t the music in the
Abbey, and especially of the anthem, and at the mention of it Pixie drew
a deep sigh of enjoyment.

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

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

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

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

"It was a very beautiful solo, Miss O'Shaughnessy," said Stephen
gravely. He was still too much under the influence of the strain to
think of future events. As long as he lived he would rem