Its one occupant was a young woman, probably of six-and-twenty, who sat in out-of-doors attire. Her look suggested that she had come home too weary even to take her bonnet off before resting. She had the air of an educated person; her dress, which was plain and decent in the same rather depressing way as the appointment of her room, put it beyond doubt that she spent her days in some one of the manifold kinds of teaching; a roll upon her lap plainly consisted of music. She could not lay claim to good looks, save in the sense that her features were impressed with agreeable womanliness; the smile which followed speedily upon her expression of surprise when Mrs. Ormonde appeared, was natural, homely, and sweet. She threw the roll away, and sprang up with a joyous exclamation:

'To think that you should come just on this day and at this time, Mrs.

Ormonde! It's just by chance that I'm at home. I've only this moment come back from Notting Hill, where I found a pupil too unwell to have her lesson. And in half an hour I have to go to St. John's Wood. Just by a chance that I'm here. How vexed I should have been if I'd heard of you coming whilst I was away! _Isn't_ it annoying for people to call whilst one's away? I mean, of course, people one really wants to see.'

'Certainly, things don't often happen so well. I'm in town on very doleful business, and have come to see if you can help me.'

'Help you? How? I do hope I can.'

'Have you still your spare room?'

'Oh, yes.'

'Then I may perhaps ask you to let me have it in a few days. I must tell you how it is. A poor girl, in whom I have a great interest, has fallen ill in very dreary lodgings. I don't think it would be possible to move her at present; I don't in fact yet know the nature of her illness exactly, and, of course, if it's anything to be afraid of, I shouldn't bring her. But that is scarcely likely; I fancy she will want only careful nursing. Dr. Lambe is going to see her this evening, and he's just promised me to send a nurse from some institution where he has to call. If we can safely move her presently, may I bring her here?'

'Of course you may, Mrs. Ormonde! I'll get everything ready to night.

Will you come up and tell me of anything you'd like me to do?'

'Not now. You look tired, and must rest before you go out again. I'll come and see you again to-morrow.'

'To-morrow? Let me see; I shall be here at twelve, but only for a few minutes; then I shan't be home again till half-past nine. Could you come after then, Mrs. Ormonde?'

'Yes. But what a long day that is! I hope you're not often so late?'

'Oh, I don't mind it a bit,' said the other, cheerfully. 'It's a pupil at Seven Oaks, piano and singing. Indeed I'm very glad. The more the better. They keep me out of mischief.'

Mrs. Ormonde smiled moderately in reply to the laugh with which Mrs.

Emerson completed her jest.

'How is your husband?'

'Still far from well. I'm so sorry he isn't in now. I think he's--no, I'm not quite sure where he is; he had to go somewhere on business.'

'He is able to get to business again?' Mrs. Ormonde asked, without looking at the other.

'Not to his regular business. Oh no, that wouldn't be safe yet. He begins to look better, but he's very weak still. It must be very hard for a man of his age to be compelled to guard against all sorts of little things that other people think nothing of, mustn't it?'

'Yes, it must be trying,' Mrs. Ormonde replied, quietly.

Mr. Emerson was a young gentleman of leisurely habits and precarious income. Mrs. Ormonde suspected, and with reason, that he nurtured a feeble constitution at the expense of his wife's labour; he was seldom at home, and the persons interested in Mrs. Emerson had a difficulty in making his nearer acquaintance.

'And I can't think there's another man in the world who would bear it so uncomplainingly. But you know,' she added, laughing again, 'that I'm very proud of my husband. I always make you smile at me, Mrs. Ormonde.

But now, I am so very, very sorry, but I'm obliged to go. I manage to catch a 'bus just at the top of the street; if I missed it, I should be half an hour late, and these are very particular people. Oh, I've such a laughable story to tell you about them, but it must wait till to-morrow, Harold says I tell it so well; he's sure I could write a novel if I tried. I think I will try some day; I believe people make a great deal of money out of novels, don't they, Mrs. Ormonde?'

'I have heard of one or two who tried to, but didn't.'

