'I don't think you'd ever have the heart to do that, Thyrza,' she said, in a low voice.
'No,' she shook her head, smiling. 'I couldn't do without you. And now kiss me properly, like you always do.'
Lydia stood behind the chair again, and the laughing caress was exchanged.
'I should stay,' Thyrza went on, 'if it was only to have you do my hair. I do so like to feel your soft hands!'
'Soft hands! Great coarse things. Just look!'
She took one of Thyrza's, and held it beside her own. The difference was noticeable enough; Lydia's was not ill-shapen, but there were marks on it of all the rough household work which she had never permitted her sister to do. Thyrza's was delicate, supple, beautiful in its kind as her face.
'I don't care!' she said laughing. 'It's a good, soft, sleepy hand.'
'Sleepy, child!'
'I mean it always makes me feel dozy when it's doing my hair.'
There was no more cloud between them. The morning passed on with sisterly talk. Lydia had wisely refrained from exacting promises; she hoped to resume the subject before long—together with another that was in her mind. Thyrza, too, had something to speak of, but could not bring herself to it as yet.