a contemporary of “mon père” and tottering on the verge of dotage. It appeared, however, by after accounts, that he was barely fifty, which Dick Victor insisted was an age of comparative vigour. “Quite a suitable match!” he had pronounced it, but Pixie obstinately withheld her approval. Mademoiselle, as mademoiselle, would have been a regular visitor for life; Madame, the wife of a husband exigent in disposition, and deeply distrustful of “le mer” must perforce stay dutifully at home in Paris, and was therefore lost to her English friends.
Ah! The years—what changes they brought! What toll they demanded! So many friends lost to sight, drifted afar by the stream of life. So many changes, so many breaks. What would the years bring next?
Pixie shut her eyes and leaned back in her seat, and being young, and sad, and faint, and hungry, and very, very tired, Mother Nature came to her aid, and laying gentle fingers on the closed lids sealed them in sleep, her kindliest gift.
Pixie slept, and round the corner of this straight green hedge fate came marching towards her, with footsteps growing momentarily louder, and louder upon the gravel path.
Chapter Fourteen.
A Proposal of Marriage.
Stanor Vaughan stood with his hands thrust deep into his pockets looking down upon Pixie’s pale, unconscious face. He had motored thirty miles to hear the latest news of the little patient—that was certainly one reason of his visit; but a second had undoubtedly been to see once more the little patient’s aunt! At the house he had been informed that Miss O’Shaughnessy was in the garden, and had tracked her without difficulty to her favourite seat, and now there she lay, poor, sweet, tired little soul! With her head tilted back against the hedge, and the wee mites of hands crossed upon her lap—an image of weariness and dejection.