re
about. You don't want to be unkind--"

Pixie stared--a stunned, incredulous stare.

"Unkind! To _him_! Are you raving? What am I to be careful about?"

"Oh--oh--_everything_!" Bridgie's breath came in a gasp of
helplessness. It had been difficult to speak, but a sense of duty had
driven her on, and now it was too late to stop. "Don't--don't talk to
him so much. Don't look at him." (Did Pixie realise how instinctively
her eyes sought Stephen's for sympathy and appreciation?) "Don't sit by
the fire and sing."

A flush spread over Pixie's cheek; her eyes widened.

"_Why_? Doesn't he like it? Isn't it _nice_?"

"Oh-oh, _Pixie_!" cried Bridgie helplessly. A vision rose before her of
a little figure in a rose-coloured gown, of the firelight playing on the
upturned face. She heard again, the deep crooning notes which filled
the room with sweetness. To herself, a sister, the picture was full of
charm--what must it be to a lonely man, in love for the first time in
thirty-five years? She rose from her chair and came across to the bed:
face to face, within the stretch of an arm, the sisters waited in
silence, while the clock on the mantelpiece ticked out a long minute.
"Pixie," whispered Bridgie breathlessly, "_don't you know_?"

"What?"

"Don't you know, Pixie, that he loves you?"

"Who loves me?"

"Stephen Glynn. Oh, Pixie, didn't you see?"

The colour faded from Pixie's face; she threw out her hand as if to ward
off a threatened danger. There was a note almost of anger in her
reply--

"It's not true; it's not! It couldn't be true. ... He care for me!
For Me! You're mad, Bridgie! You're dreaming! There's nothing..."

"Oh, Pixie, there _is_! I saw it the first evening. I'd have spoken
before, but Pat was so ill. Then I tried--you know how. I tried!--to
send you away. I knew that every day was making it harder for him, more
difficult to forget. I was so _sorry_ for him! Pixie, he is
thirty-five, and has suffered so much. It's hard on a man when he gets
to that age, and--"

"_Don't_!" cried Pixie sharply. She thrust out her hand once more, and
cowered as if from a blow. "Bridgie, I can't bear it! Don't torture
me, Bridgie. ... It _isn't_ true! You are making it up. Ah, Bridgie,
it's because you love me yourself that you think every one must do the
same! He's--Stanor's uncle ... Pat's friend--he was just kind like
other friends. ... He never said a word ... looked a look."