sh vapours.
Such a day London sees but once in half a dozen winters.

Thyrza felt the influence of the change. She breathed more easily; her
body was no longer the weary weight she had failed under. When she rose
and saw such marvellous daylight at her window, involuntarily she let
her voice run over a few notes. The power of song was still in her; ah,
if health and happiness had companioned with her, would she not have
sung as few ever did!

But henceforth that was part of the past, part of what she must forget
and renounce. When she said to Mrs. Ormonde that she would still try to
keep up her singing, there was a thought in her mind worthy of a woman
cast in such a mould as hers. She had a vision of herself, on some day
not far off, sending forth her voice in glorious song, and knowing that
among the crowd before her _he_ sat and listened. He would know her
then. To him her voice would say what no one else understood, and for a
moment--she wished it to be for no more than a moment--he would scorn
himself for having forgotten her.

It was all gone into the past, buried for ever out of sight. She would
no longer even sigh over the memory. If the sky were always as to-day,
if there were always sunlight to stand in and the living air to drink,
she might find the life before her in truth as little of a burden as it
seemed this morning But the days would again be wrapped in nether
fumes, the foul air would stifle her, her blood would go stagnant, her
eyes would weep with the desolate rain. Why should Gilbert remain in
England? Were there no countries where the sun shone that would give a
man and a woman toil whereby to support themselves? Luke Ackroyd had
spoken of going to Canada. He said it cost so little to get there, and
that life was better than in England. Could not Gilbert take her
yonder? But there was his mother, old, weary; no such change was
possible for her. And the thought of her reminded Thyrza of one of the
first duties she must take upon herself. It mattered little where she
lived--mattered little if the sun-dawn never broke again. Her life was
to be in a narrow circle, and to that she would accustom herself.

What of to-morrow? To-day she was full of courage, even of a kind of
hope. Never should Gilbert feel that she was not wholly his; never
would she wrong his faithfulness by slighting the claims of his love.
In her misery she had said that there were things she could not
do--could not bear; as if a w