Lydia seemed to have no more to say. Thyrza looked at her searchingly.
'Well, Lyddy, there's nothing in that. What else? I know there's something else.'
'Yes, there is. I went to the house, and, when I knocked at the door, Mr. Ackroyd opened it.'
Thyrza had begun to tremble. Her eyes watched her sister's face eagerly; she read something in the heightened colour it showed.
'And then, Lyddy? And then?'
'He asked me to come into the sitting-room. And then he—he said he wanted me to marry him, Thyrza.'
'Lyddy! It is true? At last?'
Thyrza could scarcely contain herself for joy. She had longed for this. No happiness of her own would have been in truth complete until there came like happiness to her sister. She knew how long, how patiently, with what self-sacrifice, Lydia had been faithful to this her first love. Again and again the love had seemed for ever hopeless; yet Lydia gave no sign of sorrow. The sisters were unlike each other in this. Lydia's nature, fortunately for herself, was not passionate; but its tenderness none knew as Thyrza did, its tenderness and its steadfast faith.
'Thyrza, any one would think you are more glad of it than I am.'
'There are no words to tell my gladness, dearest! Good Lyddy! At last, at last!'