Mrs. Ormonde turned quickly round.

‘Miss Trent?’ She viewed the girl with surprise which she found it impossible to conceal at once.  Then she said to Thyrza:  ’Arc you the young lady of whom I have heard as Mr. Grail’s friend?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Thyrza replied modestly.

’Then how glad I am to see you!  Come, let us get Bessie’s box taken to the carriage.’

Mrs. Ormonde was not of those philanthropists who, In the midst of their well-doing, are preoccupied with the necessity of preserving the distinction between classes.  She always fetched the children from the station in her own unpretending carriage.  Her business was to make them happy, as the first step to making them well, and whilst they were with her she was their mother.  There are plenty of people successfully engaged in reminding the poor of the station to which Providence has called them:  the insignificant few who indulge a reckless warmth of heart really cannot be seen to do appreciable harm.

‘Mrs. Ormonde, mum,’ whispered Bessie, when they were seated in the carriage.

‘What is it, Bessie?’

’Would you take us round by the front road?  Miss Trent hasn’t never seen the sea, and she’d like to as soon as she can; it’s only natural.’

Mrs. Ormonde had cast one or two discreet glances at Thyrza.  As she did so her smile subdued itself a little; a grave thought seemed to pass through her mind.  She at once gave an order to the coachman in compliance with Bessie’s request.

‘Mr. Grail is quite well, I hope?’ she said, feeling a singular embarrassment in addressing Thyrza.

Thyrza replied mechanically.  To ride in an open carriage with a lady, this alone would have been an agitating experience; the almost painful suspense with which she waited for the first glimpse of the sea completed her inability to think or speak with coherence.  Her eyes were fixed straight onwards.  Mrs. Ormonde continued to observe her, occasionally saying something in a low voice to the child.

The carriage drove to the esplanade, and turned to pass along it in the westerly direction.  The tide was at full; a loud surge broke upon the beach; no mist troubled the blue line of horizon.  Mrs. Ormonde looked seawards, and her vision found a renewal in sympathy with the thought she had read on Thyrza’s face.

You and I cannot remember the moment when the sense of infinity first came upon us; we have thought so much since then, and have assimilated so much of others’ thoughts, that those first impressions are become as vague as the memory of our first love.  But Thyrza would not forget this vision of the illimitable sea, live how long she might.  She had scarcely heretofore been beyond the streets of Lambeth.  At a burst her consciousness expanded in a way we cannot conceive.  You know that she had no religion, yet now her heart could not contain the new-born worship.  Made forgetful of all else by the passionate instinct which ruled her being, she suddenly leaned forward and laid her hand on Mrs. Ormonde’s.  The latter took and pressed it, smiling kindly.