'Like you wear it now?'

'No, I mean in the old way. Will it make me look a child again? Never mind, that is what I should like. I'll have it so when I go downstairs to tea.'

And whilst Lydia was busy with the golden tresses, Thyrza laughed suddenly. She had only just thought again of the ducks in the park. She told all about them, and they laughed together.

'I wonder whether Mrs. Jarmey knows I'm here,' Thyrza said. 'You think not? Won't someone be coming to see you? Won't Mary?'

'Yes. She always calls for me to go to chapel. Would you rather not see her?'

'Not to-day, Lyddy. Not till I'm in my own home.'

'But I may tell her you're here? I'll go down in time to meet her, and I won't go to chapel this morning. No, I'll stay with you this morning, dear.'

So it was arranged. And they cooked their dinner as they used to; only Thyrza declared that Lydia had been extravagant in providing.

'I see how you indulge yourself, now that I'm away! Oh yes, of course you pretend it's only for me.'

How could she be so merry? Lydia thought. But this smile was not always on her face.

The day passed very quickly. Lydia said she would go out whilst Thyrza was with the Grails; she had promised to see someone. Thyrza did not ask who it was.

When she came upstairs again the other had not yet returned. She was yet a quarter of an hour away. Then she appeared with signs of haste.

'I was afraid you'd be here alone,' she said.

'But have you had tea, Lyddy?'

'Yes.'

This 'yes' was said rather mysteriously. And Lydia's subsequent behaviour was also mysterious. She took her hat off and stood with it in her hand, as if not knowing where to put it. Then she sat down, forgetting that she still wore her jacket. Reminded of this, she stood about the room, undecidedly.

'What are you thinking of, Lyddy?'

'Nothing.'

She sat down at last, but had so singular a countenance that Thyrza was obliged to remark on it.

'What have you been doing? Never mind, if you'd rather not tell me.'

Two or three minutes passed before Lydia could make up her mind to tell. She began by saying:

'You know when I went down to see Mary this morning?'

'Yes,'

'She said she'd seen--that she'd seen Mrs. Poole, and that I was to be sure to go round to Mrs. Poole's some time in the afternoon, as she wanted to see me, particular.'

'Yes. And that's where you went?'

Lydia seemed to have no more to say. Thyrza looked at her searchingly.

'Well, Lyddy, there's nothing in that. What else? I know there's something else.'

'Yes, there is. I went to the house, and, when I knocked at the door, Mr. Ackroyd opened it.'

Thyrza had begun to tremble. Her eyes watched her sister's face eagerly; she read something in the heightened colour it showed.

'And then, Lyddy? And then?'

'He asked me to come into the sitting-room. And then he--he said he wanted me to marry him, Thyrza.'

'Lyddy! It is true? At last?'

Thyrza could scarcely contain herself for joy. She had longed for this.

No happiness of her own would have been in truth complete until there came like happiness to her sister. She knew how long, how patiently, with what self-sacrifice, Lydia had been faithful to this her first love. Again and again the love had seemed for ever hopeless; yet Lydia gave no sign of sorrow. The sisters were unlike each other in this.

Lydia's nature, fortunately for herself, was not passionate; but its tenderness none knew as Thyrza did, its tenderness and its steadfast faith.

'Thyrza, any one would think you are more glad of it than I am.'

'There are no words to tell my gladness, dearest! Good Lyddy! At last, at last!'

Her face changed from moment to moment; it was now flushed, now again pale. Once or twice she put her hand against her side.

'How excitable you always were, little one!' Lydia said. 'Come and sit quietly. It's bad luck when any one makes so much of a thing.'

Thyrza grew calmer. Her face showed that she was suppressing pain. In a few minutes she said:

'I'll just lie down, Lyddy. I shall be better directly. Don't trouble, it's nothing. Come and sit by me. How glad I am! Look pleased, just to please me, will you?'

Both were quiet. Thyrza said it had only been a feeling of faintness; it was gone now.

The fire was getting low. Lydia went to stir it. She had done so and was turning to the bed again, when Thyrza half rose, crying in a smothered voice:

'Lyddy! Come!'

Then she fell back. Her sister was bending over her in an instant, was loosening her dress, doing all that may restore one who has fainted.

But for Thyrza there was no awaking.

Had she not herself desired it? And what gift more blessed, of all that man may pray for?

She was at rest, the pure, the gentle, at rest in her maidenhood. The joy that had strength to kill her was not of her own; of the two great loves between which her soul was divided, that which was lifelong triumphed in her life's last moment.

She who wept there through the night would have lain dead if that cold face could in exchange have been touched by the dawn to waking. She felt that her life was desolate; she mourned as for one on whom the extremity of fate has fallen. Mourn she must, in the anguish of her loss; she could not know the cruelty that was in her longing to bring the sleeper back to consciousness. The heart that had ached so wearily would ache no more; for the tired brain there was no more doubt. Had existence been to her but one song of thanksgiving, even then to lie thus had been more desirable. For to sleep is better than to wake, and how should we who live bear the day's burden but for the promise of death.

On Monday at noon there arrived a telegram, addressed to 'Miss Thyrza Trent.' Gilbert received it from Mrs. Jarmey, and he took it upstairs to Lydia, who opened it. It was from Mrs. Ormonde; she was at the Emersons', and wished to know when Thyrza would return; she desired to see her.

'Will you write to her, Gilbert?' Lydia asked.