dreamed of borrowing the beloved pet name, Pixie's
nose might not be to her approval; it might even scoop--to be perfectly
candid, it _did_ scoop--but it had never yet been put out of joint. The
one and only, the inimitable Pixie, she still lived enthroned in the
hearts of her brothers and sisters, as something specially and
peculiarly their own.

So it was that a pang rent Bridgie's heart at the realisation that the
little sister was grown-up, was actually twenty years of age--past
twenty, going to be twenty-one in a few more months, and that the time
was approaching when a stranger might have the audacity to steal her
from the fold. To her own heart, Bridgie realised the likelihood of
such a theft, and the naturalness thereof: outwardly, for Pixie's
benefit she appeared shocked to death.

"L-lovers!" gasped Bridgie. "Lovers! Is it you, Pixie O'Shaughnessy, I
hear talking of such things? I'm surprised; I'm shocked! I never could
have believed you troubled your head about such matters."

"But I do," asserted Pixie cheerfully. "Lots. Not to say _trouble_,
exactly, for it's most agreeable. I pretend about them, and decide what
they'll be like. When I see a man that takes my fancy, I add him to the
list. Mostly they're clean-shaved, but I saw one the other day with a
beard--" She lifted a warning finger to stay Bridgie's cry of protest.
"Not a straggler, but a naval one, short and trim; and you wouldn't
believe how becoming it was! I decided then to have one with a beard.
And they are mostly tall and handsome, and rolling in riches, so that I
can buy anything I like, nose included. But one must be poor and sad,
because that," announced Pixie, in her most radiant fashion, "would be
good for my character. I'd be sorry for him, the creature! And, as
they say in books, 'twould soften me. Would you say honestly, now,
Bridgie, that I'm in _need_ of softening?"

"I should not. I should say you were soft enough already. _Too_ soft!"
declared Bridgie sternly. "`Them,' indeed! Plural, I'll trouble you!
Just realise, my child, that there are not enough men to go round, and
don't waste time making pictures of a chorus who will never appear. If
you have _one_ lover, it will be more than your share; and it's doubtful
if you ever get that."

"I doubt it," maintained Pixie sturdily. "I'm plain, but I've a way.
You know yourself, me dear, I've a way! ... I'm afraid I'll have lots;
and that's the trouble of it, f