hat she was found fit for a higher standing than
that to which she was born. The joy which filled her became almost too
great to bear. She no longer strove to conceal it in Mrs. Ormonde's
presence. There was a touching little scene between them on the
afternoon before the concert at which Thyrza was to sing for the first
time, Mrs. Ormonde came to Thyrza's room unannounced; the latter was
laying out the dress she was to wear in the evening--a simple white
dress, but far more beautiful than any she had ever put on. Seeing her
friend enter, she turned, looked in her face, and burst into tears.
When she could utter words, they were a passionate expression of
gratitude. Mrs. Ormonde believed in that moment that her two years'
anxiety had found its end.

Very shortly after came the permission for Lydia to visit her. It was
new assurance that Mrs. Ormonde was reconciled to what she had tried to
prevent. A week, and there would come another visitor, one who was more
to her even than her sister.

In looking back, the time seemed very brief, for, whatever change had
been made in her, the love which was her life's life had known no
shadow of change. Had it perhaps strengthened? It was hard to believe
that she could love more than in that day of her darkest misery, when
it had seemed that she must die of longing for him to whom she had
given her soul. Yet she was stronger now, her life was richer in a
multitude of ways, and every gain she had achieved paid tribute to her
life's motive. Her singing she valued most as a way of uttering the
emotion she must not speak of to anyone; in music she could ease
herself of passion, yet fear no surprisal of her secret. Nothing was a
joy save in reference to that one end that was before her. If she felt
happy in a piece of knowledge attained, it was because she would so
soon speak of it to him, and hear him praise her for it. Everything and
all people about her seemed to conspire for her happiness. Even the
bodily pain which had often tried her so was no longer troublesome, or
very seldom indeed. Mrs. Emerson might well call her 'happy girl.'

In him she could imagine no change. His face was as present to her as
if she had seen him an hour ago, and she never asked herself whether
two years would have made any alteration even in his appearance. His
voice was the voice in which he had spoken to Mrs. Ormonde, when he
uttered the golden words that said he loved her. He would speak now in
the sa