and best of all, took
Pixie in hand, and kept her interested and content. It was the strong
wish of her brothers and sisters that Pixie should not suspect the
dangerous nature of her father's illness, for they knew her excitable
nature, and trembled for the effect on the invalid of one of her
passionate bursts of lamentation.

"Besides, what's the use? Let her be happy as long as she can! I want
her to be happy!" cried Bridgie pathetically; and Mademoiselle assented,
knowing full well that the very effort of keeping up before the child
would be good for the rest of the household. There was no preventing
one interview, however, for the Major was as much set on seeing his
piccaninny as she was determined to see him; so on the evening of the
second day Bridgie led her cautiously into the room, and the sick man
moved his eyes--the only part of him that seemed able to move--and
looked wistfully into the eager face.

"Well, my Pixie, I've been getting into trouble, you see!"

"Does it hurt ye, father? Have you got a pain?"

"Never a bit, Pixie. I'm just numb. I feel as if I can't move!"

"I've felt the same meself. Many times! I feel it every morning at
school when the gong rings and I'm made to get up. It's the same as
being lazy."

The Major smiled for the first time since his return home. He never
could resist Pixie's quaint speeches, and Bridgie watched with delight
his brightening glance.

"Is it, piccaninny? That doesn't sound very serious. You'll have to
tell the doctor to be stern with me. What have you been doing with
yourself all day?"

"Fretting for you, but Mademoiselle's going to play games with me, and
I'll enjoy them now that you're comfortable. You've got on the very
best pillow-cases, father. You do look smart! Are you tired now? Do
you want to go to sleep? Will I sing to you awhile, the hymn you liked
so much at church last Sunday?"

Bridgie looked dismayed at the suggestion, but it appeared that Pixie
knew best what would please her father, for once more his face
brightened, and the eyes flashed an assent. On Sunday evenings in
winter, when the long dark walk made it difficult to get to church, the
O'Shaughnessys had been accustomed to sing hymns together, not in the
drawling, slipshod method in which such singing is too often done, but
with at least as much care and finish as they would have bestowed on
secular music, the different parts being accurately represented, and due