Lydia looked up and smiled brightly.

’We won’t talk about it now, dearest.  Some day we will, though—­a good long talk.  When we are again together.  If we ever shall be together again, Thyrza.’

’I think so, Lyddy.  I hope so.  At all events, we shall see each other very often.’

‘Very often?  Not always together?’

Thyrza was silent, but said presently: 

‘Perhaps.  We can’t tell, Lyddy.’

‘But you don’t think we shall.  You don’t hope we shall.’  Thyrza did not speak.

‘No,’ Lydia went on, very sadly, ’that’s all over and gone.  There’s something between us, and now there always will be, always.  It’s very hard for me to lose you like this.’

‘Don’t speak about it now, Lyddy,’ her sister murmured.  ’It isn’t true that there’ll always be something between us.  You’ll see.  But don’t speak about it now, dear.’

Lydia brightened, and found other subjects, Then Thyrza said: 

’You never told me, Lyddy, what it was that first made you break off with Mary.  You know you never would tell me.  Is it still a secret?’

‘No.  I can tell you if you like.’

‘Please, do.’

’It was because Mary spoke against Mr. Ackroyd.  I still don’t think that she ought to have spoken as she did, and Mary owns she was unkind; but I understand better now what she meant.’

‘What was it she said?’

’It was about his having no religion, and that, because he had none, he did things he couldn’t have done if he’d felt in the right way.’

‘Yes, I understand,’ Thyrza mused.  She added:  ’He’s still not married?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?—­Lyddy, I don’t believe they ever will be married.’

‘And I don’t either, dear.’

Thyrza looked quickly at her sister.  Lydia was again playing with pebbles, not quite smiling, but nearly.

‘You don’t.  Then what has happened?  Won’t you tell me?’

‘I don’t think they suit each other.’

’But there’s something else, I’m sure there is.  You said, ’And I don’t either,’ in such a queer way.  How do you know they don’t suit each other?’

’Since grandad’s death, you know, I’ve often been to Mrs. Poole’s.  She tells me things sometimes.  You mustn’t think I ever ask, Thyrza.  You know that isn’t my way.  But Mrs. Poole often speaks about her brother.  Only two days ago, she told me he wasn’t going to marry Totty.’

’Really?  And I don’t think you’d have said a word about it if I hadn’t made you.  It’s broken off for good?’

‘I believe it is.’

Neither spoke for a while.  Then Thyrza said: 

‘I suppose you see Mr. Ackroyd sometimes at the house?’

‘Sometimes,’ the other replied, heedlessly.

‘Does he talk to you, Lyddy?’

‘A little.  Just a little, sometimes.’

’But why has he broken off with Totty?  What does Totty say about it?’