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Updated: June 8, 2025
Here's our Baby!" Sylvia sat up eagerly and held the photograph up to the light. She looked at it, and blinked her eyes to be sure she had seen aright. She cast a swift look at Bridgie's face to assure herself that she was not the victim of a practical joke. She pressed her lips together to repress an exclamation of dismay.
The white mice looked on coldly with their little pink eyes, while their mistress's own grew red with the misery of parting from them, and the rabbit seized the opportunity to gnaw Bridgie's skirt with its sharp teeth; but for Pixie the keenest pang of parting was over when she saw no more the floor with its scattered cabbage-leaves, and the door closed behind her, shutting out the dear mousy, rabbity smell associated with so many happy hours.
The third-form girls were, to a man, peeping through the curtains of their classroom; Ethel had left her music in the drawing-room, and rushed downstairs to reclaim it the moment the door-bell rang; Kate suddenly felt it impossible to live without a clean handkerchief, and on her way upstairs waited round the corner of the hall until she could meet the visitors face to face; Flora peeped through the banisters, and snored so loudly in her excitement that she was in instant danger of discovery; and Pixie rushed like a whirlwind from the top of the house, and flung herself into Bridgie's arms.
So Sylvia purposely kept out of Bridgie's way during the ten days after the receipt of her letter, and when they met it was easy to tell just what she chose, and keep silent about the rest, for Bridgie was not one of the curious among womenkind, and never dreamt of questioning and cross-questioning as to the plans of another.
"This is Bridgie's youngest sister, Aunt Margaret Pixie O'Shaughnessy." "I hope you are quite well, my dear," said Miss Munns. "Good morning, madame!" said Pixie in her most Parisian manner, not attempting to shake hands, but bowing with an air of gracious effusion from half-way across the room.
Esmeralda hung on to Bridgie's arm relating in breathless accents how, being herself unable to go abroad until after the New Year, the happy inspiration had occurred to Geoffrey of despatching the French maid to her native city to bring back the dear living Christmas present which now stood before them; how the travellers had arrived on the previous evening, afire with delight at their own share in the conspiracy; how she herself had conceived the idea of presenting Pixie in the form of a portrait, and had brought the frame from home, and tacked across it a piece of black gauze to heighten the picture-like effect.
Her hair was as dark as Bridgie's was fair, and stood out from her head in a mass of curls and waves, her features were perfect in their haughty, aquiline curves, and the bloom of youth was on her cheeks.
What could that be? Pixie rushed to the table, and oh, joy of joys, there lay a big fat letter with the Bally William postmark in the corner, and Bridgie's dear, well-known writing straggling over its surface. No one in the world wrote such sweet letters as Bridgie, and how dear of her to time this one to arrive at the moment of all others when it was most desired!
In her opinion Bridgie's explanation had been singularly inadequate, and she was filled with indignation at the babel of sounds which drowned her conclusion. Bridgie was seized with a paroxysm of coughing, Mademoiselle with admirable promptitude knocked an old metal cup from a bracket, and sent it clanging to the floor, and Pat cried shrilly "See a spook!
Sylvia pictured to herself the long, monotonous day in that dreary little room, the constant hope which reached its fulfilment when the door swung open and Bridgie's face smiled a greeting, leaving behind her the fragrant blossoms to sweeten the hours with their own perfume, and the remembrance of another's care. Such a simple thing to do! Such an easy thing!
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