together, and, opening her lips, began at once to sing, with clear, full-throated sweetness—“‘Come unto Me, ye weary,And I will give you rest!’”The beautiful old words seemed to take upon themselves an added significance in the shaded room, with the motionless figure lying upon the bed. The Major shut his eyes, and Bridgie turned aside with quivering face, but the flute-like voice went on without a tremor—“‘Come unto Me, ye fainting,And I will give you life!’O cheering voice of Jesus,Which comes to end our strife.The foe is stern and eager,The fight is fierce and long,But He has made us mighty,And stronger than the strong.”There was a slight quickening of time in the last two lines, a clearer, stronger tone, as the singer’s emotional nature caught the triumph in the words, but the last verse was soft as an echo.“‘And whosoever comethI will not cast him out.’O welcome voice of Jesus,Which drives away our doubt;Which calls us very sinners,Unworthy though we beOf love so free and boundless,To come, dear Lord, to Thee!”The Major’s face was in shadow, but Bridgie saw the big tears rolling down his cheeks, and hurried the little sister from the room.“You sang beautifully, darling. It was sweet of you to think of it, but now we must let him be quiet. I think perhaps he will go to sleep.”“Yes, he says he feels lazy! The Major was always fond of his bed!” cried Pixie, skipping blithely down the staircase; but when Bridgie went back to the sick-room her father’s eyes were fixed eagerly on the doorway, and he said in urgent tones—“Bride, I’m wanting to see O’Brien! Send down for him at once, and when he arrives, let him come up alone. I want to have a talk!”Bridgie obeyed, in fear and trembling. Had something in the sweet though solemn words of the hymn arrested the sick man’s attention and given him a conviction of his own danger? She sent the faithful Dennis in search of the doctor, and in less than an hour’s time the two old friends were once more face to face.“O’Brien,” said the Major clearly, “I want you to answer me a question before I sleep. Shall I ever hunt again?” And at this the doctor heaved a sigh of relief, for he had feared a more direct inquiry, and consequently one more difficult to answer.“Not this season, my boy; you must make up your mind to that. A spill like yours takes a little time to recover. You must be easy, and make yourself happy at home.”“O’Brien, shall I ever hunt again?”The doctor put his hand to his head in miserable embarrassment. He had known handsome Jack O’Shaughnessy since he was a boy in knickerbockers. It was more than he could stand to look him in the face and give him his death-warrant.“Now—now—now,” he cried impatiently, “it isn’t like you, Major, to be worrying your head about what is going to happen next year! Keep still, and be thankful you’ve a comfortable bed to lie on and two of the prettiest daughters in Ireland to wait upon you! When next season comes it will answer for itself, but I’m not a prophet—I can’t foretell the future.”The Major looked in his face with bright, steady eyes.“You foolish fellow!” he cried. “You foolish fellow! You were always a bad hand at deception, and you are no cleverer than usual this evening. What are you afraid of, man? I’m not a coward! If my time’s come, I can face it calmly. Back injured, eh? That’s why I felt no pain, but it’s difficult to realise that an injury is hopeless, when one is so comparatively comfortable. How long will it be?”He was perfectly calm, but the doctor was trembling with emotion, and his voice was rough with tears.“I can’t say. You are very ill, old man—I won’t deceive you—but while there is life there is hope. We are going to have a man from Dublin; we will try every means, and you must help us by keeping up your heart. One never knows what changes may take place.” But the Major only looked at him the more steadily and repeated his question.“How long will it be? I ought to know, so that I may do what I can for the children. I haven’t been the best of fathers to them, and the estate is in a rare muddle. And Jack! What about Jack? I’d like to see him again, but if it’s not imminent, I won’t bring him back just yet. The boy is doing well, but he is not his own master, and has just had a holiday. I must be unselfish in my last days, but you must promise, doctor, not to let me go without seeing Jack!”“My dear fellow, it’s not a question of days! At the worst it will be weeks, possibly months. My own opinion is two or three months, but we shall know better after Barrett has been down. I wish you had not asked me. It’s the hardest work I’ve ever had to do, to tell you this; but for the children’s sake—If there is anything to be done, you ought not to waste time!”“I understand!” said the Major quietly, then suddenly a light flashed across his face, and his eyes sparkled as with joy. “I shall die at Knock!” he cried. “I shall not have to turn out after all! It was that that drove me mad, O’Brien—the thought of leaving the old place where I was born, and all my people before me! I had bad news from the bank, and it seemed as if the end had come at last, and all the time I was riding I was feeling desperate—driven into a corner. The poor beast tried to save me, she knew the jump was too much for her, but I was too reckless to care. I felt that I could face death sooner than leave the old place, and now it has come to that after all. I shall die at Knock! Thank God for that! Go downstairs, O’Brien, and tell the girls that I know the truth, and am quite happy. You needn’t mind leaving me. I shall sleep now!”

That afternoon and the next day passed away like a nightmare, and still the Major lay in the same helpless calm. Mr Hilliard had gone over to Dublin on his own responsibility, and had come back late at night, bringing with him a trained nurse, at the sight of whom Bridgie shed tears of thankfulness; but during the daytime the sisters took it in turns to watch by the bedside, while Mademoiselle seemed to act the part of guardian angel to the whole household in turns. She soothed the excited servants and roused them to a sense of their duty. She cooked dainty little dishes for the nurses, and ministered to them when they were off duty. She interviewed callers, and, last and best of all, took Pixie in hand, and kept her interested and content. It was the strong wish of her brothers and sisters that Pixie should not suspect the dangerous nature of her father’s illness, for they knew her excitable nature, and trembled for the effect on the invalid of one of her passionate bursts of lamentation.

“Besides, what’s the use? Let her be happy as long as she can! I want her to be happy!” cried Bridgie pathetically; and Mademoiselle assented, knowing full well that the very effort of keeping up before the child would be good for the rest of the household. There was no preventing one interview, however, for the Major was as much set on seeing his piccaninny as she was determined to see him; so on the evening of the second day Bridgie led her cautiously into the room, and the sick man moved his eyes—the only part of him that seemed able to move—and looked wistfully into the eager face.

“Well, my Pixie, I’ve been getting into trouble, you see!”

“Does it hurt ye, father? Have you got a pain?”

“Never a bit, Pixie. I’m just numb. I feel as if I can’t move!”

“I’ve felt the same meself. Many times! I feel it every morning at school when the gong rings and I’m made to get up. It’s the same as being lazy.”

The Major smiled for the first time since his return home. He never could resist Pixie’s quaint speeches, and Bridgie watched with delight his brightening glance.

“Is it, piccaninny? That doesn’t sound very serious. You’ll have to tell the doctor to be stern with me. What have you been doing with yourself all day?”

“Fretting for you, but Mademoiselle’s going to play games with me, and I’ll enjoy them now that you’re comfortable. You’ve got on the very best pillow-cases, father. You do look smart! Are you tired now? Do you want to go to sleep? Will I sing to you awhile, the hymn you liked so much at church last Sunday?”

Bridgie looked dismayed at the suggestion, but it appeared that Pixie knew best what would please her father, for once more his face brightened, and the eyes flashed an assent. On Sunday evenings in winter, when the long dark walk made it difficult to get to church, the O’Shaughnessys had been accustomed to sing hymns together, not in the drawling, slipshod method in which such singing is too often done, but with at least as much care and finish as they would have bestowed on secular music, the different parts being accurately represented, and due attention given to time and expression. In this way delightful hours had been spent, and many beautiful hymns imprinted on the memory, so that in this instance Pixie had no need to consult a book. She merely leant against the bed-post, clasped her hands together, and, opening her lips, began at once to sing, with clear, full-throated sweetness—

“‘Come unto Me, ye weary,And I will give you rest!’”

“‘Come unto Me, ye weary,And I will give you rest!’”

The beautiful old words seemed to take upon themselves an added significance in the shaded room, with the motionless figure lying upon the bed. The Major shut his eyes, and Bridgie turned aside with quivering face, but the flute-like voice went on without a tremor—

“‘Come unto Me, ye fainting,And I will give you life!’O cheering voice of Jesus,Which comes to end our strife.The foe is stern and eager,The fight is fierce and long,But He has made us mighty,And stronger than the strong.”

“‘Come unto Me, ye fainting,And I will give you life!’O cheering voice of Jesus,Which comes to end our strife.The foe is stern and eager,The fight is fierce and long,But He has made us mighty,And stronger than the strong.”

There was a slight quickening of time in the last two lines, a clearer, stronger tone, as the singer’s emotional nature caught the triumph in the words, but the last verse was soft as an echo.

“‘And whosoever comethI will not cast him out.’O welcome voice of Jesus,Which drives away our doubt;Which calls us very sinners,Unworthy though we beOf love so free and boundless,To come, dear Lord, to Thee!”

“‘And whosoever comethI will not cast him out.’O welcome voice of Jesus,Which drives away our doubt;Which calls us very sinners,Unworthy though we beOf love so free and boundless,To come, dear Lord, to Thee!”

