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"Not at home, madam!" Bridgie gasped, and looked blank dismay, but Pixie's shrill protest could not be restrained. "Not at home, when I saw her meself not a second ago looking out of the window?" What would have happened it is difficult to say, but at that moment a voice sounded from afar, an eager voice repeating two names over and over again in tones of rapturous welcome.
Next morning Pixie's face was still swollen and puffy, but her elastic spirits had sufficiently recovered to enable her to make repeated attempts to converse with her taciturn companions, and to run in and out of their cubicles to play lady's-maid as usual, in such useful, unostentatious ways as carrying water, folding nightgowns, and tying hair ribbons.
During the weeks which followed, "Pixie's Prep" became a by-word among her companions, for no amount of goading seemed sufficient to keep her attention from roaming from her books during the hours when it was most necessary that she should give them her undivided attention.
She held out her hand as she spoke, and Pixie's thin fingers grasped hers with a force that was almost painful.
Pixie's elastic spirits went up with a bound, and every week they grew higher and higher, until at last it became a question of days, and Bridgie's letter must needs be addressed to Jack's lodgings instead of Knock Castle, for by the time it was delivered the dear visitors would have arrived in town.
I cannot think a girl of your age should cry over a simple verrrb." "I thought it was a very elaborate verb!" said Pixie faintly. "But it wasn't that that made me cry; it was hurting your feelings, Mademoiselle!" Mademoiselle leant back in her seat and looked intently at the shrinking figure. "Look up, cherie!" she said softly, and Pixie's fear fell from her like a mantle.
Pixie's face was white and awed, for the solemnity of the occasion and the poetry of the impersonation alike appealed to her emotional nature, and there was an expression upon the plain little face which was more impressive than any mere pink and white prettiness, as more than one of the onlookers remarked with astonishment.
The three girls who shared Pixie's room were not forbidden to speak to her when they went upstairs to bed, and their first impulse was to pull aside the curtains of her cubicle, where she was discovered lying on the top of the bed, still fully dressed, with features swollen and disfigured with crying.
Mrs Wallace gave a start of consternation, and the smile faded from her lips. She looked first at Bridgie, then across the room to where Viva stood on tiptoe dragging at Pixie's sleeve, and reiterating, "Mamzelle! Mamzelle Paddy, will you come again to my nursery? Will you tell me more stories about those peoples in the lamp-posts?" "Oh, don't say it is impossible!" she said softly.
I'll go into Mademoiselle's room next time I have a chance, and have a good look at it all to myself!" The girls smiled, but took little note of a determination which seemed natural enough under the circumstances. A week afterwards they remembered it with very different feelings, and Pixie's own words were brought up in judgment against her.
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