A Pixy in Petticoats by John Trevena — Read

To Burrough's surprise and delight, another little note came in Beatrice's quaint handwriting -- each word was like a long-legged spider -- the envelope postmarked Sennen, as before. Certainly the girl was not a complete letter-writer. Her fun, daintiness, and nonsense seemed to desert her directly she took a pen into her hand. It was a most precise note, telling him she had just spent a night lance-spearing in the sands, though she did not mention the name of the sands. Her aunt was not at all well, and was grumbling a great deal. She was having some photographs printed of herself in fisher-girl's costume -- long boots, oilskins, and jersey -- and would send him one if he cared to have it. And she remained "his old pal, Bill. " It was a most unfeminine epistle, not even containing a postscript; but it convinced Burrough that he was remembered.

The omens for his success had been lately more favourable. The slight operation had been performed with considerable success, the false eye had been fitted, he had become accustomed to the new sensation which it caused and the new expression which it gave, and he was able to agree with the enthusiastic surgeon that the result was a triumph of surgical art. His appearance was altered very strikingly for the better now that the principal cause of disfigurement had been removed. He was no longer unpleasant to gaze upon. The false eye certainly changed his expression. It made him look alert and businesslike, and it also added a suggestion of cunning to his face which he did not like.