Stanor's letter of announcement was short and to the point, for he was not in the mood to lapse into sentiment. By return of post came the Runkle's reply, short also, and non-committal--nothing more, in fact, than the announcement that he preferred to discuss the matter in person, and would the following day arrive at a certain hotel, where he bade his nephew meet him. Stanor therefore made his excuses to his hostess, packed his bag, and dispatched a letter of explanation to his _fiancee_, unconscious of the fact that she was at that very hour receiving information first hand. It came about in the most natural, and simple fashion. As Pixie, roaming the grounds bareheaded to gather a bouquet of wild flowers to present to the little invalid, emerged suddenly upon the drive, she found a tall, grey-coated stranger leaning against a tree in an attitude expressive of collapse. He was very tall, and very thin; the framework of his shoulders was high and broad, but from them the coat seemed to flap around a mere skeleton of a frame. His hair was dark, his complexion pale, and leaning back with closed eyes he looked so alarmingly ill and spent, that, dropping the flowers to the ground, Pixie leaped forward to the rescue. "You're ill. ... Let me help! There's a seat close by. ... Lean on me!" The stranger opened his eyes, and Pixie started as most people _did_ start when they first looked into Stephen Glynn's eyes, which were of that deep, intense blue which is romantically dubbed purple and fringed with dark lashes, which added still further to their depth. They were sad eyes, tired eyes, eyes of an exceeding and pitiful beauty, eloquent of suffering and repression. They looked out under dark, level brows, and with their intense earnestness of expression flooded the thin face with life. As she met their gaze Pixie drew a quick, gasping breath of surprise. The stranger in his turn looked surprised and startled; he bent his head in involuntary salute, and glanced down at the tiny arm offered for his support. Six foot two he stood in his stockinged feet, and there was this scrap of a girl offering her little doll-like arm for support! His lips twitched, and Pixie pounced on the meaning with her usual agility. "But I'm wiry," she announced proudly. "You wouldn't believe my strength till you try it. Just for a few yards. ... Round the corner by the oak-tree. _Please_!" "You are too kind. I am not ill, but the walk from the station is very steep and I found it tiring, that's all. I shall be glad to rest for a moment, but I assure you no help is needed." He took a step forward as he spoke, a quick, halting step, and Pixie looking on, exclaimed sharply-- "_The Runkle_! Stanor's Runkle! It is _You_!" The stranger looked down sharply, his dark brows puckering in astonishment. "I am Stephen Glynn--`The Runkle,' as my nephew is pleased to call me. But you--you cannot be--" Pixie nodded vehemently.