ather, the one long hyper-Attic sentence--in which
she should convey her intelligence to Ackroyd. Several things were to
be considered in this composition. First, it must be as brief as
possible; then, it must be very formal in its mode of address. Both
these necessities came of the consideration that the letter would of
course be shown to Totty Nancarrow, and Totty must have no cause of
complaint. 'Dear Mr. Ackroyd'--that was written, but might it stand? It
meant so much, so much. But how else to begin? Did not everybody begin
letters in that way? She really could not say 'Dear Sir.' Then--for the
letter _must_ be finished, the hour was getting so late--'Yours truly,
Lydia Trent.' Surely that was commonplace enough. Yes, but to say
'yours;' that too meant so much. Was she not indeed his? And might not
Totty suspect something in that 'yours?' You see that Lyddy was made a
very philosopher by love; she had acquired all at once the power of
seeing through the outward show of things, of perceiving what really
lies below our conventional forms. Well, the letter had to stand; she
had no second sheet of note-paper, and she had no more time, for the
weary eyes and hands must get their rest for to-morrow's toil. She
closed the envelope and addressed it; then, the ink being dry, she put
the written name just for an instant to her lips. Totty could not
divine that, and it was not so great a wrong. Perhaps Lydia would not
have done it, but that the great burden upon her was for the moment
lightened, and she longed to tell someone how thankful she was.

Would he reply by letter? Or would he make an opportunity of seeing
her? Since the forming of that sudden intimacy under the pressure of
misery, he and she had not seen each other often. They always spoke if
they met, and Lydia was very grateful to him for the invariable
kindness of his voice and his look, but of course it was not to be
expected, not to be desired, that they should sustain the habit of
conversing together as close friends. Ackroyd had evidently remembered
that it was unwise; perhaps he had reported the matter to Totty, with
the result that Totty had pronounced a quiet opinion, which it was only
becoming in him to respect.

He wrote back; the letter came as speedily as could have been expected.
'Dear Miss Trent,' and 'Yours truly'--even as she had written. How can
one write such words and mean nothing by them? But he said, 'Believe
me, yours truly;' ah, she would ne