The Major’s face was in shadow, but Bridgie saw the big tears rolling down his cheeks, and hurried the little sister from the room.

“You sang beautifully, darling. It was sweet of you to think of it, but now we must let him be quiet. I think perhaps he will go to sleep.”

“Yes, he says he feels lazy! The Major was always fond of his bed!” cried Pixie, skipping blithely down the staircase; but when Bridgie went back to the sick-room her father’s eyes were fixed eagerly on the doorway, and he said in urgent tones—

“Bride, I’m wanting to see O’Brien! Send down for him at once, and when he arrives, let him come up alone. I want to have a talk!”

Bridgie obeyed, in fear and trembling. Had something in the sweet though solemn words of the hymn arrested the sick man’s attention and given him a conviction of his own danger? She sent the faithful Dennis in search of the doctor, and in less than an hour’s time the two old friends were once more face to face.

“O’Brien,” said the Major clearly, “I want you to answer me a question before I sleep. Shall I ever hunt again?” And at this the doctor heaved a sigh of relief, for he had feared a more direct inquiry, and consequently one more difficult to answer.

“Not this season, my boy; you must make up your mind to that. A spill like yours takes a little time to recover. You must be easy, and make yourself happy at home.”

“O’Brien, shall I ever hunt again?”

The doctor put his hand to his head in miserable embarrassment. He had known handsome Jack O’Shaughnessy since he was a boy in knickerbockers. It was more than he could stand to look him in the face and give him his death-warrant.

“Now—now—now,” he cried impatiently, “it isn’t like you, Major, to be worrying your head about what is going to happen next year! Keep still, and be thankful you’ve a comfortable bed to lie on and two of the prettiest daughters in Ireland to wait upon you! When next season comes it will answer for itself, but I’m not a prophet—I can’t foretell the future.”

The Major looked in his face with bright, steady eyes.

“You foolish fellow!” he cried. “You foolish fellow! You were always a bad hand at deception, and you are no cleverer than usual this evening. What are you afraid of, man? I’m not a coward! If my time’s come, I can face it calmly. Back injured, eh? That’s why I felt no pain, but it’s difficult to realise that an injury is hopeless, when one is so comparatively comfortable. How long will it be?”

He was perfectly calm, but the doctor was trembling with emotion, and his voice was rough with tears.

“I can’t say. You are very ill, old man—I won’t deceive you—but while there is life there is hope. We are going to have a man from Dublin; we will try every means, and you must help us by keeping up your heart. One never knows what changes may take place.” But the Major only looked at him the more steadily and repeated his question.

“How long will it be? I ought to know, so that I may do what I can for the children. I haven’t been the best of fathers to them, and the estate is in a rare muddle. And Jack! What about Jack? I’d like to see him again, but if it’s not imminent, I won’t bring him back just yet. The boy is doing well, but he is not his own master, and has just had a holiday. I must be unselfish in my last days, but you must promise, doctor, not to let me go without seeing Jack!”

“My dear fellow, it’s not a question of days! At the worst it will be weeks, possibly months. My own opinion is two or three months, but we shall know better after Barrett has been down. I wish you had not asked me. It’s the hardest work I’ve ever had to do, to tell you this; but for the children’s sake—If there is anything to be done, you ought not to waste time!”

“I understand!” said the Major quietly, then suddenly a light flashed across his face, and his eyes sparkled as with joy. “I shall die at Knock!” he cried. “I shall not have to turn out after all! It was that that drove me mad, O’Brien—the thought of leaving the old place where I was born, and all my people before me! I had bad news from the bank, and it seemed as if the end had come at last, and all the time I was riding I was feeling desperate—driven into a corner. The poor beast tried to save me, she knew the jump was too much for her, but I was too reckless to care. I felt that I could face death sooner than leave the old place, and now it has come to that after all. I shall die at Knock! Thank God for that! Go downstairs, O’Brien, and tell the girls that I know the truth, and am quite happy. You needn’t mind leaving me. I shall sleep now!”

