’I shan’t tell you anything at all till you’ve had a glass of milk.  Let me take your things off.  You’re going to stay with me to-night, you know.  Sit still, and let me take them off.  Dear, good old Lyddy!  Oh, will you do my hair for me tomorrow morning?  Think of doing my hair again!  Poor old Lyddy, you always did cry when you were glad, and never for anything else.  Shall I sit on your lap, like I used to do after I’d been naughty, years and years ago?  Oh, years and years; you don’t know how old I am, Lyddy.  You don’t think you’re still older than me, do you?  No, that’s all altered.  Mrs. Guest here asked me how old I was the other day, and I wouldn’t tell her, because the truth wasn’t true.  I was so ill, Lyddy dear; I did think I should die, and I should have wished to, but for you.  I couldn’t send for you:  I was ashamed to.  I’d behaved too bad to you and to everybody.  But people were kind, much kinder than they’d need have been.  Some day I’ll go and see Mrs. Gandle and tell her I haven’t forgotten her kindness.  You shall go with me, Lyddy.  But no, no; you wouldn’t like.  We’ll forget all about that,’

‘Where was that, Thyrza?’

’A place where I got work.  Do you know where the Caledonian Road is?’

Lydia tightened her embrace, as if shame and hardship still threatened her dear one and she would guard her from them.

‘But how did you get better?  What happened then?’

’When I was very bad, Mrs. Gandle one night looked in my pocket to see if I’d anything about me to show where I belonged.  And she found that bit of paper with Mrs. Ormonde’s name and address.  But wait, Lyddy; I’ve something to say.  Did you do as I asked, about not telling any one where I was?’

’I didn’t tell any one, Thyrza.  Nobody knew where I was going.  I mean, of course I told Gilbert that I was going to you, but not where you were.’

Thyrza, after a short pause, asked very quietly: 

‘How is Gilbert, Lyddy?’

‘He seems pretty well, dear.’

‘Has he—­has he felt it very hard?’

She kept her eyes veiled, and pressed her head closer to Lydia’s shoulder.

‘He’s had a great deal to go through, dear.’

The touch of severity in Lydia’s voice came of her thoughts turning to Egremont.  But Thyrza felt herself judged and rebuked; she trembled.

‘What is he doing?’ she asked, in a voice barely audible.

‘He goes to work, as usual.  It’s a new place.’

’Poor Gilbert Oh, I’m sorry for him!  He never deserved this of me.  Lyddy,’ she added in a whisper, ’it makes you so cruel to other people when you love anyone.’

Lydia found no answer.  She was gazing through the open window, but saw nothing of sea or sky.  She, then, did not know what it was to love?  Well, love is of many kinds.

‘But I was going to say something, Lyddy,’ Thyrza pursued, when a kiss upon her hair assured her that from one at all events there was no need to ask forgiveness.  ’It’s Mrs. Ormonde that has done everything for me, and she doesn’t want anybody to know—­nobody except you.  She’s very kind, but—­she’s a little hard in some things, and she thinks—­I can’t quite explain it all.  Will you promise not to tell any one when you go back?’