apable, with the air of
having been there since the beginning of time, and intending to stay
until the end.

For the next few days Pat had a sharp struggle for his life. Pneumonia
clutched him in its grip, and the sound of his painful breathing was
heard all over the little flat. There was a dreadful night when hope
was well-nigh extinguished, when Stephen Glynn and the two sisters
seemed to wrestle with the very angel of death, and Pat himself to face
the end. "Shall I--die?" he gasped, and Bridgie's answering smile
seemed to hold an angelic sweetness.

"I hope not, dear lad. There's so much work for you to do down here,
but if you do--it's going home! Mother's there, and the Major! They'll
welcome you!"

But Pat was young, and the love of life was strong within him. He had
loved his parents, but still more at that moment he loved the thought of
his work. He fought for his life, and the fight was hard.

Into most lives there comes at times such a night as this; a night of
dark, illimitable hours, a night when the world and all its concerns
withdraws itself to unmeasurable distance, and the division between life
and the eternal grows thin and faint. _Would Pat live to see the
morning_? That was the question which to his sisters overwhelmed every
other thought. Afterwards, looking back, Pixie could recall certain
incidents registered by the sub-conscious self. Being gently forced
into a chair; being fed with cups of something hot and nourishing,
placed suddenly in her hands by Stephen Glynn, always by Stephen, who
seemed by his actions to regard her as a secondary invalid, to be tended
with tenderest care. Once, becoming suddenly conscious of his presence,
as she stood in the kitchen preparing some necessary for the sick man, a
growing fear burst into words, and she asked him pitifully--_how_
pitifully she herself could never know--

"Was it _my fault_? Was there _anything_ I could have done?"

"No, dear," he said simply. "It is not your fault."

Pixie was certain that he had said "dear." The rhythm of it remained in
her ears, that, and the deep gentleness of his tone. He had been sorry
for her, _so_ sorry! And he was so much older, and he was Stanor's
uncle. Why should he not say "dear?"

Short and sharp was the attack, but by God's mercy the crisis passed,
and brought relief. Weak as a child, but peaceful and quiet, Pat slept,
and took his first steps back towards life.

At last the dange