“They are very good pickles! I can’t see that making them is any less dignified than ‘bulling’ and ‘bearing’ cotton—whatever that may mean!—Stanor used to write of it in his letters. Honor’s father loved his workmen, and made her promise to go on looking after them as he had done. She doesn’t need any more money; it would be easier for her to retire and hand over the factory to some one else. It’s for the men’s sake that she keeps it on, and to keep her promise to her father. Mr Glynn, you must love Honor. She’s good, and true, and honourable, and she’s—Stanor’s wife!”
“How could he? How could he?” Stephen rose impetuously, and began pacing up and down, a rare excitement growing in voice and manner. “When he could have had You! ... Good? Yes! She may be good—I’m not denying the girl’s good points. She has behaved well. She has her attractions—Stanor evidently thinks her beautiful—but—he might have had You! ... He has chosen this girl with her ordinary attractions, instead of your sweetness, your sunshine, your generosity, your kindness! Your voice, Pixie; your eyes ... Your love! He was so blind ... so deaf. ... The substance was his, and for a shadow—a poor, faint shadow—”
Pixie had risen in her turn. Red as a rose she stood before him, with shrinking eyes, but hands held out in sweet, courageous invitation.
“If ye think so much of me as all that,” said the deep voice breathlessly, “wouldn’t ye like me for yourself?”
Ten minutes later the miracle, the wonder, was as marvellous as ever: as incredible to the man whose life was suddenly irradiated with sunshine.
“Pixie! Pixie!” he cried. “My youth! ... Will you give it back to me, sweetheart—the youth that I lost?”
“Beloved!” said Pixie, and her voice was as the swell of a deep organ note. “It was not lost. It’s been waiting for you—” she touched her heart with an eloquent gesture—“here!”