r! She knew nothing of Egremont's
having left England; Lydia did not, and would scarcely have mentioned
the name even if she had known. Thyrza thought of himself as always
very near. There was a possibility that she might by chance see him. It
would have been very dear to her to see him at a distance, but she
dreaded lest he should see her. That would spoil all. No, it was a
sacred compact. Two years--two whole years--had to be lived through,
and then no one could say a word against their meeting.

She would be able to sing to him then. If her voice proved good enough
for her to sing in a concert, like _the_ concert at St. James's Hall,
would he not be proud of her? Artist's soul that she had, she never
gave it a thought that, if she became his wife, he might prefer that
she should not sing in public. She imagined herself before a great hall
of people, singing, yet singing in truth to one only. But all the
others must hear and praise, that he might have joy of her power.

Yet there would be the hour, also, for singing to him alone--they two
alone together. Would not her song be then the most glorious? Not with
her own voice, but with the voice of very love, would she utter her
hymn of gladness and worship. And he would praise her in few
words--more with looks than with words. And again she would say: 'So I
can sing, and no one can sing like me; but only because I sing for you,
and with my soul I love you!'

She could not often be sorrowful, and never for long together, even in
thinking of the past. Yes, one day there was of unbroken grief, the day
on which she received, through Mrs. Ormonde as always, the letter
wherein Lydia told her of Mr. Boddy's death. On that day she shed
bitter tears. Lydia spared her all that was most painful. She said that
the old man had fallen insensible by the Pooles' house, had been taken
in by them, and had died. She said that just before the end he uttered
Thyrza's name. And Thyrza had thought too seldom of Mr. Boddy, to whom
she and her sister owed so much. Had she hastened his death--she now
asked herself--by bringing upon him a great grief? The common remorse,
the common vain longings, assailed her. Even in the old days she had
somewhat slighted him; she had never shown him such love and care as
Lydia always did. And the poor old man was buried, with so much of her
past.

Only one little shadow there was that fell upon her at times when she
thought of Egremont. What was that questio