'I do hope the poor girl will soon be well enough to come. I'll get the room thoroughly in order to-night.'

They left the house together. Mrs. Emerson ran in the direction of the omnibus she wished to catch; the other shortly found a vehicle, and drove back again to Bank Street, Caledonian Road.

Thyrza still lay in the same condition. In a little more than half an hour came the trained nurse of Dr. Lambe's sending, and forthwith the sick-room was got into a more tolerable condition, Mrs. Ormonde procuring whatever the nurse desired. Much private talk passed downstairs between Mrs. Gandle and 'Lizabeth, who were greatly astonished at the fuss made over the girl they had supposed friendless.

'Now let this be a lesson to you, 'Lizabeth.' said the good woman, several times. 'It ain't often as you'll lose by doin' a bit o'

kindness, and the chance always is as it'll be paid back to you more than you'd never think. Any one can see as this Mrs. Ormonde's a real lady, and when it comes to settlin' up, you'll see if she doesn't know how to behave _like_ a lady.'

Mrs. Ormonde took a room at a private hotel near King's Cross, whither her travelling bag was brought from Victoria. She avoided the part of the town in which acquaintances might hear of her, for her business had to be kept secret. A necessary letter despatched to Mrs. Mapper at The Chestnuts, she went once more to Bank Street and met her friend Dr.

Lambe.

She told him, in general terms, all she knew of the circumstances which might have led to Thyrza's illness. At first she had been in doubt whether or not to go to Lambeth and see Lydia Trent, but on the whole it seemed better to take no steps in that direction for the present.

Should the case be declared dangerous, Lydia of course must be sent for, but that was a dark possibility from which her thoughts willingly averted themselves. The sister could doubtless throw some light on Thyrza's strange calamity. What did the child's 'You know you promised me' mean? But that would be no aid to the physician, upon whom for the present most depended. Nor did Dr. Lambe exhibit much curiosity. He seemed quickly to gather all it was really necessary for him to know, and, though he admitted that the disorder was likely to be troublesome, he gave an assurance that there was no occasion for alarm.

'You are not associated in her mind with anything distressing?' he asked of Mrs. Ormonde.

'I believe, the opposite.'

'Good. Then be by her side as often as you can, so that she may recognise you as soon as possible.' He added with a smile: 'I needn't inform Mrs. Ormonde how to behave when she _is_ recognised!'

They were at a little distance from the bed, and both looked at the unconscious face.

'A very beautiful girl,' the doctor murmured.

'But you should see her in health.'

'No. I am a trifle susceptible. Well, well, we shall have her through it, no doubt.'

We have to jest a little in the presence of suffering, or how should we live our lives?

The recognition came late on the following afternoon. Thyrza had lain for a time with eyes open, watching the movements of the nurse, but seemingly with no desire to speak. Then Mrs. Ormonde came in. The watchful look at once turned upon her; for a moment that former fear showed itself, and Thyrza made an effort to rise from the pillow. Her strength was too far wasted. But as Mrs. Ormonde drew near, she was plainly known.

'Thyrza, you know me now?'

'Mrs. Ormonde,' was whispered, still with look of alarm and troubled inability to comprehend.

'You have been ill, dear, and I have come to sit with you,' the other went on, in a soothing voice. 'Shall I stay?'

There was no answer for a little, then Thyrza, with sudden revival of memory like a light kindled in her eyes, said painfully:

'Lyddy?--does Lyddy know?'

'Not yet. Do you wish her to?

'No!--Don't tell Lyddy!--I shall be better--'

'No one shall know, Thyrza. Don't speak now. I am going to sit by you.'

Much mental disturbance was evident on the pale face for some time after this, but Thyrza did not speak again, and presently she appeared to sleep. Mrs. Ormonde left the house at midnight and was back again before nine the next morning. Thyrza had been perfectly conscious since daybreak, and had several times asked for the absent friend. She smiled when Mrs. Ormonde came at length and kissed her forehead.

'Better this morning?'