make me happy.  Though speaking in private, she did not say a word that could truly offend me.  I know her to be good.  I remember what she was by my bedside when I was ill; and I have seen numberless things that prove how impossible it is for her to deceive any one who puts trust in her.’  And from that Thyrza derived both comfort and guidance.  ’I will not fear her.  Perhaps she has acted in the wisest and kindest way.  To him who loves me two years will be nothing:  and cannot I use the time to prove to her that I am worthy to be his wife?  If his love is still the same—­how can it not be?—­and my worthiness is put beyond doubt, she can have no further reason for opposing our marriage; nay, she will be glad in my happiness and in his.  She shall see that I can bear trial, that I can work quietly and perseveringly, above all that I am faithful.’

And time made the affection between them stronger.  Thyrza believed that Mrs. Ormonde’s opposition to the marriage was weakening; when at length, as the time drew to an end, menial work was put aside and she was encouraged to spend her days in improving her mind, it seemed to her a declaration that she was found fit for a higher standing than that to which she was born.  The joy which filled her became almost too great to bear.  She no longer strove to conceal it in Mrs. Ormonde’s presence.  There was a touching little scene between them on the afternoon before the concert at which Thyrza was to sing for the first time, Mrs. Ormonde came to Thyrza’s room unannounced; the latter was laying out the dress she was to wear in the evening—­a simple white dress, but far more beautiful than any she had ever put on.  Seeing her friend enter, she turned, looked in her face, and burst into tears.  When she could utter words, they were a passionate expression of gratitude.  Mrs. Ormonde believed in that moment that her two years’ anxiety had found its end.

Very shortly after came the permission for Lydia to visit her.  It was new assurance that Mrs. Ormonde was reconciled to what she had tried to prevent.  A week, and there would come another visitor, one who was more to her even than her sister.

In looking back, the time seemed very brief, for, whatever change had been made in her, the love which was her life’s life had known no shadow of change.  Had it perhaps strengthened?  It was hard to believe that she could love more than in that day of her darkest misery, when it had seemed that she must die of longing for him to whom she had given her soul.  Yet she was stronger now, her life was richer in a multitude of ways, and every gain she had achieved paid tribute to her life’s motive.  Her singing she valued most as a way of uttering the emotion she must not speak of to anyone; in music she could ease herself of passion, yet fear no surprisal of her secret.  Nothing was a joy save in reference to that one end that was before her.  If she felt happy in a piece of knowledge attained, it was because she would so soon speak of it to him, and hear him praise her for it.  Everything and all people about her seemed to conspire for her happiness.  Even the bodily pain which had often tried her so was no longer troublesome, or very seldom indeed.  Mrs. Emerson might well call her ‘happy girl.’