Pixie made her way to her favourite seat at the end of a long, straight path, bordered on each side by square-cut hedges of yew. On the north side the great bush had grown to a height of eight or ten feet, with a width almost as great; on the southern side the hedge was kept trimmed to a level of four feet, to allow a view of the sloping park. For two hundred yards the path lay straight as a die between those grand old hedges; occasionally a peacock strutted proudly along its length, trailing its tail over the gravel, and then the final touch of picturesqueness was given to the scene, but even the approach of an ordinary humdrum human had an effect of dignity, of importance, in such old-world surroundings. It gratified Pixie's keen sense of what it dramatically termed "a situation" to place herself in this point of vantage and act the part of audience; and to-day, though no one more interesting than a gardener was likely to appear, she yet made instinctively for the accustomed place. The sombre green of the yew was more in accord with her mood than the riot of blossom in the gardens beyond, and she was out of sight of those terrible upper windows. At any moment, as it seemed, a hand from within might stretch out to lower those blinds ... Could one live through the moment that saw them fall? Pixie leaned back in her seat, and lived dreamily over the happenings of the last three days. The morning after the accident the three visitors had made haste to pack, and depart in different directions--Honor and Robert Carr to town, Stanor Vaughan to friends at the other side of the county. Honor had relied on Robert's escort, but he had hurried off by the nine o'clock train, excusing himself on the score of urgent business, which fact added largely to the girl's depression. It was four, o'clock. All day long Pixie had been alone, unneeded, unobserved, for Joan refused to leave the nursery floor, even for meals, and Geoffrey remained by her side. Looking back over the whole course of her life, the girl could not remember a time when she had been so utterly thrown on herself. Always there had been some one at hand to love, to pity, to demand. At school, at the time of her father's death, there had been a bevy of dear girl friends--saintly Margaret, spectacled Kate, Clara of the high forehead and long upper lip, Lottie, pretty and clever, each vieing with the other to minister to her needs. Pixie followed in thought the history of each old friend. Margaret had become a missionary and had sailed for far-off China, Clara was mistress in a High School, Lottie lived in India, married to a soldier husband, Kate was domiciled as governess in Scotland. All were far away, all engrossed in new interests, new surroundings.