.'

Luke could only guess at the sense of the words, but he told her all he
knew.

'I only heard it on Friday night, from Totty,' he said. 'I was thinking
of every way I could to help him.'

'Oh, but to think that you never told me!' she exclaimed. 'You'd no
right to keep such a thing from me. It wasn't kindness; it wasn't
kindness at all, See what's come of it!

'I do wish I had told you.'

Early in the afternoon Lydia went home. But before leaving, she
searched in the poor old garments to see if; indeed, he had been
penniless. The discovery of the money at first astonished her, but
immediately after she found the pawn ticket. It was proof enough.

She was sitting in her room, at nightfall, when someone knocked. She
went to the door. Mary Bower was there.

'May I come in, Lydia?' Mary asked, with eyes downcast.

Lydia had started. She drew back, leaving the door open. Mary entered,
closed the door behind her, and stood in agitation.

'I know you hate me more than ever, Lydia,' she began, tremulously;
'but I did what I could for him. I want to tell you that I did what I
could for him, and I'd never have let mother give him notice. I told
her last night that, if she did, I'd leave home. I put food in his
room, and nobody knew about it. Perhaps you don't believe me; if he
could speak, he'd tell you someone did, and it was me.'

Lydia covered her face and wept. Mary, drawing nearer, went on with
broken voice:

'I've been very much to blame, Lydia. I've been hard and unforgiving.
But that night when you told me you hated me, I wanted to say how sorry
I was for you. I never spoke a word against Thyrza, not a word. And now
I couldn't help coming to you. I want to be friends again, Lyddy dear.
Don't send me away! I've been to blame in everything; I've been
bad-hearted. You might well not believe my religion when you saw me
acting as I did.'

She ceased, drawn to Lydia's heart and kissed with more than the old
affection.

'I know what you did for him, Mary. He told me--the last words he
spoke. He asked me to be friends with you again. I do want a friend,
Mary; I'm very lonely. I'll love you as long as I live for being kind
to him.'

They lit no light, but sat together by the glow of the fire, speaking
in very low voices, often with long intervals of silence. Two poor
girls, the one as ignorant as the other, but speaking with awed spirit
of death and the hope that is thereafter.

CHAPTER XXXII

TOTTY