Chapter Twenty Seven.Esmeralda’s Solace.The Dublin specialist came down in due course, and entirely agreed with Dr O’Brien’s diagnosis. There was no chance of the Major’s recovery, and though there was no immediate danger, it was not likely that life would be prolonged for more than two or three months at most. He would not suffer physically nor mentally, for the brain power would become more and more dulled, so that he would hardly realise his condition.The thought of watching him die by inches, as it were, was an even harder trial to Esmeralda’s impetuous nature than the shock of a sudden death, but Bridgie was thankful for every day as it came, for every opportunity of ministering to his needs. And he was so sweet, so gentle; all his former indifference and selfishness had fallen from him like a cloak, and his one thought was for his children, his one anxiety on their behalf. When Bridgie saw how devoted he was to his piccaninny, and how she could always succeed in raising a smile, she proposed that the child should not return to school for the next term at least; but the Major would not listen to the suggestion.“No, no! I promised Molly that she should have her chance, and I won’t have her distressed. If she stayed on she would find out—and she would cry, and I never could endure to see her cry. It would be delightful to have her, but it will count for one real unselfish thing I’ve done in my life if I do without her for these last weeks.”So it was arranged that Pixie should return at the proper date, and Mademoiselle sat in the morning-room stitching away at the pile of shabby little garments, mending, and darning, putting in “elegant” little patches at the elbows, and turning and pressing the frayed silk cuffs. Neither of the sisters had time to help, and indeed seemed to think It unnecessary to spend so much trouble on a child’s outfit, but Mademoiselle set her lips and went steadily on with her task. She knew, if they did not, that it is not too pleasant for a girl to be noticeably shabby at a fashionable school, and many a dainty piece of ribbon and lace found its way from her box to refresh hat or dress, and give an appearance of freshness to the well-worn background. When the last night came, and Bridgie tried to thank her for her help, she shook her head and refused to listen.“I was a stranger to you, and you welcomed me among you as if I had been your own. You were more than kind, you seemed to love me, and never let me feel for one moment that I was one apart. That means a great deal to a woman who is alone in a strange land, and I could not be more happy than to find something to do for you in return. What is a little sewing? Bah! I tell you, my friend, it is much more than that I intend to do for your Pixie. You say that you will not long be able to send her to school, but I can do better for her than school. At the end of this year I must go ’ome, for my sister isfiancée, and when she is married I must be there to look after the old father. Lend Pixie to me, and she shall learn to speak French, the proper French, not that dreadful language of Holly House, and I will take her myself to the Conservatoire—there is no better place in the world to learn music than the Conservatoire in Paris—and she shall learn to sing and make use of that lovely voice.Voilà, ma chère, at the end of a few years she comes back to you, and you will not know her! A young woman, with grace, with charm, with—what shall I say?—an air such as your English girls do not know how to possess, and everyone shall say, ‘How she is accomplished, that Pixie! How she is clever andchic!’”The tears had risen in Bridgie’s eyes, but now she was obliged to laugh at the same time, for it was so droll to think of Pixie as a young lady “with an air!” She laid her hand on Mademoiselle’s arm, with one of her pretty caressing gestures.“You are a dear, kind Thérèse, and it all sounds too charming, but I am afraid it cannot be done. We shall be very poor, dear father’s pension will die with him, and if we cannot afford school, we could not pay you properly for all your trouble. You are a darling for thinking of it, but—”She stopped short in dismay, for Mademoiselle had straightened her back until it was as stiff as a poker, and was glaring at her with the air of an offended Fury.“Did you ask me for money when I came here? Did you expect me to pay when you asked me to your house? Am I a pauper, then, that you insult me with such an idea? It is the first time, I must say, that I have invited a guest, and been offered a payment.”“Oh! oh! oh! What will I do? Don’t glare at me like that, Thérèse, or I’ll expire with fright! I never offered you a payment, my dear; I said I couldn’t pay. I don’t know what I said, but I never meant to make you angry! If you don’t forgive me this instant, I’ll cry, and if I once start crying, I shall go on till to-morrow, and so I warn you!Please, Thérèse!”She held out her hand appealingly, but Mademoiselle still tilted her head, and kept up an air of offence.“My feelings are ’urt,” she said with dignity, “and they can only be appeased if you withdraw your remarks, and promise that Pixie shall come. You can pay for the lessons she takes, and the Paris Conservatoire will not ruin you, my dear, I can tell you that; but for the rest, do you suppose Pixie will do nothing for me in return for her board? It is not too lively, a house with an invalid and an old maid, and they may perhaps be glad to have a young thing about; to be made to laugh sometimes and have some interest in life beyond rheumatism and asthma! Do not disturb yourself; if you are too proud to accept help from me, be assured that I shall make the child useful. She shall work for her living!”“You are pretending to be cross, to make me say ‘Yes,’ but you needn’t keep it up any longer, dear. I’ll say it with thankfulness this minute, if it is indeed a pleasure to you too. I don’t feel at all too proud to accept a favour from you, and besides, it seems as if Providence meant it to be so, and just the most wonderful and beautiful reason for your coming here, which seemed at first so extraordinary. If you will really let us pay for her lessons and make her as useful as if she were your own little sister, why, then, thank you a thousand times, and a thousand times more for lifting a weight off my mind. I was worrying myself about her future, and now I shall worry no more, and father will be so relieved, so happy! Are you sufficiently appeased to let me kiss you, you haughty Mademoiselle?”“With pleasure; yes! but my feelings are still sensitive. With the slightest irritation I should have a relapse!” said Mademoiselle stiffly; for it would not do to indulge in sentiment to-day, and Bridgie’s tears were dangerously near the surface.The time for parting came at last, and the Major nerved himself to bid adieu to his piccaninny with a composure which should leave her unsuspicious of its final nature. He was very white, but Pixie had grown accustomed to his pallor, and mingling with her grief at leaving home was a keen pleasure at the thought of returning to her school companions, of seeing Margaret and Ethel, of hearing Flora’s fat, contented chuckle, and seeing poor Lottie, and hearing how she had fared at home. It was all very interesting and exciting, and somehow or other home had been unusually dull during the last fortnight. Even Esmeralda had turned quiet and mild, and Pat abandoned practical joking, and for once been as good as he looked. The longing for some of the old mischievous days made Pixie listen to her father’s precepts with a decided lack of enthusiasm.“You will be a good child now, piccaninny, and work hard at your tasks. Remember what I say to you, that you couldn’t please me more than by being good and industrious, and obedient to your teachers. I let you run wild too long, and that’s made you behind other girls of your age, but you’ll promise me that you will settle down, and make the most of your opportunities?”“I don’t feel as if I wanted to ‘settle down.’ It sounds so dull! Ye can work without being so awfully proper, can’t you, father? I can be a little mischievous sometimes, can’t I—especially on half-holidays? I’ll work all the better for it afterwards. And the girls would be so disappointed if I were proper. You wouldn’t believe how I liven them up. Ye wouldn’t like it yourself, now, Major, if ye never saw any more of my pranks!”He winced at that, but smiled bravely, his eye resting longingly upon the thin little figure wriggling to and fro in the earnestness of its appeal. With the remembrance of all that her brightness had been to him, he could not bring himself to forbid it to others.“Be as happy as you can, darling, and make other people happy too. So long as you consider their feelings, and are careful not to go too far, you will do no harm. Good-bye, my piccaninny! God bless you! Never mind if you are not clever. Go on loving and making sunshine, and you will do a great work in the world. Remember your old father when you get back among your new friends!”“I’ll think of you for ever!” said Pixie solemnly. “Haste and get well, Major, and come and take me out. You must be getting tired of your bed, poor creature, but I’m glad you have no pain! You won’t be here long now.”“No, not long,” said the Major quietly. Then he held up his lips to be kissed, murmuring the last, the very last words of farewell, “Good-bye, dearest. Thank you for being such a good, loving little daughter!”“Thank you, me dear, for the father you have been to me!” returned Pixie, in a tone of gracious condescension which made the listener smile through his tears. That was a sweet characteristic little speech to cherish as the last! He shut his eyes in token of dismissal, and Pixie stole away, somewhat sobered and impressed, for the Major had not been given to improving an occasion, but free from the vaguest suspicion that she had bidden him her last farewell.Downstairs Esmeralda was waiting to drive the cart to the station, and at the station itself Mr Hilliard was standing ready to receive the travellers and make every preparation for their comfort. No one seemed in the least surprised to see him, for in Jack’s absence he had quietly taken upon himself the part of an elder son, and in every emergency had stepped forward and filled the gap so efficiently and with such tact that he seemed more like a friend of years’ standing than an acquaintance of a few weeks. His business in London had apparently been accomplished in a flying visit of forty-eight hours, during which time he had seen Jack and eased anxiety by a personal report of the invalid, and here he was back again, declaring that there was no reason to keep him in town, and that if he could be of the slightest use at Bally William, there was no place in the world where he would sooner remain. Bridgie smiled to herself with quiet understanding, and Esmeralda grew thoughtful, and her white cheeks hung out a flag of welcome every time he made his appearance.To-day she made no objections to his proposal that they should walk back from the station, leaving a boy to drive the cart home during the afternoon, and they struck across the fields together, disregarding damp and mud with the callousness of true lovers of the country. The girl’s face was worn and downcast, for the Castle would seem sadder and emptier than ever, now that the little sister had gone and that dear, helpful Mademoiselle; and at nineteen it is hard to look forward and know for a certainty that the shadows must deepen. There were still sadder times ahead, and a loneliness such as she dared not even imagine; for Esmeralda had not Bridgie’s sweet faith and trust, and hers was a stormy, rebellious nature, which made trouble harder to bear by useless fightings against the inevitable. Bridgie found a dozen reasons for thankfulness among all her distresses—the kindness of friends, the ceaseless attentions of the good old doctor, her father’s freedom from pain, and the fact that he would be spared the dread of his lifetime—a separation from the old home. Joan saw nothing but clouds and darkness, and tortured herself with useless questionings. Why—why—why—why should all this trouble fall upon her? Why should other girls have father and mother and money and opportunity, and she be deprived of all? Why should the accident have been allowed to happen when her father’s life was of such value—such inestimable value to his young family? Why should her life be darkened just at the time when she was most able to appreciate joy and gladness?Hilliard watched the clouds flit over the beautiful face, and was at no loss to understand their meaning. During the last fortnight he had more than once been a witness to a storm of misery and rebellion, and apart from that fact he had an instinctive understanding of the girl’s moods, which seemed all the more curious, as his own nature of happy optimism was as great a contrast to hers as could possibly be imagined.A smile flickered over his face as he reflected on the strangeness of his present position. A month ago, if anyone had described to him the O’Shaughnessy sisters, he would have declared without a moment’s hesitation that Bridgie would be his favourite—that in every way her character would be more attractive to him than that of Esmeralda. Even now—even now, yes!—if the question were put plainly before him, he must still confess that “Saint Bridget” was sweeter, simpler, less wayward, more unselfish; yet in spite of all there remained the extraordinary fact that he liked Bridgie and loved Esmeralda with the whole strength of a warm and loving heart! He saw her faults clearly enough with those keen, quizzical eyes; but what the sight roused in him was not so much disapproval as pity, and an immense longing to help and comfort. He loved her; he understood her; he honestly believed he could help her to rise above the weaknesses of girlhood, and become the fine large-hearted woman which Providence had intended her to be; and the time had come when he intended to speak his mind and ask her to be his wife. The silence had lasted so long that at last Joan herself became conscious of it, and roused herself to apologise for her rudeness.“But I’m miserable,” she said simply. “I can’t remember to be polite. I was miserable last time when the Pixie left us, but now it is a hundred times worse. I can’t bear to think of going back to that big empty place, with that dreadful shadow coming nearer and nearer every day. I am a coward, and can’t face it!”“You are a very brave girl—one of the bravest I have known. If anyone but yourself dared to call you cowardly, you would never forgive him!”“I know. It’s quite true. I am brave physically, but I’ve never been tried in this way before, so I didn’t know how weak I was. It arises from selfishness, I suppose. It’s so hard to suffer like this.”“No one can be selfish who loves another person more than himself. I have never seen two sisters so devoted to each other as you and Miss Bridgie. You will think of her before yourself, and try to help her, simply because you will not be able to help it!”“Darling Bridgie—yes, I do love her. Who could help it? She takes this trouble like the saint she is, and believes that it is God’s will, and must be for the best. I can’t feel that—I can’t! It’s against reason. It’s no use pretending that I do, for I should only be a hypocrite.”“You have a different nature from your sister’s. It is more difficult for you to be resigned, and therefore all the more praiseworthy if you fight against your rebellious thoughts, and learn submission.”The tears rose slowly to Joan’s eyes, and she looked at him with a flickering smile.“It’s no use talking to you. You won’t believe how wicked I am. You make excuses for me all the time.”“Because I love you, Joan, that’s why! Have you found that out for yourself? I began to love you the first night I saw you, and I’ve been progressing rapidly ever since. We have not known each other for long, as time goes, but so much has happened, and we have been thrown so much together, that we know each other as well as many acquaintances of years’ standing. My mind is made up, at any rate; there is no other girl in the world for me! Do you think if you tried very hard, and I waited very patiently, you could possibly bring yourself to love me in return?”Esmeralda gazed at him with her wonderful grey eyes, not shyly, not self-consciously, but with slow, solemn deliberation.“I don’t know,” she said simply. “I can’t tell. I like you very much; you have been very kind to us, and it does me good to talk to you, but that isn’t enough, is it? I don’t know if I love you, but I love you to love me! It comforts my heart, and makes me feel braver and less lonely. Sometimes this last week—just once or twice when we have been alone—I have thought perhaps you did, and I hoped I was right. I hoped I was not mistaken.”“You darling! Oh, you darling!” cried Hilliard rapturously. “You do make me happy by telling me that. That’s all I want—the very best proof you could give me that you care for me too. Don’t you see, my beauty, that you must care, or you would not want my love? Don’t you see that you have been drawn to me, just as I have been drawn to you, and have felt the need of me, just as I have longed and wearied for you ever since we met?”He tried to take hold of her hand as he spoke, but Esmeralda drew back, refusing to be caressed. She was trembling now, and her cheeks were flushed with the loveliest rosy blush, but there was an almost piteous appeal in her voice.“No, no! I don’t see, and I don’t want to see. My father is dying—he has only a little time to live, and I don’t want to think of anything but him. If it is as you say, there will be all my life after that, but I can’t think of love-making and being happy just the very last weeks we shall have him with us. You mustn’t be vexed; you mustn’t think me ungrateful. Indeed, indeed I can’t help it!”“Vexed!” echoed Hilliard. “Ungrateful!” His glance was eloquent enough to show how far such words were from expressing his real feelings; and indeed, if it had been possible to love Esmeralda more dearly than he did, he would have done so at this moment, when she had shown him the reality of the generous nature which lay beneath her girlish extravagances, “You are absolutely and perfectly right, dearest,” he said warmly, “and I promise you faithfully that I will not try in any way to absorb your attention so long as your father lives. But after that, Esmeralda, (I may call you Esmeralda, mayn’t I? Dear, charming, ridiculous name—I love it, it is so deliciously characteristic!) after that you must let me take my right place as your chief helper and comforter. I won’t be put off any longer, and I think I shall be able to do more for you than anyone else.”“I believe you would, but—” Esmeralda looked at him beneath a troubled, puckered brow—“please understand exactly what you are doing! We are dreadfully poor—we shall be poorer than ever after father’s death. If I marry I shall not have a penny; for what little there is will be needed, and more than needed, for Bridgie and the children. It would be rather hard on you, for, as you are not rich yourself, you ought to marry a rich wife.”“The same argument would apply to you, wouldn’t it? Are you quite sure that you would not mind marrying a poor man, and that you would be willing to give up luxuries for my sake?”“If I cared enough in other ways, it would not be money that would prevent me, but I should not like to beverypoor!” returned Esmeralda honestly. “I’ve had a taste of it, you see, and it is so dull to be always worried about butchers’ bills, and not be able to have nice puddings because of the eggs, and to have to turn your dresses over and over again. I’ve never once in my life bought a thing because I liked it best. I’ve always had to think that it was cheaper than the others, and I must make it do. I suppose men can’t realise how hard that is, for they need so much less, and their things are so much alike; but it’s hard to know for certain that you could look just twice as nice, and have to put up with the frumpy things, because you have no money to pay for the pretty ones!”“Could you look twice as nice as you do now—really?” Hilliard laughed with happy incredulity. “Esmeralda, I don’t believe it; but if you marry me you shall try! I am not so poor that I cannot afford to be a little extravagant for my wife, and I promise you faithfully that you shall never be worried about the bills. I’ll protect you from that, and every other trouble, I hope, my darling!”“It—it seems to me we are getting on very fast. I thought I said that nothing was decided. Oh, please talk of something else!” cried Esmeralda urgently; and Hilliard laughed once more, and obediently discussed the weather until the Castle gates were reached.

