At five o’clock, when, in spite of fire and lamp, the little kitchen looked haggard, Mrs. Poole entered hurriedly.

’Do you think the doctor ’ud come, Luke, if you went for him?  He can’t get breath.  Lydia does want the doctor fetching.’

Luke was off in an instant.

Lydia stood by the bed, pale, anguished.  Happily, that struggle, which seemed of death, did not last very long.  The worn old face, almost venerable at length in spite of the grotesqueness of its features, fell into calm.  Then, almost as m a natural waking from sleep, the eyes opened and were aware of things.

‘Are you feeling better, grandad dear?’ Lydia asked.

He looked surprised, tried to speak; but there was no voice.

Luke was long.

The two women stood side by side.  The old man kept endeavouring to utter words; his powerlessness was dreadful to him, his face showed.  But at length he spoke.

‘Lyddy!—­Thyrza!’

‘She shall come and see you, grandad.  She shall come very soon.’

Again a vain endeavour to speak.  His face altered; it expressed Lydia knew not what.  A supreme effort, and he again spoke.

‘Mary Bower gave me all I wanted, Be friends with her, Lyddy!’

No more than that.  Gradually, an end of struggle, an end of pain, an end of all things.

The doctor came.  He said that no doubt there would have to be an inquest.

They left Lydia alone in the room, When it was midway through the winter morning, Mrs. Poole came down and told Luke that the girl wished to speak to him; he would find her in the parlour.

She had swollen eyes, but spoke with perfect calmness.

’Mr. Ackroyd, what did he mean?  The last thing he said was, ’Mary Bower gave me all I wanted.’  I don’t know what he meant.  Your sister says you’ll tell me.’

Luke could only guess at the sense of the words, but he told her all he knew.

‘I only heard it on Friday night, from Totty,’ he said.  ’I was thinking of every way I could to help him.’

‘Oh, but to think that you never told me!’ she exclaimed.  ’You’d no right to keep such a thing from me.  It wasn’t kindness; it wasn’t kindness at all, See what’s come of it!

‘I do wish I had told you.’

Early in the afternoon Lydia went home.  But before leaving, she searched in the poor old garments to see if; indeed, he had been penniless.  The discovery of the money at first astonished her, but immediately after she found the pawn ticket.  It was proof enough.

She was sitting in her room, at nightfall, when someone knocked.  She went to the door.  Mary Bower was there.

‘May I come in, Lydia?’ Mary asked, with eyes downcast.

Lydia had started.  She drew back, leaving the door open.  Mary entered, closed the door behind her, and stood in agitation.

‘I know you hate me more than ever, Lydia,’ she began, tremulously; ’but I did what I could for him.  I want to tell you that I did what I could for him, and I’d never have let mother give him notice.  I told her last night that, if she did, I’d leave home.  I put food in his room, and nobody knew about it.  Perhaps you don’t believe me; if he could speak, he’d tell you someone did, and it was me.’