‘Will you write to her, Gilbert?’ Lydia asked.

‘Wouldn’t it be better if I went to see her?’

Yes, that was felt to be better.  It was known that Thyrza had written to Mrs. Ormonde on Saturday, so that nothing needed to be explained; Gilbert had only to bear his simple news.

Arrived at the house, he had to wait.  Mrs. Ormonde was gone out for an hour, and neither Mr. Emerson nor his wife was at home.  He sat in the Emersons’ parlour, seldom stirring, his eyes unobservant.  For Gilbert Grail there was little left in the world that he cared to look at.

Mrs. Ormonde came in.  She regarded Gilbert with uncertainty, having been told that someone waited for her, but nothing more.  Gilbert rose and made himself known to her.  Then, marking his expression, she was fearful.

‘You have come from Miss Trent—­from Thyrza,’ she said, giving him her hand.

‘She could not come herself, Mrs. Ormonde.’

‘Thyrza is ill?’

He hesitated.  His face had told her the truth before he uttered: 

‘She is dead!’

It is seldom that we experience a simple emotion.  When the words, incredible at first, had established their meaning in her mind, Mrs. Ormonde knew that with her human grief there blended an awe-struck thankfulness.  She stood on other ground than Lydia’s, on other than Gilbert’s; her heart had been wrung by the short unaffected letter she had received from Thyrza, and, though she could only acquiesce, the future had looked grey and joyless.  To hear it said of Thyrza, ‘She is dead!’ chilled her; the world of her affections was beyond measure poorer by the loss of that sweet and noble being.  But could she by a word have reversed the decision of fate, love would not have suffered her to speak it.

They talked together, and at the end she said: 

’If Lydia will let me come and see her, I shall be very grateful.  Will you ask her, and send word to me speedily?’

The permission was granted.  Mrs. Ormonde went to Walnut Tree Walk that evening, and Gilbert conducted her to the door of the room.  The lamp gave its ordinary stinted light.  There was nothing unusual in the appearance of the chamber.  In the bed one lay asleep.

Mrs. Ormonde took Lydia’s hands and without speaking kissed her.  Then Lydia raised the lamp from the table, and held it so that the light fell on her sister’s face.  No remnant of pain was there, only calm, unblemished beauty; the lips were as naturally composed as if they might still part to give utterance to song; the brow showed its lines of high imaginativeness even more clearly than in life.  The golden braid rested by her neck as in childhood.

‘Have you any picture of her?’ Mrs. Ormonde asked.

‘No.’

’Will you let me have one made—­drawn from her face now, but looking as she did in life?  It shall be done by a good artist; I think it can be done successfully.’