‘Next Sunday, at the same time, Lyddy!’ she repeated again and again.

‘But is there any fear of me forgetting it, dearest?’ urged her sister.

’No, no!  But I am so glad for you to come here.  You like coming?  I don’t think I shall write to you in the week; but of course you’ll write, if there’s anything.  I might send a line; but no, I don’t think I shall.  It’ll be such a short time till Sunday, won’t it?  Does the week go quickly with you?  Oh, we must say good-bye; it’s getting too late.  Good-bye, my own, my dearest, my old Lyddy!  Think of me every hour—­I’m always the same to you, whatever kind of dress I wear; you know that, don’t you?  Good-bye, dear Lyddy!’

She clung to Lydia and kissed her.  They went downstairs together, then, before opening the door, again embraced and kissed each other silently.

When a few yards away, Lydia turned.  Thyrza stood on the door-step; light from within the house shone on her golden hair and just made her face visible.  She was kissing her hand. . . .

It was Saturday.  The week had been neither long nor short; Thyrza could not distinguish the days in looking back upon them.  She had not lived in time, but in the eternity of a rapturous anticipation.  Her daily duties had been performed as usual, but with as little consciousness as if she had done all in sleep.  She rose, and it was Saturday morning.

What time to-day?  That he would let one day pass had never occurred to her as a possibility.  But perhaps he would be at Eastbourne in the morning, and in that case she must wait many hours.  Happily, she had nothing to attend to; today she could not even have pretended to live her wonted life.

Mrs. Emerson would be out till evening.  No one would come upstairs to disturb about trifles.

She pretended to breakfast, then sat down by the window.  She was fearful now, not for the event, but of her own courage when the time came.  Could she stand before him?  In what words could she speak to him?  Yet she must not let him doubt what her two years had been.  Would it be right to tell him that he came not unexpected, to confess that she had heard him when he spoke to Mrs. Ormonde?  Not at once, not to-day.  He must know, but not to-day.

How short a time, two years; how long, how endlessly long each hour on this day of waiting!

For the morning passed, and he did not come.  He was at Eastbourne; he had not even asked Mrs. Ormonde to keep her word till the very day came.

Her dinner was brought up, and was sent down again untouched.  She sat still at the window.  Every wheel that approached made her heart leap; its dull rumbling into the distance sickened her with disappointment.  But most likely he would walk to the house, and then she would not know till the servant came up to tell her.

Why had she not thought to get a railway-guide, that she might know all the trains from Eastbourne?  She could not now go out to purchase one; he would come in her absence.