g was good;
Gilbert's voice gave life to description and conversation, and supplied
an interest even where the writer was in danger of growing dull.

When the end was reached, Thyrza recovered herself with the sigh which
follows strained attention. But she was not in a mood to begin
conversation again; her mind had got something to work upon, it would
keep her awake far into the night with a succession of half-realised
pictures. What a world was that of which a glimpse had been given her!
Here, indeed, was something remote from her tedious life. Her brain was
full of vague glories, of the figures of kings and queens, of courtiers
and fair ladies, of things nobly said and done; and her heart throbbed
with indignation at wrongs greater than any she had ever imagined. When
it had all happened she knew not; surely very long ago! But the names
she knew, Chelsea, Lambeth, the Tower--these gave a curiously fantastic
reality to the fairy tale. And one thing she saw with uttermost
distinctness: that boat going down the stream of Thames, and the dear,
dreadful head dropped into it from the arch above. She would go and
stand on the bridge and think of it.

Ah, she must tell Lyddy all that! Better still, she must read it to
her. She found courage to say:

'Could you spare that book, Mr. Grail? Could you lend it me for a day
or two? I'd be very careful with it.'

'I shall be very glad to lend it you,' Gilbert answered. His voice
changed somehow from that in which he usually spoke.

She received it from him and held it on her lap with both hands. She
would not look into it till alone in her room; and, having secured it,
she did not wish to stay longer.

'Going already?' Mrs. Grail said, seeing her rise.

'Lyddy 'll be back very soon,' was the reply. 'I think I'd better go
now.'

She shook hands with both of them, and they heard her run up the
thin-carpeted stairs.

Mother and son sat in silence for some minutes. Gilbert had taken
another book, and seemed to be absorbed in it; Mrs. Grail had a face of
meditation. Occasionally she looked upwards, as though on the track of
some memory which she strove to make clear.

'Gilbert,' she began at length, suggestively.

He raised his eyes and regarded her in an absent way.

'I've been trying for a long time to remember what that child's face
reminded me of. Every time I see her, I make sure I've seen someone
like her before, and now I think I've got it.'

Gilbert was used to a