Thyrza could scarcely contain herself for joy.  She had longed for this.  No happiness of her own would have been in truth complete until there came like happiness to her sister.  She knew how long, how patiently, with what self-sacrifice, Lydia had been faithful to this her first love.  Again and again the love had seemed for ever hopeless; yet Lydia gave no sign of sorrow.  The sisters were unlike each other in this.  Lydia’s nature, fortunately for herself, was not passionate; but its tenderness none knew as Thyrza did, its tenderness and its steadfast faith.

‘Thyrza, any one would think you are more glad of it than I am.’

’There are no words to tell my gladness, dearest!  Good Lyddy!  At last, at last!’

Her face changed from moment to moment; it was now flushed, now again pale.  Once or twice she put her hand against her side.

‘How excitable you always were, little one!’ Lydia said.  ’Come and sit quietly.  It’s bad luck when any one makes so much of a thing.’

Thyrza grew calmer.  Her face showed that she was suppressing pain.  In a few minutes she said: 

’I’ll just lie down, Lyddy.  I shall be better directly.  Don’t trouble, it’s nothing.  Come and sit by me.  How glad I am!  Look pleased, just to please me, will you?’

Both were quiet.  Thyrza said it had only been a feeling of faintness; it was gone now.

The fire was getting low.  Lydia went to stir it.  She had done so and was turning to the bed again, when Thyrza half rose, crying in a smothered voice: 

‘Lyddy!  Come!’

Then she fell back.  Her sister was bending over her in an instant, was loosening her dress, doing all that may restore one who has fainted.  But for Thyrza there was no awaking.

Had she not herself desired it?  And what gift more blessed, of all that man may pray for?

She was at rest, the pure, the gentle, at rest in her maidenhood.  The joy that had strength to kill her was not of her own; of the two great loves between which her soul was divided, that which was lifelong triumphed in her life’s last moment.

She who wept there through the night would have lain dead if that cold face could in exchange have been touched by the dawn to waking.  She felt that her life was desolate; she mourned as for one on whom the extremity of fate has fallen.  Mourn she must, in the anguish of her loss; she could not know the cruelty that was in her longing to bring the sleeper back to consciousness.  The heart that had ached so wearily would ache no more; for the tired brain there was no more doubt.  Had existence been to her but one song of thanksgiving, even then to lie thus had been more desirable.  For to sleep is better than to wake, and how should we who live bear the day’s burden but for the promise of death.

On Monday at noon there arrived a telegram, addressed to ’Miss Thyrza Trent.’  Gilbert received it from Mrs. Jarmey, and he took it upstairs to Lydia, who opened it.  It was from Mrs. Ormonde; she was at the Emersons’, and wished to know when Thyrza would return; she desired to see her.