Thyrza sat in her usual place by the window, now reading for a few minutes, now dreaming.  Lydia had some stockings to be darned; she became at length so silent that her sister turned to look at her.  Her head had dropped forward.  She slumbered for a few minutes, then started to consciousness again, and laughed when she saw Thyrza regarding her.

‘I suppose Mary’ll be here directly?’ she said.  ’I’d better put this work out of sight.’  And as she began to spread the cloth, she asked:  ‘What’ll you do whilst we’re at chapel, Thyrza?’

’I think I’ll go and have tea with Mrs. Grail; then I’ll see if I dare ask for a book.’

‘You’ve made up your mind not to go out?’

’There was something I wanted to tell you.  I met Mr. Ackroyd as I was coming home last night.  I told him I couldn’t come out alone, and I said I couldn’t be sure whether you’d come or not.’

‘But what a pity!’ returned Lydia.  ’You knew I was going to chapel.  I’m afraid he’ll wait for us.’

’Yes, but I somehow didn’t like to say we wouldn’t go at all.  What time is he going to be there?’

‘He said at six o’clock.’

’Would you mind just running out and telling him?  Perhaps you’ll be going past with Mary, not long after?’

‘That’s a nice job you give me!’ remarked Lydia, with a half smile.

’But I know you don’t mind it, Lyddy.  It isn’t the first thing you’ve done for me.’

It was said with so much naivete that Lydia could not but laugh.

‘I should like it much better if you’d go yourself,’ she replied.  ‘But I’m afraid it’s no good asking.’

’Not a hit!  And, Lyddy, I told Mr. Ackroyd that it would always be the same.  He understands now.’

The other made no reply.

‘You won’t be cross about it?’

‘No, dear; there’s nothing to be cross about.  But I’m very sorry.’

The explanation passed in a tone of less earnestness than either would have anticipated.  They did not look at each other, and they dismissed the subject as soon as possible.  Then came two rings at the house-bell, signifying the arrival of their visitor.

Mary Bower and Lydia had been close friends for four or five years, yet they had few obvious points of similarity, and their differences were marked enough.  The latter increased; for Mary attached herself more closely to religious observances, whilst Lydia continued to declare with native frankness that she could not feel it incumbent upon her to give grave attention to such matters.  Mary grieved over this attitude in one whose goodness of heart she could not call in question; it troubled her as an inconsequence in nature; she cherished a purpose of converting Lydia, and had even brought herself to the point of hoping that some sorrow might befall her friend—­nothing of too sad a nature, but still a grief which might turn her thoughts inward.  Yet, had anything of the kind come to pass, Mary would have been the first to hasten with consolation.