Perhaps Dick had divined the double anxiety which was burdening his wife, perhaps he realised how long she would feel a Sunday without news, perhaps out of his own loneliness had arisen a need for words--in any case, that special letter was the longest and, to Bridgie's heart, the dearest which she had received since her departure from home. He told her of the children, and of their latest sayings; he told her of himself and his work; he comforted her, where she needed comfort, cheered her, where she needed cheer, called her by the sweet love names which she most loved to hear, and held before her eyes the prospect of a swift return. And Bridgie reading that letter thanked God for the thousandth time, because on her--undeserving--had been bestowed the greatest gift which a woman can receive--the gift of a faithful love! Ten minutes had passed before she had read and re-read her precious letter, but when she turned her head it was to find Pixie standing in the same position as that in which she had seen her last, gazing down upon a sheet of paper on which a few short lines were written in a masculine writing. At Bridgie's movement she raised her head, and spoke in a curiously low, level voice-- "It is from Stanor. He has sailed for home. Honor Ward and a party of friends were crossing, and he decided at the last moment to come with them. We shall see him on Thursday next." CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. STANOR COMES BACK. It was Thursday morning. With the doctor's permission Pat's bed had been carried back to the minute apartment which was grandiloquently termed a "dressing-room." A sofa took its place in the dining-room, and with the aid of a stick he could walk from one refuge to another, and enjoy what--after the confinement of the past months--appeared quite an exciting variety of scene. Bridgie Victor was still a joint occupant of the "best" bedroom, for since Pat refused to part with Pixie it was plainly the elder sister's duty to stay on over the important meeting with Stanor Vaughan. The modern girl scoffs at the idea of chaperonage, but the O'Shaughnessys were not modern. Bridgie felt the impulse to protect, and Pixie's piteous "_Stay_ with me, Bridgie!" marked the one moment of weakness which she had shown. So Bridgie remained in London, comforted by the knowledge that her husband was well and her children in good hands, and seldom in her life had five days passed so slowly. Sunday itself had seemed a week long, the atmosphere strained and unreal, each member of the little party talking to pass the time, uttering platitudes, and discussing every imaginable subject under the sun but just the one which filled every mind. No need to bid Pixie to be discreet, to warn her not to sing, nor glance too frequently in a certain direction--a talking automaton could not have shown less sign of feeling.