za 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 ti