Thyrza felt the influence of the change.  She breathed more easily; her body was no longer the weary weight she had failed under.  When she rose and saw such marvellous daylight at her window, involuntarily she let her voice run over a few notes.  The power of song was still in her; ah, if health and happiness had companioned with her, would she not have sung as few ever did!

But henceforth that was part of the past, part of what she must forget and renounce.  When she said to Mrs. Ormonde that she would still try to keep up her singing, there was a thought in her mind worthy of a woman cast in such a mould as hers.  She had a vision of herself, on some day not far off, sending forth her voice in glorious song, and knowing that among the crowd before her he sat and listened.  He would know her then.  To him her voice would say what no one else understood, and for a moment—­she wished it to be for no more than a moment—­he would scorn himself for having forgotten her.

It was all gone into the past, buried for ever out of sight.  She would no longer even sigh over the memory.  If the sky were always as to-day, if there were always sunlight to stand in and the living air to drink, she might find the life before her in truth as little of a burden as it seemed this morning But the days would again be wrapped in nether fumes, the foul air would stifle her, her blood would go stagnant, her eyes would weep with the desolate rain.  Why should Gilbert remain in England?  Were there no countries where the sun shone that would give a man and a woman toil whereby to support themselves?  Luke Ackroyd had spoken of going to Canada.  He said it cost so little to get there, and that life was better than in England.  Could not Gilbert take her yonder?  But there was his mother, old, weary; no such change was possible for her.  And the thought of her reminded Thyrza of one of the first duties she must take upon herself.  It mattered little where she lived—­mattered little if the sun-dawn never broke again.  Her life was to be in a narrow circle, and to that she would accustom herself.

What of to-morrow?  To-day she was full of courage, even of a kind of hope.  Never should Gilbert feel that she was not wholly his; never would she wrong his faithfulness by slighting the claims of his love.  In her misery she had said that there were things she could not do—­could not bear; as if a woman cannot take up any burden that she wills, and carry it faithfully even as far as the gates of death!  And this duty before her she would not even think of as a burden.  There are some women who never know what love is, who marry a man because they respect and like him, and are good wives their life long.  She would be even as one of these.  Suppose love to be something she had outgrown; the idleness of girls.  Now was the season of her womanhood, and the realities of life left no room for folly.

How long since she had felt so well!  She sewed through the morning, and had but little trouble to keep her thoughts always forward-looking.  She sang a little to herself, for who but must sing when there is sunlight?  She ate when dinner was brought to her.  Then she prepared to go out for half an hour.