The Dublin specialist came down in due course, and entirely agreed with Dr O’Brien’s diagnosis. There was no chance of the Major’s recovery, and though there was no immediate danger, it was not likely that life would be prolonged for more than two or three months at most. He would not suffer physically nor mentally, for the brain power would become more and more dulled, so that he would hardly realise his condition.

The thought of watching him die by inches, as it were, was an even harder trial to Esmeralda’s impetuous nature than the shock of a sudden death, but Bridgie was thankful for every day as it came, for every opportunity of ministering to his needs. And he was so sweet, so gentle; all his former indifference and selfishness had fallen from him like a cloak, and his one thought was for his children, his one anxiety on their behalf. When Bridgie saw how devoted he was to his piccaninny, and how she could always succeed in raising a smile, she proposed that the child should not return to school for the next term at least; but the Major would not listen to the suggestion.

“No, no! I promised Molly that she should have her chance, and I won’t have her distressed. If she stayed on she would find out—and she would cry, and I never could endure to see her cry. It would be delightful to have her, but it will count for one real unselfish thing I’ve done in my life if I do without her for these last weeks.”

So it was arranged that Pixie should return at the proper date, and Mademoiselle sat in the morning-room stitching away at the pile of shabby little garments, mending, and darning, putting in “elegant” little patches at the elbows, and turning and pressing the frayed silk cuffs. Neither of the sisters had time to help, and indeed seemed to think It unnecessary to spend so much trouble on a child’s outfit, but Mademoiselle set her lips and went steadily on with her task. She knew, if they did not, that it is not too pleasant for a girl to be noticeably shabby at a fashionable school, and many a dainty piece of ribbon and lace found its way from her box to refresh hat or dress, and give an appearance of freshness to the well-worn background. When the last night came, and Bridgie tried to thank her for her help, she shook her head and refused to listen.

“I was a stranger to you, and you welcomed me among you as if I had been your own. You were more than kind, you seemed to love me, and never let me feel for one moment that I was one apart. That means a great deal to a woman who is alone in a strange land, and I could not be more happy than to find something to do for you in return. What is a little sewing? Bah! I tell you, my friend, it is much more than that I intend to do for your Pixie. You say that you will not long be able to send her to school, but I can do better for her than school. At the end of this year I must go ’ome, for my sister isfiancée, and when she is married I must be there to look after the old father. Lend Pixie to me, and she shall learn to speak French, the proper French, not that dreadful language of Holly House, and I will take her myself to the Conservatoire—there is no better place in the world to learn music than the Conservatoire in Paris—and she shall learn to sing and make use of that lovely voice.Voilà, ma chère, at the end of a few years she comes back to you, and you will not know her! A young woman, with grace, with charm, with—what shall I say?—an air such as your English girls do not know how to possess, and everyone shall say, ‘How she is accomplished, that Pixie! How she is clever andchic!’”

The tears had risen in Bridgie’s eyes, but now she was obliged to laugh at the same time, for it was so droll to think of Pixie as a young lady “with an air!” She laid her hand on Mademoiselle’s arm, with one of her pretty caressing gestures.

“You are a dear, kind Thérèse, and it all sounds too charming, but I am afraid it cannot be done. We shall be very poor, dear father’s pension will die with him, and if we cannot afford school, we could not pay you properly for all your trouble. You are a darling for thinking of it, but—”

She stopped short in dismay, for Mademoiselle had straightened her back until it was as stiff as a poker, and was glaring at her with the air of an offended Fury.

“Did you ask me for money when I came here? Did you expect me to pay when you asked me to your house? Am I a pauper, then, that you insult me with such an idea? It is the first time, I must say, that I have invited a guest, and been offered a payment.”

“Oh! oh! oh! What will I do? Don’t glare at me like that, Thérèse, or I’ll expire with fright! I never offered you a payment, my dear; I said I couldn’t pay. I don’t know what I said, but I never meant to make you angry! If you don’t forgive me this instant, I’ll cry, and if I once start crying, I shall go on till to-morrow, and so I warn you!Please, Thérèse!”

She held out her hand appealingly, but Mademoiselle still tilted her head, and kept up an air of offence.

“My feelings are ’urt,” she said with dignity, “and they can only be appeased if you withdraw your remarks, and promise that Pixie shall come. You can pay for the lessons she takes, and the Paris Conservatoire will not ruin you, my dear, I can tell you that; but for the rest, do you suppose Pixie will do nothing for me in return for her board? It is not too lively, a house with an invalid and an old maid, and they may perhaps be glad to have a young thing about; to be made to laugh sometimes and have some interest in life beyond rheumatism and asthma! Do not disturb yourself; if you are too proud to accept help from me, be assured that I shall make the child useful. She shall work for her living!”

“You are pretending to be cross, to make me say ‘Yes,’ but you needn’t keep it up any longer, dear. I’ll say it with thankfulness this minute, if it is indeed a pleasure to you too. I don’t feel at all too proud to accept a favour from you, and besides, it seems as if Providence meant it to be so, and just the most wonderful and beautiful reason for your coming here, which seemed at first so extraordinary. If you will really let us pay for her lessons and make her as useful as if she were your own little sister, why, then, thank you a thousand times, and a thousand times more for lifting a weight off my mind. I was worrying myself about her future, and now I shall worry no more, and father will be so relieved, so happy! Are you sufficiently appeased to let me kiss you, you haughty Mademoiselle?”

“With pleasure; yes! but my feelings are still sensitive. With the slightest irritation I should have a relapse!” said Mademoiselle stiffly; for it would not do to indulge in sentiment to-day, and Bridgie’s tears were dangerously near the surface.

