r to
make a draught. Does he get feverish at nights? It's a mercy I brought
a cake, for I don't believe there's a _thing_. Does he take it strong?"

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

"What strong?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pixie nodded gravely.

"Yes. We were both sorry. We wa