That secret:  no one must suspect it; no, not even Lyddy.  After a hard night’s work she would wake up feeling yet weary, her brain dull, and a strange pain at her heart—­the pain that came so often; but, whilst her thoughts were struggling to consciousness, she felt that there was some joy beyond the present pain.  And, behold! with sense of the new day came ever renewed hope.  She rose, and a bright angel circled her with protecting, comforting arms.  Dark or sunny, for her the morning had its golden rays.

How near he sometimes might be to her!  She knew nothing of Egremont’s having left England; Lydia did not, and would scarcely have mentioned the name even if she had known.  Thyrza thought of himself as always very near.  There was a possibility that she might by chance see him.  It would have been very dear to her to see him at a distance, but she dreaded lest he should see her.  That would spoil all.  No, it was a sacred compact.  Two years—­two whole years—­ had to be lived through, and then no one could say a word against their meeting.

She would be able to sing to him then.  If her voice proved good enough for her to sing in a concert, like the concert at St. James’s Hall, would he not be proud of her?  Artist’s soul that she had, she never gave it a thought that, if she became his wife, he might prefer that she should not sing in public.  She imagined herself before a great hall of people, singing, yet singing in truth to one only.  But all the others must hear and praise, that he might have joy of her power.

Yet there would be the hour, also, for singing to him alone—­they two alone together.  Would not her song be then the most glorious?  Not with her own voice, but with the voice of very love, would she utter her hymn of gladness and worship.  And he would praise her in few words—­more with looks than with words.  And again she would say:  ’So I can sing, and no one can sing like me; but only because I sing for you, and with my soul I love you!’

She could not often be sorrowful, and never for long together, even in thinking of the past.  Yes, one day there was of unbroken grief, the day on which she received, through Mrs. Ormonde as always, the letter wherein Lydia told her of Mr. Boddy’s death.  On that day she shed bitter tears.  Lydia spared her all that was most painful.  She said that the old man had fallen insensible by the Pooles’ house, had been taken in by them, and had died.  She said that just before the end he uttered Thyrza’s name.  And Thyrza had thought too seldom of Mr. Boddy, to whom she and her sister owed so much.  Had she hastened his death—­she now asked herself—­by bringing upon him a great grief?  The common remorse, the common vain longings, assailed her.  Even in the old days she had somewhat slighted him; she had never shown him such love and care as Lydia always did.  And the poor old man was buried, with so much of her past.