The time for parting came at last, and the Major nerved himself to bid adieu to his piccaninny with a composure which should leave her unsuspicious of its final nature. He was very white, but Pixie had grown accustomed to his pallor, and mingling with her grief at leaving home was a keen pleasure at the thought of returning to her school companions, of seeing Margaret and Ethel, of hearing Flora’s fat, contented chuckle, and seeing poor Lottie, and hearing how she had fared at home. It was all very interesting and exciting, and somehow or other home had been unusually dull during the last fortnight. Even Esmeralda had turned quiet and mild, and Pat abandoned practical joking, and for once been as good as he looked. The longing for some of the old mischievous days made Pixie listen to her father’s precepts with a decided lack of enthusiasm.

“You will be a good child now, piccaninny, and work hard at your tasks. Remember what I say to you, that you couldn’t please me more than by being good and industrious, and obedient to your teachers. I let you run wild too long, and that’s made you behind other girls of your age, but you’ll promise me that you will settle down, and make the most of your opportunities?”

“I don’t feel as if I wanted to ‘settle down.’ It sounds so dull! Ye can work without being so awfully proper, can’t you, father? I can be a little mischievous sometimes, can’t I—especially on half-holidays? I’ll work all the better for it afterwards. And the girls would be so disappointed if I were proper. You wouldn’t believe how I liven them up. Ye wouldn’t like it yourself, now, Major, if ye never saw any more of my pranks!”

He winced at that, but smiled bravely, his eye resting longingly upon the thin little figure wriggling to and fro in the earnestness of its appeal. With the remembrance of all that her brightness had been to him, he could not bring himself to forbid it to others.

“Be as happy as you can, darling, and make other people happy too. So long as you consider their feelings, and are careful not to go too far, you will do no harm. Good-bye, my piccaninny! God bless you! Never mind if you are not clever. Go on loving and making sunshine, and you will do a great work in the world. Remember your old father when you get back among your new friends!”

“I’ll think of you for ever!” said Pixie solemnly. “Haste and get well, Major, and come and take me out. You must be getting tired of your bed, poor creature, but I’m glad you have no pain! You won’t be here long now.”

“No, not long,” said the Major quietly. Then he held up his lips to be kissed, murmuring the last, the very last words of farewell, “Good-bye, dearest. Thank you for being such a good, loving little daughter!”

“Thank you, me dear, for the father you have been to me!” returned Pixie, in a tone of gracious condescension which made the listener smile through his tears. That was a sweet characteristic little speech to cherish as the last! He shut his eyes in token of dismissal, and Pixie stole away, somewhat sobered and impressed, for the Major had not been given to improving an occasion, but free from the vaguest suspicion that she had bidden him her last farewell.

Downstairs Esmeralda was waiting to drive the cart to the station, and at the station itself Mr Hilliard was standing ready to receive the travellers and make every preparation for their comfort. No one seemed in the least surprised to see him, for in Jack’s absence he had quietly taken upon himself the part of an elder son, and in every emergency had stepped forward and filled the gap so efficiently and with such tact that he seemed more like a friend of years’ standing than an acquaintance of a few weeks. His business in London had apparently been accomplished in a flying visit of forty-eight hours, during which time he had seen Jack and eased anxiety by a personal report of the invalid, and here he was back again, declaring that there was no reason to keep him in town, and that if he could be of the slightest use at Bally William, there was no place in the world where he would sooner remain. Bridgie smiled to herself with quiet understanding, and Esmeralda grew thoughtful, and her white cheeks hung out a flag of welcome every time he made his appearance.

To-day she made no objections to his proposal that they should walk back from the station, leaving a boy to drive the cart home during the afternoon, and they struck across the fields together, disregarding damp and mud with the callousness of true lovers of the country. The girl’s face was worn and downcast, for the Castle would seem sadder and emptier than ever, now that the little sister had gone and that dear, helpful Mademoiselle; and at nineteen it is hard to look forward and know for a certainty that the shadows must deepen. There were still sadder times ahead, and a loneliness such as she dared not even imagine; for Esmeralda had not Bridgie’s sweet faith and trust, and hers was a stormy, rebellious nature, which made trouble harder to bear by useless fightings against the inevitable. Bridgie found a dozen reasons for thankfulness among all her distresses—the kindness of friends, the ceaseless attentions of the good old doctor, her father’s freedom from pain, and the fact that he would be spared the dread of his lifetime—a separation from the old home. Joan saw nothing but clouds and darkness, and tortured herself with useless questionings. Why—why—why—why should all this trouble fall upon her? Why should other girls have father and mother and money and opportunity, and she be deprived of all? Why should the accident have been allowed to happen when her father’s life was of such value—such inestimable value to his young family? Why should her life be darkened just at the time when she was most able to appreciate joy and gladness?

Hilliard watched the clouds flit over the beautiful face, and was at no loss to understand their meaning. During the last fortnight he had more than once been a witness to a storm of misery and rebellion, and apart from that fact he had an instinctive understanding of the girl’s moods, which seemed all the more curious, as his own nature of happy optimism was as great a contrast to hers as could possibly be imagined.

A smile flickered over his face as he reflected on the strangeness of his present position. A month ago, if anyone had described to him the O’Shaughnessy sisters, he would have declared without a moment’s hesitation that Bridgie would be his favourite—that in every way her character would be more attractive to him than that of Esmeralda. Even now—even now, yes!—if the question were put plainly before him, he must still confess that “Saint Bridget” was sweeter, simpler, less wayward, more unselfish; yet in spite of all there remained the extraordinary fact that he liked Bridgie and loved Esmeralda with the whole strength of a warm and loving heart! He saw her faults clearly enough with those keen, quizzical eyes; but what the sight roused in him was not so much disapproval as pity, and an immense longing to help and comfort. He loved her; he understood her; he honestly believed he could help her to rise above the weaknesses of girlhood, and become the fine large-hearted woman which Providence had intended her to be; and the time had come when he intended to speak his mind and ask her to be his wife. The silence had lasted so long that at last Joan herself became conscious of it, and roused herself to apologise for her rudeness.

“But I’m miserable,” she said simply. “I can’t remember to be polite. I was miserable last time when the Pixie left us, but now it is a hundred times worse. I can’t bear to think of going back to that big empty place, with that dreadful shadow coming nearer and nearer every day. I am a coward, and can’t face it!”

“You are a very brave girl—one of the bravest I have known. If anyone but yourself dared to call you cowardly, you would never forgive him!”

“I know. It’s quite true. I am brave physically, but I’ve never been tried in this way before, so I didn’t know how weak I was. It arises from selfishness, I suppose. It’s so hard to suffer like this.”

“No one can be selfish who loves another person more than himself. I have never seen two sisters so devoted to each other as you and Miss Bridgie. You will think of her before yourself, and try to help her, simply because you will not be able to help it!”

“Darling Bridgie—yes, I do love her. Who could help it? She takes this trouble like the saint she is, and believes that it is God’s will, and must be for the best. I can’t feel that—I can’t! It’s against reason. It’s no use pretending that I do, for I should only be a hypocrite.”

“You have a different nature from your sister’s. It is more difficult for you to be resigned, and therefore all the more praiseworthy if you fight against your rebellious thoughts, and learn submission.”

The tears rose slowly to Joan’s eyes, and she looked at him with a flickering smile.

“It’s no use talking to you. You won’t believe how wicked I am. You make excuses for me all the time.”

“Because I love you, Joan, that’s why! Have you found that out for yourself? I began to love you the first night I saw you, and I’ve been progressing rapidly ever since. We have not known each other for long, as time goes, but so much has happened, and we have been thrown so much together, that we know each other as well as many acquaintances of years’ standing. My mind is made up, at any rate; there is no other girl in the world for me! Do you think if you tried very hard, and I waited very patiently, you could possibly bring yourself to love me in return?”

Esmeralda gazed at him with her wonderful grey eyes, not shyly, not self-consciously, but with slow, solemn deliberation.

“I don’t know,” she said simply. “I can’t tell. I like you very much; you have been very kind to us, and it does me good to talk to you, but that isn’t enough, is it? I don’t know if I love you, but I love you to love me! It comforts my heart, and makes me feel braver and less lonely. Sometimes this last week—just once or twice when we have been alone—I have thought perhaps you did, and I hoped I was right. I hoped I was not mistaken.”

“You darling! Oh, you darling!” cried Hilliard rapturously. “You do make me happy by telling me that. That’s all I want—the very best proof you could give me that you care for me too. Don’t you see, my beauty, that you must care, or you would not want my love? Don’t you see that you have been drawn to me, just as I have been drawn to you, and have felt the need of me, just as I have longed and wearied for you ever since we met?”

He tried to take hold of her hand as he spoke, but Esmeralda drew back, refusing to be caressed. She was trembling now, and her cheeks were flushed with the loveliest rosy blush, but there was an almost piteous appeal in her voice.

