Thyrza exclaimed. 'And she used to
declare that she wouldn't be married on any account. Of course I always
knew that was all nonsense. I shall go and see her some day, Lyddy,
before long.'

Lydia noticed the frequency with which Thyrza spoke of shortly seeing
old places and old friends. It puzzled her, but she asked for no
explanation. Perhaps all these mysteries would be at an end in time.

Thyrza found it very hard to part to-night. She found numberless
excuses for detaining Lydia from moment to moment, when it was really
time for her to go. She was agitated, and as if with some great joy.

'Next Sunday, at the same time, Lyddy!' she repeated again and again.

'But is there any fear of me forgetting it, dearest?' urged her sister.

'No, no! But I am so glad for you to come here. You like coming? I
don't think I shall write to you in the week; but of course you'll
write, if there's anything. I _might_ send a line; but no, I don't
think I shall. It'll be such a short time till Sunday, won't it? Does
the week go quickly with you? Oh, we _must_ say good-bye; it's getting
too late. Good-bye, my own, my dearest, my old Lyddy! Think of me every
hour--I'm always the same to you, whatever kind of dress I wear; you
know that, don't you? Good-bye, dear Lyddy!'

She clung to Lydia and kissed her. They went downstairs together, then,
before opening the door, again embraced and kissed each other silently.

When a few yards away, Lydia turned. Thyrza stood on the door-step;
light from within the house shone on her golden hair and just made her
face visible. She was kissing her hand....

It was Saturday. The week had been neither long nor short; Thyrza could
not distinguish the days in looking back upon them. She had not lived
in time, but in the eternity of a rapturous anticipation. Her daily
duties had been performed as usual, but with as little consciousness as
if she had done all in sleep. She rose, and it was Saturday morning.

What time to-day? That he would let one day pass had never occurred to
her as a possibility. But perhaps he would be at Eastbourne in the
morning, and in that case she must wait many hours. Happily, she had
nothing to attend to; today she could not even have pretended to live
her wonted life.

Mrs. Emerson would be out till evening. No one would come upstairs to
disturb about trifles.

She pretended to breakfast, then sat down by the window. She was
fearful now, not for the event, but of her