More than once of late she had known this mood, in which life lay about her barren and weary.

She was very young to suffer that oppression of the world-worn; it was the penalty she paid for her birthright of heart and mind.
By midnight they were lying side by side, but no 'goodnight' had passed between them.

When Thyrza's gentle breathing told that she slept, Lydia still lay with open eyes, watching the flicker of the street lamp upon the ceiling, hearing the sounds that came of mirth or brutality in streets near and far.

She did not suffer in the same way as her sister; as soon as she had gently touched Thyrza's unconscious hand love came upon her with its warm solace; but her trouble was deep, and she looked into the future with many doubts.
The past she could scarcely deem other than happy, though a stranger would have thought it sad enough.

Her mother she well remembered--a face pale and sweet, like Thyrza's: the eyes that have their sad beauty from foresight of death.