“No, no! I don’t see, and I don’t want to see. My father is dying—he has only a little time to live, and I don’t want to think of anything but him. If it is as you say, there will be all my life after that, but I can’t think of love-making and being happy just the very last weeks we shall have him with us. You mustn’t be vexed; you mustn’t think me ungrateful. Indeed, indeed I can’t help it!”

“Vexed!” echoed Hilliard. “Ungrateful!” His glance was eloquent enough to show how far such words were from expressing his real feelings; and indeed, if it had been possible to love Esmeralda more dearly than he did, he would have done so at this moment, when she had shown him the reality of the generous nature which lay beneath her girlish extravagances, “You are absolutely and perfectly right, dearest,” he said warmly, “and I promise you faithfully that I will not try in any way to absorb your attention so long as your father lives. But after that, Esmeralda, (I may call you Esmeralda, mayn’t I? Dear, charming, ridiculous name—I love it, it is so deliciously characteristic!) after that you must let me take my right place as your chief helper and comforter. I won’t be put off any longer, and I think I shall be able to do more for you than anyone else.”

“I believe you would, but—” Esmeralda looked at him beneath a troubled, puckered brow—“please understand exactly what you are doing! We are dreadfully poor—we shall be poorer than ever after father’s death. If I marry I shall not have a penny; for what little there is will be needed, and more than needed, for Bridgie and the children. It would be rather hard on you, for, as you are not rich yourself, you ought to marry a rich wife.”

“The same argument would apply to you, wouldn’t it? Are you quite sure that you would not mind marrying a poor man, and that you would be willing to give up luxuries for my sake?”

“If I cared enough in other ways, it would not be money that would prevent me, but I should not like to beverypoor!” returned Esmeralda honestly. “I’ve had a taste of it, you see, and it is so dull to be always worried about butchers’ bills, and not be able to have nice puddings because of the eggs, and to have to turn your dresses over and over again. I’ve never once in my life bought a thing because I liked it best. I’ve always had to think that it was cheaper than the others, and I must make it do. I suppose men can’t realise how hard that is, for they need so much less, and their things are so much alike; but it’s hard to know for certain that you could look just twice as nice, and have to put up with the frumpy things, because you have no money to pay for the pretty ones!”

“Could you look twice as nice as you do now—really?” Hilliard laughed with happy incredulity. “Esmeralda, I don’t believe it; but if you marry me you shall try! I am not so poor that I cannot afford to be a little extravagant for my wife, and I promise you faithfully that you shall never be worried about the bills. I’ll protect you from that, and every other trouble, I hope, my darling!”

“It—it seems to me we are getting on very fast. I thought I said that nothing was decided. Oh, please talk of something else!” cried Esmeralda urgently; and Hilliard laughed once more, and obediently discussed the weather until the Castle gates were reached.

Chapter Twenty Eight.A Telegram.It was six weeks later that the girls in Holly House heard a sharp, wailing cry from within the portals of Miss Phipps’s private room, and looked at each other with eyes of sympathetic understanding. The knowledge that Pixie’s father was seriously ill had leaked out among the elder pupils, and this afternoon, as they returned from their walk, a telegraph boy had met them in the drive, and Mademoiselle had turned pale and muttered below her breath. Miss Phipps called her aside on entering, and at tea-time there were unmistakable tear-marks round her eyes, and she was even more affectionate than usual in her manner to Pixie,—poor, unconscious Pixie, who was in radiant spirits, and quite puffed up with pride because she had suddenly remembered a favourite exploit as practised at Knock Castle, and had issued invitations to the fifth-form to come to the classroom before tea and play the part of spectators, while she made a circuit of the room without touching the ground.“Without—touching—the—ground! Pixie O’Shaughnessy, are you demented?” demanded Flora incredulously. “You can’t fly, I suppose? Then how on earth could you get round a room without touching the floor?”“Come with me, me dear, and you shall see,” returned Pixie graciously, and forthwith led the way into the big, bare room. There was no class being held at the time, so that the performer and her friends were the only persons present; the chairs were neatly ranged beside the desks, the matches and vases of spills which usually graced the mantelpiece were placed together on a corner bracket, otherwise no article had been moved from its place. Pixie sprang lightly on to a chair near the door, kissed her hand after the manner of the lady riders at the circus, and started off on her mad career.From one chair to another, from chair number two to the shelf of the old bookcase which filled the middle space of the wall; from the bookcase, with a leap and a bound, on to the oak chest in which were stored drawing-books and copies; from the chest to another chair, and thence with a whoop and wildly waving hands to the end of an ordinary wooden form. Why that form did not collapse at once, and land the invader on the floor, no one of the spectators could understand! Flora gave a hollow groan and leant against the wall in palpitating nervousness; Kate shut her eyes, and Ethel pinched Margaret’s arm with unconscious severity; but, after all, nothing happened! With instantaneous quickness Pixie had fallen forward on her knees, and so restored the bench to its normal position; and now she was off again with another kiss, another flourish, another whisk of those absurd short petticoats. Providentially there was a table close at hand which she could mount without difficulty, and so bring herself to the completion of the first half of her task, but the harder part was still to come.It was easy enough to run along the blackboard, but what about that space between it and the shelves at the other side of the fireplace? “She can’t do it!” cried Ethel confidently; but Pixie had not made her boast without counting the cost. What if there was no article of furniture within reach, there was a shelf overhead to which one could cling and work slowly along hand over hand until the coal-box offered a friendly footing! Then, when one had been accustomed to climb trees all one’s life, what could be easier than to rest the elbows on the mantelpiece, and with the aid of one foot pressed lightly on that fat, substantial bell, (horrors! suppose it rang!) to wriggle upward until knees joined elbows, and a perpendicular position was once more possible! The gasps and groans from the doorway were even more encouraging than applause, and under their influence it was impossible to resist indulging in a few extravagances, such as standing poised on one leg, blowing more kisses, and bowing from side to side after the manner of that fascinating circus lady. Another bound sent her lightly on to the one substantial chair which the room possessed—Miss Phipps’s seat when she came to take a class. It rocked, of course, but to balance it was child’s play, compared with the really difficult feat with the form, and for the rest of the course the way was easy. Anyone could have run along the substantial dumb waiter, stepped down to the chair by its side, and so, with a leap, to the one from which the start had been made. Pixie stopped, panting, gasping, and smirking at her companions, expectant of adulation, but there was more reproach than praise in store.“You are mad!” cried Ethel shortly. “Stark, staring mad! No thanks to you that every bone in your body isn’t broken. I wonder what Miss Phipps would have said if she had come in while you were pirouetting on the mantelpiece! It would have been your turn to be surprised then, my young friend.”“I n–n–never did see such a sight in all my born days,” stuttered Flora blankly. “You’ve made me feel quite ill. My heart is pumping like an engine. I thought every moment you would be killed. I call it mean and unkind to ask us to look on while you play such tricks, for you know very well we should be blamed if anything went wrong! I’ll never come again, so you needn’t trouble to ask me!”“Pixie dear, it really is most dangerous! You might have sprained your ankle a dozen times over. Promise me, promise me faithfully, that you will never do it again!” pleaded Margaret gently; but Pixie shook her head in obstinate fashion.“Me dear, don’t ask me! I’ll tell you no stories. I’ve done it a dozen times at home, and so have Bridgie and Esmeralda. It was a fine handicap we had one night, boys against girls, and Bridgie the winner, being so light on her feet. You wouldn’t wish to forbid what my own family approves.” She drew herself up with an air of dignity as she pronounced the last words, and skipped out of the room, as the quickest way of closing the argument; but when tea-time arrived she was still abeam with complacency, and pleasantly conscious of being the object of an unusual amount of attention. The girls all looked at her and smiled so kindly when they met her eye; jam and scones were pressed upon her from half a dozen different quarters; Mademoiselle called her “chérie,” and even Miss Phipps said “dear.” “Are you having a good tea, dear?” “Won’t you have another cup of tea, dear?” It was all very pleasant and gratifying, and she felt convinced that the fame of her exploit had spread over the school, and that even the teachers had been unable to resist it.She was strutting out of the dining-room at the conclusion of the meal, when Miss Phipps laid a hand on her shoulder and said, “Come into my room, Pixie,” and a moment later she stood within the boudoir, staring around with wide, astonished eyes. Mademoiselle had followed, and was twisting her hands together, trying vainly not to cry. Miss Phipps looked at her and made a little signal, but Mademoiselle only shook her head, and held out her hands with a helpless gesture, and then Miss Phipps began to speak herself, in such a gentle voice—a voice quite different from her usual brisk, decided accents.“Pixie dear, I have something to tell you. God has been very kind to the dear father whom you love so much. He saw that he could never be well again—never able to move about, nor walk, nor ride, as he had done before, and instead of leaving him to lie helpless upon his bed for long weary years, as so many poor sufferers have had to do, He took him home at once, and made him well and strong again. You must not think of your father as dead, Pixie. He is alive and happy in heaven!”But it was too early for the dead man’s child to realise that beautiful truth, and Pixie burst into a passion of grief, and the girls without heard the long pitiful wails and nestled close to each other and sobbed in sympathy.Miss Phipps talked on and on, saying comforting words in that new sweet voice, and Mademoiselle put her arms fondly round the little figure and said—“You will be brave,chérie. You are always brave! All the O’Shaughnessys are brave—your Bridgie told me so, and said it was the pride of the family! You will not be the first to act like a coward. No!” But the shock was too sudden to be borne with resignation.“We haven’t got any family now! How can you have a family without a father? He wouldn’t have died if I had been at home. He was always cheerful when I was with him, and he said himself I was better than a doctor. Oh, Major, Major! Oh, Bridgie, Bridgie! Me heart’s broken! Me heart’s broken!”Pixie wept and wailed, and presently Miss Phipps stopped trying to console, and let her weep her fill, knowing well that the noisy grief is never the most lasting, and that when the first passion was exhausted she would be more ready for comfort. She had purposely delayed telling the sad news until tea was over, and presently it would be time for bed, when the sleep of childhood would drop its soothing curtain over grief. Pixie lay on the sofa, and cried until her face was swollen and she was too exhausted to cry any longer, and Miss Phipps was just about to propose a move to bed when, to her amazement, the child suddenly put her feet to the ground, sat up, and said faintly—“I want to see the girls!”Well, after all, it was a natural request, for the bent of a lifetime does not change in moments of grief, and Pixie was a sociable little creature who must needs have someone in whom to confide on every occasion. Miss Phipps realised as much, and also that companions of her own age would be better comforters than the teachers, between whom and the pupils there was naturally a great gulf fixed; so she assented at once, saying only—“I will come for you in ten minutes. You must not stay downstairs longer than that,” and Pixie feebly tottered across the hall to the room where the elder girls were sitting. She chose to join them rather than the pupils of her own age, for, as she had previously explained, she had been accustomed to “grown-ups” at home, and felt more interest in their society. The girls raised their heads with starts of surprise as she entered, and came slowly forward to seat herself in a chair. They stared at her with melancholy eyes, but there was a dead silence, for no one knew what to say or how to say it, so they sat in a row facing her, and Pixie blinked and trembled, and screwed her fingers together in a tight little knot.“I’m an orphan!” she said faintly, and five separate sobs of sympathy sounded as replies.“Poor little kid!” said Kate gruffly.“D–arling!” sobbed Flora.“But we all love you, Pixie! Everyone loves you! You can’t be lonely, dear, when you have so many friends,” said Margaret’s soft voice; and a hand stretched out and clutched hers in convulsive energy. It was Lottie’s hand, and Lottie’s face was trembling as if she were going to cry, and a pulse on her temple was beating up and down, Pixie looked at her curiously, and realised that, sorry as the others were, she was somehow sorriest of all, and most anxious to comfort. Lottie had been much subdued and silent since the beginning of the term, and had seemed, if anything, to avoid the society of the girl whom she had treated so badly, but with her fine intuition Pixie had understood quite well that the avoidance arose from no lack of affection. She held Lottie’s hand in a tight pressure while she continued her broken sentences.“And I didn’t know he was going to die. They never told me. Miss Phipps says they didn’t want me to be unhappy, but I’d rather have known. He wasn’t like other people’s fathers. They are old, with grey hair; he was young—like a boy, and so handsome and gay. He always laughed, even if things went wrong, and I was the youngest, and he wouldn’t have me thwarted. No one ever appreciated me like the Major. The very last words he spoke were praising me and saying what a daughter I’d been!”“When you said ‘Good-bye,’ you mean. That’s good to think of, isn’t it, Pixie? He knew he would never see you again, and that afterwards you would remember all he said, and treasure it in your heart, and the sweetest thing of all is to know that you were a joy and pleasure to him. It is a comfort to think that he is well again, isn’t it? Quite well and happy in heaven!”“I want him on earth!” said Pixie, and the tears flowed down her cheeks. “We all want him. What is to become of us without our father? I feel as if I could never be happy again, but he said I must be. ‘Be as happy as you can,’ he said, ‘and make other people happy too. Never trouble a bit about your lessons, but go on loving and making sunshine, and you’ll do a great work in the world.’ Those were the very last words I heard him speak.”It was a somewhat free translation, so far as lessons were concerned, and the girls realised as much, being accustomed to Pixie and her ways, but they allowed that part of the story to pass without comment, and referred only to what was obviously a literal repetition.“Well, then, of course, you must obey his last words! It would not be like a good daughter if you didn’t. You must go on loving us, and making us happy, and we shall all be wretched if we see you fretting. You do make us happy, you know, Pixie! We have been ever so much livelier since you came. I think it ought to cheer anyone to know that she can make thirty-three people happy, don’t you, now?”“Can I—can I really?” Pixie inquired wistfully. “I’m glad of that, and I will try, but I can’t help fretting a little first! I don’t think the Major would like it if I didn’t fret for him.” And at this moment Miss Phipps came into the room and put an end to the conference.“I can’t let you sit up a moment longer, you weary little girl! Say ‘Good-night’ at once, and one of the girls shall go upstairs with you, and help you to undress. Which will you have?”Pixie looked from one to the other of her companions with uncertain gaze. Where everyone was so kind it was hard to choose. Ethel had not tossed her head once since she entered the room; Kate kept taking off her spectacles, and polishing them on her handkerchief; Flora looked so kind and comfortable; the “Bridgie’s expression” was stronger than ever in Margaret’s eyes; but there was a something in Lottie’s face—a humble, wistful longing which was to be found nowhere else.“Lottie, please!” she cried quickly; and the other girls realised at once that the cure had begun, for Pixie was already forgetting herself, and considering how she could make other people happy!

