More about Pixie | Page 8

under a pretty hat. I won't allow my hair
to fall out, and that's the end of it!"
"Well, p'r'aps it won't, after all, miss! We must 'ope for the best," said

the barber cheerfully.
He and Whitey talked incessantly all the time the hair-cutting was
proceeding, with the fond hope of distracting the girl's attention; but in
naughty mood she refused to listen, insisted on sitting directly in front
of her glass, and was rewarded for her pains by catching a glimpse of a
bald spot on the crown of her head, which put the finishing touch of
depression.
When the doctor arrived for his morning visit, he found a most
melancholy patient, and held a serious consultation with nurse on the
staircase before departing.
"She seems very low and listless this morning. Can't you do something
to cheer her up? I am afraid we are going to have trouble with that foot,
and if she has to lie up again it will never do for her to get in a
melancholy condition. You do your best, I know, but she needs a
change. There is no reason why she should not see visitors. Has she no
young friends who could come to have tea with her, and make her
laugh?"
Whitey sighed, and leant against the banisters with a dejected air. It is
exhausting work being cheerful for two, and no one would have
welcomed a laughing stranger more heartily than herself. The question
was,--where was she to be found?
"She was lamenting to me the other day that she had no girl-friends.
She went abroad to school, and has had little opportunity of making
acquaintances since she came home. Miss Munns is very--conservative.
She does not care to associate with her neighbours. There is a charming
girl who has come to live opposite. We watch her from the window,
and Sylvia has been trying to persuade her aunt to call for the last three
weeks; but it is useless. I'm sorry, for she looks just the very person we
want."
"Won't call, won't she? We'll see about that. I'm not going to have my
patient thrown back, after all the trouble I've had with her, for fifty old
ladies and their prejudices. You leave it to me!" cried the jovial doctor,

and tramped downstairs into the parlour to give his orders forthwith.
A little diplomacy, a little coaxing, a few words of warning to revive
affectionate anxiety, a good big dose of flattery, and the thing was done;
and, what was better still, Aunt Margaret was left under the happy
delusion that the projected visit was the outcome of her own inspiration.
She said nothing to the invalid, but at half-past three that afternoon she
put on her woollen crossover, and a black silk muffler, and her best silk
dolman, and dear Aunt Sarah's sable pelerine, and her Sunday bonnet,
and new black kid gloves, two sizes too big, carried her tortoiseshell
card-case in one hand, and her umbrella in the other, and sailed across
the road to call at Number Three.
Sylvia had gone back to bed after lunch by her own request. The hair-
cutting ordeal had tired her out, and there was, besides, a deep-seated
wearing pain in one foot and ankle which made her long to lie still and
rest. She tried to sleep, and after long waiting had just arrived at that
happy stage when thoughts grow misty, and a gentle prickling feeling
creeps up from the toes to the brain, when a patriotic barrel- organ
began to rattle out the strains of "Rule, Britannia" from the end of the
road, and the chance was gone. Then Whitey read aloud for an hour,
but the book had come to a dull, uneventful stage, and the chapters
dragged heavily.
Sylvia longed for tea as an oasis in this desert of a day, and despatched
nurse to bid Mary bring it up half an hour before the usual time. And
then came a charming surprise! Back came Whitey all smiles and
dimples, the tired lines wiped out of her face as by a miracle. She stood
in the doorway, looking at her patient with dancing eyes.
"I've brought you something better than tea!" she cried. "Just look what
I have brought you!" As she spoke she moved to the side, as if to make
room for another visitor, and--was it a dream, or could it really be
true?--there stood the bride of Number Three, the sweet-faced Angelina,
in her black dress, her grey eyes soft with welcome.
"Oh!" cried Sylvia shrilly. "Oh--oh!" She sat up in bed and stretched
out two thin little hands, all a-tremble with excitement. "It's you! Oh,

how did you come? What made you come? How did you know I
wanted you so