Pixie OShaughnessy | Page 5

choose for your companions?"
Pixie fairly jumped upon her seat with surprise, the use of that seldom- heard name impressing her more than anything else could possibly have done with the importance of the occasion. A murmur of protest did duty as a reply, and Bridgie continued impressively--
"Yes, I am sure you will choose the right sort of friend, for the honour of your name and the family to which you belong; but you must be industrious with your work as well. Now that I have left off lessons I wish I had worked twice as hard, for I feel so ignorant and stupid beside other girls; and you are clever, Pixie, and can do well if you choose. Don't be troublesome to the teachers, dearie; it must be maddening to have to teach day after day, and they have to be cross now and then--the creatures!--to relieve their feelings. And if you feel tempted to be rude and naughty, just remember that you are mother's little baby, and that the last thing she asked was that you should have your chance! Perhaps she sees you still, Pixie! Perhaps God lets her be a white angel to watch over her boys and girls. If you thought mother was watching, you never could do anything to grieve her!"
The ready tears poured down Pixie's face. She sobbed and moaned, and with clasped hands repeated her vow to be good, good, good; never to be naughty again so long as she lived! And Bridgie wept too, smiling through her tears at the impracticability of the promise, the while she clasped the dear little sister to her breast.
CHAPTER TWO.
FOND FAREWELLS.
The morning rose clear and fair, and the sun shone as cheerfully as if no tragedy were about to be enacted, and Pixie O'Shaughnessy would presently run out of doors to sit swinging on a gate, clad in Esmeralda's dyed skirt, Pat's shooting jacket, and the first cap that came to hand, instead of starting on the journey to school in a new dress, a hat with bows and two whole quills at the side, and her hair tied back with a ribbon that had not once been washed! It was almost too stylish to be believed!
Pixie entered the breakfast-room with much the same stride as that with which the big drum-major heads the Lord Mayor's procession, and spread out her dress ostentatiously as she seated herself by the table. The armholes stuck into her arms, the collar was an inch too high, and the chest painfully contracted, but she was intensely proud of herself all the same, and privately thought the London girls would have little spirit left in them when confronted with so much elegance. Bridgie was wiping her eyes behind the urn, Esmeralda was pressing the mustard upon her, the Major was stroking his moustache and smiling as he murmured to himself--
"Uglier than ever in that black frock! Eh--what! Bless the child, it is the mischief to let her go! The house will be lost without her!"
Pat and Miles were conversing together in tones of laboured mystery, a device certain to arrest Pixie's vivid attention.
"On Sundays--yes! Occasionally on Wednesdays also. It does seem rather mean, but I suppose puddings are not good for growing girls. Two a week is ample if you think of it!"
"Good wholesome puddings too!" said Pat, nodding assent. "Suet and rice, and perhaps tapioca for a change! Very sensible, I call it. Porridge for breakfast, I think they said, but no butter, of course?"
"Certainly not! Too bad for the complexion, but cod-liver oil regularly after every meal. Especially large doses to those suffering from change of climate!"
The Major was chuckling with amusement; Bridgie was shaking her head, and murmuring, "Boys, don't! It's cruel!" Pixie was turning from one to the other with eager eyes, and mouth agape with excitement. She knew perfectly well that the conversation was planned for her benefit, and more than guessed its imaginary nature, but it was impossible to resist a thrill--a fear--a doubt! The bread-and-butter was arrested in her hand in the keenness of listening.
"Did I understand you to say no talking allowed?" queried Pat earnestly. "I had an impression that on holiday afternoons a little more liberty might be given?"
"My dear fellow, there are no holidays! They are abolished in modern schools as being unsettling, and disturbing to study. `In work, in work, in work always let my young days be spent!' Pass the marmalade, please! The girls are occasionally allowed to speak to each other in French, or, if they prefer it, in German, or any other Continental language. The constant use of one language is supposed to be bad for the throat. I hope, by the way, father, that you mentioned distinctly that Pixie's throat requires care?"
Pixie cast an agonised glance