It drew to evening.  Thyrza knew neither hunger nor thirst; she did not even feel weary.  Dread was creeping upon her.  She fought with it resolutely.  She would be no traitor to herself, to him her other self.  He might very well leave it till evening, to make sure of her being at home.

Her mind racked her with absurd doubts.  Had she mistaken? Was this the day?

Pale and cold as marble, whilst the evening twilight died upon her face.  She did not move.  Better to sit so still that she forgot impatience, perchance forgot time.  The vehicles in the street were fewer now; her heart-throbs as each drew near were the more violent.  Nor would the inward pulse recover its quietness when there was silence.  She heard it always; she felt it as an unceasing pain.

Why should she rise and light the lamp?  If he did not come, what matter if she sat in darkness and pain for ever?

And the long summer evening did in truth become night.  The street grew yet more quiet.  She saw the moon, very clear and beautiful.

There sounded a loud double-knock at the street door.  She sprang up and stood listening.  It was a visitor to the Emersons.  Even when assured of that, something in her would not believe it, hoped against conviction.  But at length she went back to her chair.  No tears; but the pain harder to bear than ever.

She awoke at very early morning; she was lying on her bed, fully clad.  There was a dread in her mind at waking, and in a few moments she recognised it.  Lydia was coming to-day.  Would it be possible to sit and talk with her?

Only by clinging with stern determination to the last hope.  Something had rendered it impossible for him to come yesterday, and to-day he was not likely to come; no, not to-day.  But there was always the morrow.  By refusing to think of anything but the morrow she might bear Lydia’s presence.

Sunday, Monday; and now it was Tuesday at dawn.  Thyrza had but one thought in her mind.  Mrs. Ormonde was treacherous.  She had broken her promise.  He was wishing to come to her, and knew not where she was—­Lydia would not tell him.  Lydia too was pitiless.

She had sat still in her room since Sunday night.  She had pleaded illness to avoid all visits and all occupation.  Whether really ill or no, she could not say.  Yes, there was the pain, but she had become so used to that.  She only knew that the days and the nights were endless, that she no longer needed to eat, that the sunlight was burdensome to her eyes.

Clara had been troublesome with her solicitude; it had needed an almost angry word to secure privacy.

At mid-day Thyrza took up the railway-guide which she had procured and sought for something in its pages.  Then she began to attire herself for going out.  She looked into her purse.  In a few minutes she went quietly down the stairs, as if for an ordinary walk, and left the house.