To the eyes of those who observed her, she was altered indeed, but not more so than would be accounted for by troubles of health, consequent upon a sort of fever—­they said—­which had come upon her in the hot summer days.  In spite of her desire this weakness had obliged her to give up her singing-practice for the present; Dr. Lambe, Mrs. Ormonde’s acquaintance, had said that the exertion was too much for her.  What else that gentleman said, in private to Mrs. Ormonde, it is not necessary to report; it was a graver repetition of something that he had hinted formerly.  Mrs. Ormonde had been urgent in her entreaty that Thyrza would come to Eastbourne for a time, but could not prevail.  Mrs. Emerson refused to believe that the illness was anything serious.  ‘I assure you,’ she said to Mrs. Ormonde, ’Thyrza is in anything but low spirits as a rule.  She doesn’t laugh quite so much as she used to, but I can always make her as bright as possible by chatting with her in my foolish way for a few minutes.  And when her sister comes on Sunday, there’s not a trace of gloom discoverable.  I’ve noticed it’s been the same with her the last two autumns; she’ll be all right by winter.’

It was true that she disguised her mood with almost entire success during Lydia’s visits.  Lydia herself, for some cause, was very cheerful throughout this season; she believed with more readiness than usual when Thyrza spoke of her ailments as trifling.  Every Sunday she brought a present of fruit; Thyrza knew well with how much care the little bunch o grapes or the sweet pears had been picked out on Saturday night at the fruit-shop in Lambeth Walk.

‘You’re a foolish old Lyddy, to spend your money on me in this way,’ she said once.  ‘As if I hadn’t everything I want.’

‘Yes, but,’ said Lydia, laughing, ’if I don’t give you something now and then, you’ll forget I’m your elder sister.  And I shall forget it too, I think.  I’ve begun to think of you as if you was older than me, Thyrza.’

‘So I am, dear, as I told you a long time ago.’

’Oh, you can talk properly, which I can’t, and you can write well, and read hard books, but I used to nurse you on my lap for all that.  And I remember you crying for something I couldn’t let you have, quite well.’

Thyrza laughed in her turn, a laugh from a heart that mocked itself.  Crying for something she might not have—­was she then so much older?

To Lydia nothing was told of the cessation of lessons, and on Sunday all signs of needlework were hidden away.  Mrs, Emerson of course knew the change that had been made, but it was explained to her as all being on the score of health, and Thyrza had begged her to make no allusion to the subject on the occasional evenings when Lydia had tea in Clara’s room.  And Clara was of opinion that it was very wise to rest for a while from books.  ’Depend upon it, it’s your brain-work that brought about all this mischief,’ she said.