to be shot for it the next moment;
and girls who would trick and deceive to get a mean advantage over
another. Patricia O'Shaughnessy, which are you going to 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
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