Stephen went off laughing, and Pixie shook up Pat's pillows, bathed his hands, and kissed him several times on the tip of his nose, a proceeding which he considered offensive to his dignity, and then went off to change the crushable velvet skirt for a house dress of her favourite rose hue--a quaint little garment made in a picturesque style, which had no connection whatever with the prevailing fashion. When she returned to the sitting-room she seated herself on the floor beside the fire, and Pat, now entirely restored to equanimity and a little ashamed of his previous ill-humour, himself inquired about the morning's experiences. Like all the O'Shaughnessys he was intensely musical, and during his sojourn in London had taken every opportunity to hear all the good concerts within reach. He now wanted to hear about the music in the Abbey, and especially of the anthem, and at the mention of it Pixie drew a deep sigh of enjoyment. "Oh, Pat, a boy sang `Oh, for the wings'! If you could have heard it!-- A clear, clear voice, so thrillingly sweet, soaring away up to that wonderful roof. And he sang with such feeling." ... She began softly humming the air, and Stephen knew then for a certainty whence had come those rich, soft notes which had come to his ears in the Abbey. "Sing it, Pixie, sing it!" cried Pat impatiently. "You promised, and it's one of my favourites. Go on; I'll accompany!" Stephen looked round inquiringly. No piano was in the room, no musical instrument of any kind, and Pat lay helpless upon his bed. How, then, could he accompany? The O'Shaughnessy ingenuity had, however, overcome greater difficulties than this, and it was not the first time by many that Pat had hummed an effective and harmonious background to his sister's songs. As for Pixie, she opened her mouth and began to sing as simply and naturally as a bird. She had a lovely voice, mezzo-soprano in range, and though she now kept it sweetly subdued, the hearer realised that it had also considerable power. She sang as all true singers do--as if the action gave to herself the purest joy, her head tilted slightly on one side, as if to listen more intently to each clear, sweet note as it fell from her lips. ... "_Oh, for the wings, for the wings of a dove; far away, far away would I roam_." ... The words blotted out for the hearers the gathering twilight in the prosaic little room; far away, far away soared their thoughts to heights lofty and beautiful. "_In the wilderness build me a nest, and remain there for ever at rest_." ... How had so young a thing learnt to put so wonderful a meaning into that last word? Pat's rolling accompaniment swelled and sank; now and again for a phrase he softly joined in the words, and in the concluding phrase still another voice joined in in a soft tenor note agreeable to hear.