year in the hospital, for her day's work overtaxed her strength. She
was one of those fated toilers, to struggle on as long as any one
would employ her, then to fall among the forgotten wretched. And she
sang of May-bloom and love; of love that had never come near her and
that she would never know; sang, with her eyes upon the beer-stained
table, in a public-house amid the backways of Lambeth.

Totty Nancarrow was whispering to Thyrza:

'Sing something, old girl! Why shouldn't you?'

Annie West was also at hand, urging the same.

'Let 'em hear some real singing, Thyrza. There's a dear.'

Thyrza was in sore trouble. Music, if it were but a street organ,
always stirred her heart and made her eager for the joy of song. She
had never known what it was to sing before a number of people; the
prospect of applause tempted her. Yet she had scarcely the courage,
and the thought of Lydia's grief and anger--for Lydia would surely
hear of it--was keenly present.

'It's getting late,' she replied nervously. 'I can't stay; I can't
sing to-night.'

Only one or two people in the room knew her by sight, but Totty had
led to its being passed from one to another that she was a good
singer. The landlord of the house happened to be in the room; he
came and spoke to her.