Why? Nothing new had happened. She
longed for sleep, but it only came when dawn was white upon the blind.

When it was time to rise, neither spoke. Lydia prepared the breakfast
as usual--it seemed quite natural that she should do nearly all the
work of the home--and they sat down to it cheerlessly.

Since daybreak a mist had crept over the sky; it thinned the sunlight
to a suffusion of grey and gold. Within the house there was the silence
of Sunday morning; the street was still, save for the jodeling of a
milkman as he wheeled his clattering cans from house to house. In that
London on the other side of Thames, known to these girls with scarcely
less of vagueness than to simple dwellers in country towns, the
autumn-like air was foretaste of holiday; the martyrs of the Season and
they who do the world's cleaner work knew that rest was near, spoke at
breakfast of the shore and the mountain. Even to Lydia, weary after her
short sleep and unwontedly dejected, there came a wish that it were
possible to quit the streets for but one day, and sit somewhere apart
under the open sky. It was not often that so fantastic a dream visited
her.

In dressing, Thyrza had left her hair unbraided. Lydia always did that
for her. When the table was cleared, the former took up a story-paper
which she bought every week, and made a show of reading. Lydia went
about her accustomed tasks.

Presently she took a brush and comb and went behind her sister's chair.
She began to unloosen the rough coils in which the golden hair was
pinned together. It was always a joy to her to bathe her hands in the
warm, soft torrent. With delicate care she combed out every intricacy,
and brushed the ordered tresses till the light gleamed on their smooth
surface; then with skilful fingers she wove the braid, tying it with a
blue ribbon so that the ends hung loose. The task completed, it was her
custom to bend over the little head and snatch an inverted kiss, always
a moment of laughter. This morning she omitted that; she was moving
sadly away, when she noticed that the face turned a little, a very
little.

'Isn't it right?' she asked, keeping her eyes down.

'I think so--it doesn't matter.'

She drew near again, as if to inspect her work. Perhaps there was a
slight lack of smoothness over the temple; she touched the spot with
her fingers.

'Why are you so unkind to me, Thyrza?'

The words had come involuntarily; the voice shook as they were spoken.

'I d