Mrs. Grail said good-night and went downstairs as soon as Thyrza appeared.  Thyrza seated herself and pressed a hand against her side; her heart beat painfully.

‘Why there!’ Lydia exclaimed of a sudden.  ’She’s left the photographs!’

‘What photographs?’ Thyrza asked.

Lydia took from the table an envelope which contained some dozen cartes-de-visite.  They were all the portraits which Mrs. Grail and her son possessed, and the old lady was very fond of looking over them and gossiping about them.  She had brought them up to-night because she anticipated an evening of especial intimacy with Lydia.

Thyrza held out her hand for them.  She knew them all, including the latest addition, which was a photograph of Walter Egremont.  Egremont had given it to Grail about three weeks ago; it was two years old.  She turned them out upon her lap.

‘I think I’d better take them down now, hadn’t I?’ said Lydia.

‘I wouldn’t trouble till morning,’ Thyrza answered, in a tired voice.

Two lay exposed before her:  that of Gilbert, taken six years ago. and that of Egremont.  Lydia, looking over her shoulder, remarked: 

‘What a boy Mr. Egremont looks, compared with Gilbert!’

Thyrza said nothing.

‘Come, dear, put them in the envelope, and let me take them down.’

‘Oh, never mind till morning, Lyddy!’

The voice was rather impatient.

’But I’m afraid Mrs. Grail ’ll remember, and have the trouble of coming up.’

‘She won’t think it worth while.  And I want to look at them.’

‘Oh, very well, dear.’

The two unlike faces continued to lie uppermost.

CHAPTER XIX

A SONG WITHOUT WORDS

Whilst the repairs were going on in the house behind the school, the old caretaker still lived there.  Egremont found that she had in truth nowhere else to go, and as it was desirable that someone should remain upon the premises, he engaged her to do so until the Grails entered into possession.

As soon as painters, plasterers, and paperhangers were out of the way, Grail and Thyrza went to the house to decide what furniture it would be necessary to buy.  The outlay was to be as little as possible, for indeed there was but little money to spend.  Mrs. Butterfield—­that was the old woman’s name—­admitted them, but without speaking; when Gilbert made some kindly-meant remark about its being disagreeable for her to live in such a strong odour of paint, she muttered inarticulately and withdrew into the kitchen.  Thyrza presently peeped into that room.  The old woman was sitting on a low stool by the fire, her knees up to her chin, her grizzled hair unkempt; she looked so remarkably like a witch, and, on Thyrza’s appearance, turned with a gaze of such extreme malignity, that the girl drew back in fear.

’I suppose she takes it ill that the old state of things has been disturbed,’ Gilbert said.  ’Mr. Egremont tells me he has found that she is to have a small weekly allowance from the chapel people, so I don’t suppose she’ll fall into want, and we know be wouldn’t send her off to starve; that isn’t his way.’