’I believe she was the first to ask him to break off.  I met her a week ago, and she looked very jolly, as if something good had happened to her.  I suppose she’s glad to be free again.’

’How queer it all is, Lyddy!  Now you might mention things like this in your letters.  If there’s anything else of the same kind happens, remember you tell me.’

‘I don’t see how there can be.  Unless they begin over again.’

‘Well, mind you tell me if they do—­and if they don’t.’

On the second day of Lydia’s visit, they heard from The Chestnuts that Bessie Bunce was dead.  She had died suddenly, and just when she seemed to be in better health than for years.

Thyrza, speaking of the event with Lydia, said gravely: 

’I can’t feel sorry.  It’s a good thing to die like that, with no pain and no looking forward.’

’Oh, do you think so, Thyrza?  There’s something dreadful in the suddenness to me.’

’To me it’s just the opposite.  I’m afraid of death.  I don’t think I could sit by anybody that was dying.  I hope, I hope I may die in that way!’

Lydia was shocked, and wondered grieving.

CHAPTER XXXIV

A LOAN ON SECURITY

Yet again it was summer-time, the second summer since the parting between Lydia and her sister, all but the end of the second twelvemonth since the day when Thyrza had heard something that was not meant for her ears.  In Walnut Tree Walk the evening was clear and warm.  A man was going along the street selling flowers in pots; his donkey-cart was covered with leaf and bloom, and with a geranium under each arm, he trudged onwards, bellowing.  Children were playing at five-stones on the pavement you heard an organ away in Kennington Road.

Lydia was having tea and trimming a bonnet at the same time; the bonnet belonged to Mrs. Poole, and the work on it was for friendship’s sake.  Only on that understanding had Lydia consented to do it.  Mrs. Poole had frequently wished to give her an odd job at needlework for which she herself either had not time or lacked the skill, and to pay for it as she would have had to pay any one else.  For some reason, Lydia declined to do anything for her on those conditions; she would help as a friend, but not otherwise.

She was hurrying, for she wanted to take the bonnet to Paradise Street by eight o’clock, and it was now half-past seven.  Her face had the air of thoughtful contentment which best became it.  Her window was open, and, as in the old days, there were flower-pots on the sill.  Her eye now and then rested for a moment on the little patches of colour; she did not think of the flowers, but they helped pleasantly to tone her mind.  Even so will a strain of music sometimes pass through the memory, unmarked by us, yet completing the happiness of some peaceful hour.

She drank her last drop of tea, and; almost simultaneously, put her last touch to the bonnet.  Then she prepared herself for going out, hummed a tune whilst she carefully packed the piece of head-gear in its bandbox, and went on her way.