Lyddy was made a very philosopher by love; she had acquired all at once the power of seeing through the outward show of things, of perceiving what really lies below our conventional forms.  Well, the letter had to stand; she had no second sheet of note-paper, and she had no more time, for the weary eyes and hands must get their rest for to-morrow’s toil.  She closed the envelope and addressed it; then, the ink being dry, she put the written name just for an instant to her lips.  Totty could not divine that, and it was not so great a wrong.  Perhaps Lydia would not have done it, but that the great burden upon her was for the moment lightened, and she longed to tell someone how thankful she was.

Would he reply by letter?  Or would he make an opportunity of seeing her?  Since the forming of that sudden intimacy under the pressure of misery, he and she had not seen each other often.  They always spoke if they met, and Lydia was very grateful to him for the invariable kindness of his voice and his look, but of course it was not to be expected, not to be desired, that they should sustain the habit of conversing together as close friends.  Ackroyd had evidently remembered that it was unwise; perhaps he had reported the matter to Totty, with the result that Totty had pronounced a quiet opinion, which it was only becoming in him to respect.

He wrote back; the letter came as speedily as could have been expected.  ‘Dear Miss Trent,’ and ’Yours truly’—­even as she had written.  How can one write such words and mean nothing by them?  But he said, ‘Believe me, yours truly;’ ah, she would never have ventured upon that!  To be sure, it meant nothing, nothing; but she liked that ‘Believe me.’  He said he was very glad indeed that Thyrza had written, and he hoped earnestly that more satisfactory news would come before long.  Very short.  Lydia put away the note with that she had received from the same writer one sad morning in the work-room.  How long ago that seemed!

More than a month of summer went by, and Lydia waited still for another word from her sister.  After each day’s disappointment, she closed her eyes saying, ‘It will come to-morrow.’  During the hours she spent at home the only event that interested her was the passing of the postman.  She watched constantly from the window at the times when letters were delivered, and if, a rare chance, the man in uniform stopped at the door below, she sprang to the top of the stairs and hung there breathless, to see if someone would come up.  No, the letter was never for her.  On coming home from work she always threw open her door eagerly, for perhaps she would see the white envelope lying on the floor again.  The defeat of hope always made the whole room seem barren and cold.  Sunday was of all days in the week the longest and gloomiest; on that day there was no postman.

But at length came the evening when, looking down by mere dull habit as she opened her room door, behold the white envelope lay there.  She could not believe that at last it was really in her hand.  As she took the letter out, there fell from it a light slip of paper; with surprise she saw that it was a post-office order.  This time a full address stood at the head of the page.