ember to-day's
experience, and see before him the picture of Pixie O'Shaughnessy in her
rose frock, with the firelight shining on her face. Her unconsciousness
had added largely to the charm of the moment, but now that the tension
was relaxed there was a distinct air of complacence in her reply.

"'Tis a gift; we all have it. The concerts we had at Knock, and every
one playing a separate instrument, with not a thing to help us but our
own hands! I was the flute. D'ye remember, Pat, the way I whistled a
flute till ye all stopped to listen to me?"

"I do not," said Pat. "I was the 'cello myself, fiddling with a ruler
on me own knees, double pedalling with _two_ knees! I had no thought
for flutes. Ye made the most noise, I'll say that for ye!"

As usual in any discussion, brother and sister fell back to the brogue
of their youth, which time and absence had softened to just an agreeable
hint of an Irish accent. Stephen smiled with amusement, and expressed a
wish to hear the exhibition on another day.

"But do sing us something else now," he said; "something worthy to come
after `The Wings.'"

And for the next hour, while the light waned till they could no longer
see one another across the room, Pixie sang one beautiful strain after
another, always in the same soft, restrained voice, which could neither
disturb the neighbours above or below, nor be too strong for the size of
the little room. It was not show singing--rather was it a series of
"tryings over," prefaced by "Oh, do you know this?" or "Don't you love
that bit?" so that each man felt at liberty to join in as the impulse
took him, till at times all three were singing together.

The hours sped by with wonderful quickness, and when tea-time arrived
Stephen insisted upon his right to help his hostess to clear away the
meal, and when they returned to the sitting-room, lo! Pat had fallen
asleep, and there was nothing to do for it but to return to the kitchen,
now immaculately clean and neat under the rule of the admirable Moffatt.

"We might as well begin to think about supper, and forage around," Pixie
suggested, but Stephen echoed her own dislike of thinking of meals too
far ahead, and pled for delay.

"It's rather a strain to sit and look at cold meat for a solid hour at a
stretch, don't you think?" he asked persuasively. "It would spoil my
appetite. Can't we just--be quiet?"

"You can," was Pixie's candid answer; "I'm going to write! I've the
g