t nice. It's given you a wrinkle. Take no notice, and
she'll write to-morrow to say she's sorry. She's got to worry or die,
but there's no reason why you should die too. Roll it up into spills,
and forget all about it."

"I can't--it's important. And she's not worrying. It's very--" Bridgie
paused for a moment, just one moment, to swallow that accusation of
selfishness--"_kind_! Pixie darling, it's about _You_."

"Me!" cried Pixie, and dropped her spoon with a clang. Bridgie had
already pushed back her chair from the table; Pixie pushed hers to
follow suit. Such a prosaic affair as breakfast had plainly vanished
from their thoughts, but Captain Victor had by no means forgotten, nor
did it suit him to face emotional scenes to an accompaniment of bacon
and eggs.

"_After_ breakfast, please!" he cried, in what his wife described as his
"barracks" voice, and which had the effect in this instance of making
her turn on the tap of the urn so hurriedly that she had not had time to
place her cup underneath. She blushed and frowned. Pixie deftly moved
the toast-rack so as to conceal the damage, and proceeded to eat a
hearty breakfast with undiminished appetite.

It was not until Captain Victor had left the room to pay his morning
visit to the nursery, that Bridgie again referred to her sister's
letter, and then her first words were of reproach.

"How you could sit there, Pixie, eating your breakfast, as calm as you
please, when you knew there was news--news that concerned yourself!"

"I was hungry," said Pixie calmly. "And I love excitement; it's the
breath of my nostrils. All the while I was making up stories, with
myself as heroine. I'm afraid it will be only disappointment I'll feel
when you tell me. Truth is so tame, compared to imagination. Besides,
there was Dick!" She smiled a forbearing, elderly smile. "You can't
live in the house with Dick without learning self-control. He's so--"

"He's not!" contradicted Dick's wife, with loyal fervour. "Dick was
quite right; he always is. It was his parents who were to blame for
making him English." She sighed, and stared reflectively out of the
window. "We ought to be thankful, Pixie, that we are Irish through and
through. It means so much that English people can't even understand--
seeing jokes when they are sad, and happiness when they are bored and
being poor and not caring, and miserable and forgetting, and interested,
and excited--"

"Every singl