'No, Gilbert. I think not.' He moved in surprise. 'You say she has gone? What makes you think she has left us?' To hide anything now was worse than useless. Without speaking, she held to him the scrap of paper. He, having read, turned to his mother. 'Will you let us be alone, mother?' The poor old woman went with bowed head from the room. Gilbert's voice dropped to a lower note. 'Lydia, as you have shown me this, you must have decided that you cannot keep the promise which is spoken of here.' 'I can't keep it, Gilbert, because you might think worse of Thyrza if I do.' 'Think worse? Then you suppose I believe what is said about her--about Thyrza?' 'I can't think you believe what Mr. Bower _wishes_ people to, but you can't know how little she's been to blame.' He was silent, then said: 'I came home a few minutes ago, thinking that what Bunce has just told was a mere lie, set afloat by someone who wished us harm. I thought Thyrza knew of the lie, and that it had made her ill--that she could not bring herself to speak to me of it. But I see there's something more.' She stood before him like one guilty. His calmness was terrible to her. She seemed to feel in herself all the anguish which he was repressing. He continued: 'You told me yesterday morning that Thyrza still wished to marry me. This note shows me why you said that, and in what sense you meant it. I don't blame you, Lydia; you were loyal to your sister. But I must ask you something else now, and your answer must be the simple truth. Does Thyrza love Mr. Egremont?' 'Yes, Gilbert.' She said it with failing voice, and, as soon as she had spoken, burst into tears. 'Oh, I have broken the promise I made to my dear one! The last thing she asked, and perhaps I shall never see her again! What could I do, Gilbert? If I kept it back, you'd have thought there was something worse. She seems to have behaved cruel to you, but you don't know what she's gone through. She's so ill; she'll go somewhere and die, and I shall never hear her speak to me again! I've been unkind to her so often; she doesn't know how I love her! Gilbert, help me to find her! I can't live without my sister. Don't be angry with her, Gilbert; she's suffered dreadful; if you only knew! She tried so hard. Her last thought was about you, and how she could spare you. Forgive her, and bring her back to me. What shall we do to find her? Oh, I _can't_ lose her, my little sister, my dear one!' One would have thought Gilbert had no grief of his own, so anxiously did he try to comfort her. 'Lyddy,' he said, when she could listen to him, 'you are _my_ sister, and will always be. If I could think unkindly of Thyrza now, I should show that I was never worthy of her. Don't hurt me by saying such things. We will find her; have no fear, we will find her.' 'And you'll do as she wished? You'll still go to the library?'