It was six weeks later that the girls in Holly House heard a sharp, wailing cry from within the portals of Miss Phipps’s private room, and looked at each other with eyes of sympathetic understanding. The knowledge that Pixie’s father was seriously ill had leaked out among the elder pupils, and this afternoon, as they returned from their walk, a telegraph boy had met them in the drive, and Mademoiselle had turned pale and muttered below her breath. Miss Phipps called her aside on entering, and at tea-time there were unmistakable tear-marks round her eyes, and she was even more affectionate than usual in her manner to Pixie,—poor, unconscious Pixie, who was in radiant spirits, and quite puffed up with pride because she had suddenly remembered a favourite exploit as practised at Knock Castle, and had issued invitations to the fifth-form to come to the classroom before tea and play the part of spectators, while she made a circuit of the room without touching the ground.

“Without—touching—the—ground! Pixie O’Shaughnessy, are you demented?” demanded Flora incredulously. “You can’t fly, I suppose? Then how on earth could you get round a room without touching the floor?”

“Come with me, me dear, and you shall see,” returned Pixie graciously, and forthwith led the way into the big, bare room. There was no class being held at the time, so that the performer and her friends were the only persons present; the chairs were neatly ranged beside the desks, the matches and vases of spills which usually graced the mantelpiece were placed together on a corner bracket, otherwise no article had been moved from its place. Pixie sprang lightly on to a chair near the door, kissed her hand after the manner of the lady riders at the circus, and started off on her mad career.

From one chair to another, from chair number two to the shelf of the old bookcase which filled the middle space of the wall; from the bookcase, with a leap and a bound, on to the oak chest in which were stored drawing-books and copies; from the chest to another chair, and thence with a whoop and wildly waving hands to the end of an ordinary wooden form. Why that form did not collapse at once, and land the invader on the floor, no one of the spectators could understand! Flora gave a hollow groan and leant against the wall in palpitating nervousness; Kate shut her eyes, and Ethel pinched Margaret’s arm with unconscious severity; but, after all, nothing happened! With instantaneous quickness Pixie had fallen forward on her knees, and so restored the bench to its normal position; and now she was off again with another kiss, another flourish, another whisk of those absurd short petticoats. Providentially there was a table close at hand which she could mount without difficulty, and so bring herself to the completion of the first half of her task, but the harder part was still to come.

It was easy enough to run along the blackboard, but what about that space between it and the shelves at the other side of the fireplace? “She can’t do it!” cried Ethel confidently; but Pixie had not made her boast without counting the cost. What if there was no article of furniture within reach, there was a shelf overhead to which one could cling and work slowly along hand over hand until the coal-box offered a friendly footing! Then, when one had been accustomed to climb trees all one’s life, what could be easier than to rest the elbows on the mantelpiece, and with the aid of one foot pressed lightly on that fat, substantial bell, (horrors! suppose it rang!) to wriggle upward until knees joined elbows, and a perpendicular position was once more possible! The gasps and groans from the doorway were even more encouraging than applause, and under their influence it was impossible to resist indulging in a few extravagances, such as standing poised on one leg, blowing more kisses, and bowing from side to side after the manner of that fascinating circus lady. Another bound sent her lightly on to the one substantial chair which the room possessed—Miss Phipps’s seat when she came to take a class. It rocked, of course, but to balance it was child’s play, compared with the really difficult feat with the form, and for the rest of the course the way was easy. Anyone could have run along the substantial dumb waiter, stepped down to the chair by its side, and so, with a leap, to the one from which the start had been made. Pixie stopped, panting, gasping, and smirking at her companions, expectant of adulation, but there was more reproach than praise in store.

