onde 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.'

Lydia was in doubt. The thought of introducing a stranger to this room
to sit and pore upon the dead face with cold interest was repugnant to
her. Yet if Thyrza's face really could be preserved, to look at her,
for others dear to her to look at, that would be much. She gave her
assent.

Mary Bower came frequently; her silent presence was a help to Lydia
through the miseries of the next few days.

One other there was who asked timidly to be allowed to see Thyrza once
more--her friend Totty. She sought Mary Bower, and said how much she
wished it, though she feared Lydia would not grant her wish. But it was
granted readily, Totty had her sad pleasure, and her solemn memory.

Mrs. Ormonde knew that it was better for her not to attend the funeral.
On the evening before, she left at the house a small wreath of white
flowers. Lydia, Gilbert, Mary Bower, Luke Ackroyd and his sister, these
only went to the cemetery. He whom Thyrza would have wished to follow
her, in thought at least, to the grave, was too far away to know of her
death till later.

The next day, Lydia sat for an hour with Ackroyd. They did not speak
much. But before she left him, Lydia looked into his face and said:

'Do you wish me to believe, Luke, that I shall never see my sister
again?'

He bent his face and kept silence.

'Do you think that I could live if I believed that she was gone for
ever? That I should never meet Thyrza after this, never again?'

'I shall never wish you to think in that way, Lyddy,' he answered,
kindly. 'I've often talked as if I knew t