“You are mad!” cried Ethel shortly. “Stark, staring mad! No thanks to you that every bone in your body isn’t broken. I wonder what Miss Phipps would have said if she had come in while you were pirouetting on the mantelpiece! It would have been your turn to be surprised then, my young friend.”

“I n–n–never did see such a sight in all my born days,” stuttered Flora blankly. “You’ve made me feel quite ill. My heart is pumping like an engine. I thought every moment you would be killed. I call it mean and unkind to ask us to look on while you play such tricks, for you know very well we should be blamed if anything went wrong! I’ll never come again, so you needn’t trouble to ask me!”

“Pixie dear, it really is most dangerous! You might have sprained your ankle a dozen times over. Promise me, promise me faithfully, that you will never do it again!” pleaded Margaret gently; but Pixie shook her head in obstinate fashion.

“Me dear, don’t ask me! I’ll tell you no stories. I’ve done it a dozen times at home, and so have Bridgie and Esmeralda. It was a fine handicap we had one night, boys against girls, and Bridgie the winner, being so light on her feet. You wouldn’t wish to forbid what my own family approves.” She drew herself up with an air of dignity as she pronounced the last words, and skipped out of the room, as the quickest way of closing the argument; but when tea-time arrived she was still abeam with complacency, and pleasantly conscious of being the object of an unusual amount of attention. The girls all looked at her and smiled so kindly when they met her eye; jam and scones were pressed upon her from half a dozen different quarters; Mademoiselle called her “chérie,” and even Miss Phipps said “dear.” “Are you having a good tea, dear?” “Won’t you have another cup of tea, dear?” It was all very pleasant and gratifying, and she felt convinced that the fame of her exploit had spread over the school, and that even the teachers had been unable to resist it.

She was strutting out of the dining-room at the conclusion of the meal, when Miss Phipps laid a hand on her shoulder and said, “Come into my room, Pixie,” and a moment later she stood within the boudoir, staring around with wide, astonished eyes. Mademoiselle had followed, and was twisting her hands together, trying vainly not to cry. Miss Phipps looked at her and made a little signal, but Mademoiselle only shook her head, and held out her hands with a helpless gesture, and then Miss Phipps began to speak herself, in such a gentle voice—a voice quite different from her usual brisk, decided accents.

“Pixie dear, I have something to tell you. God has been very kind to the dear father whom you love so much. He saw that he could never be well again—never able to move about, nor walk, nor ride, as he had done before, and instead of leaving him to lie helpless upon his bed for long weary years, as so many poor sufferers have had to do, He took him home at once, and made him well and strong again. You must not think of your father as dead, Pixie. He is alive and happy in heaven!”

But it was too early for the dead man’s child to realise that beautiful truth, and Pixie burst into a passion of grief, and the girls without heard the long pitiful wails and nestled close to each other and sobbed in sympathy.

Miss Phipps talked on and on, saying comforting words in that new sweet voice, and Mademoiselle put her arms fondly round the little figure and said—

“You will be brave,chérie. You are always brave! All the O’Shaughnessys are brave—your Bridgie told me so, and said it was the pride of the family! You will not be the first to act like a coward. No!” But the shock was too sudden to be borne with resignation.

“We haven’t got any family now! How can you have a family without a father? He wouldn’t have died if I had been at home. He was always cheerful when I was with him, and he said himself I was better than a doctor. Oh, Major, Major! Oh, Bridgie, Bridgie! Me heart’s broken! Me heart’s broken!”

Pixie wept and wailed, and presently Miss Phipps stopped trying to console, and let her weep her fill, knowing well that the noisy grief is never the most lasting, and that when the first passion was exhausted she would be more ready for comfort. She had purposely delayed telling the sad news until tea was over, and presently it would be time for bed, when the sleep of childhood would drop its soothing curtain over grief. Pixie lay on the sofa, and cried until her face was swollen and she was too exhausted to cry any longer, and Miss Phipps was just about to propose a move to bed when, to her amazement, the child suddenly put her feet to the ground, sat up, and said faintly—

“I want to see the girls!”

Well, after all, it was a natural request, for the bent of a lifetime does not change in moments of grief, and Pixie was a sociable little creature who must needs have someone in whom to confide on every occasion. Miss Phipps realised as much, and also that companions of her own age would be better comforters than the teachers, between whom and the pupils there was naturally a great gulf fixed; so she assented at once, saying only—

“I will come for you in ten minutes. You must not stay downstairs longer than that,” and Pixie feebly tottered across the hall to the room where the elder girls were sitting. She chose to join them rather than the pupils of her own age, for, as she had previously explained, she had been accustomed to “grown-ups” at home, and felt more interest in their society. The girls raised their heads with starts of surprise as she entered, and came slowly forward to seat herself in a chair. They stared at her with melancholy eyes, but there was a dead silence, for no one knew what to say or how to say it, so they sat in a row facing her, and Pixie blinked and trembled, and screwed her fingers together in a tight little knot.

“I’m an orphan!” she said faintly, and five separate sobs of sympathy sounded as replies.

“Poor little kid!” said Kate gruffly.

“D–arling!” sobbed Flora.

“But we all love you, Pixie! Everyone loves you! You can’t be lonely, dear, when you have so many friends,” said Margaret’s soft voice; and a hand stretched out and clutched hers in convulsive energy. It was Lottie’s hand, and Lottie’s face was trembling as if she were going to cry, and a pulse on her temple was beating up and down, Pixie looked at her curiously, and realised that, sorry as the others were, she was somehow sorriest of all, and most anxious to comfort. Lottie had been much subdued and silent since the beginning of the term, and had seemed, if anything, to avoid the society of the girl whom she had treated so badly, but with her fine intuition Pixie had understood quite well that the avoidance arose from no lack of affection. She held Lottie’s hand in a tight pressure while she continued her broken sentences.

“And I didn’t know he was going to die. They never told me. Miss Phipps says they didn’t want me to be unhappy, but I’d rather have known. He wasn’t like other people’s fathers. They are old, with grey hair; he was young—like a boy, and so handsome and gay. He always laughed, even if things went wrong, and I was the youngest, and he wouldn’t have me thwarted. No one ever appreciated me like the Major. The very last words he spoke were praising me and saying what a daughter I’d been!”

“When you said ‘Good-bye,’ you mean. That’s good to think of, isn’t it, Pixie? He knew he would never see you again, and that afterwards you would remember all he said, and treasure it in your heart, and the sweetest thing of all is to know that you were a joy and pleasure to him. It is a comfort to think that he is well again, isn’t it? Quite well and happy in heaven!”

“I want him on earth!” said Pixie, and the tears flowed down her cheeks. “We all want him. What is to become of us without our father? I feel as if I could never be happy again, but he said I must be. ‘Be as happy as you can,’ he said, ‘and make other people happy too. Never trouble a bit about your lessons, but go on loving and making sunshine, and you’ll do a great work in the world.’ Those were the very last words I heard him speak.”

It was a somewhat free translation, so far as lessons were concerned, and the girls realised as much, being accustomed to Pixie and her ways, but they allowed that part of the story to pass without comment, and referred only to what was obviously a literal repetition.

“Well, then, of course, you must obey his last words! It would not be like a good daughter if you didn’t. You must go on loving us, and making us happy, and we shall all be wretched if we see you fretting. You do make us happy, you know, Pixie! We have been ever so much livelier since you came. I think it ought to cheer anyone to know that she can make thirty-three people happy, don’t you, now?”

“Can I—can I really?” Pixie inquired wistfully. “I’m glad of that, and I will try, but I can’t help fretting a little first! I don’t think the Major would like it if I didn’t fret for him.” And at this moment Miss Phipps came into the room and put an end to the conference.

“I can’t let you sit up a moment longer, you weary little girl! Say ‘Good-night’ at once, and one of the girls shall go upstairs with you, and help you to undress. Which will you have?”

Pixie looked from one to the other of her companions with uncertain gaze. Where everyone was so kind it was hard to choose. Ethel had not tossed her head once since she entered the room; Kate kept taking off her spectacles, and polishing them on her handkerchief; Flora looked so kind and comfortable; the “Bridgie’s expression” was stronger than ever in Margaret’s eyes; but there was a something in Lottie’s face—a humble, wistful longing which was to be found nowhere else.

“Lottie, please!” she cried quickly; and the other girls realised at once that the cure had begun, for Pixie was already forgetting herself, and considering how she could make other people happy!

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