nt, this half-frenzied man! Nothing
matters, but this work of rebellion! He has not time to grieve,
nor to think of his children! He had not time even to beget
them, really."

She had let him go on alone. But, in the chaos, she had
worked by his side again. And out of the chaos, she had fled
with him to London.

He was a broken, cold man. He had no affection for her, nor
for anyone. He had failed in his work, so everything had failed.
He stiffened, and died.

She could not subscribe. He had failed, everything had
failed, yet behind the failure was the unyielding passion of
life. The individual effort might fail, but not the human joy.
She belonged to the human joy.

He died and went his way, but not before there was another
child. And this little Ursula was his grandchild. She was glad
of it. For she still honoured him, though he had been
mistaken.

She, Lydia Brangwen, was sorry for him now. He was
dead--he had scarcely lived. He had never known her. He had
lain with her, but he had never known her. He had never received
what she could give him. He had gone away from her empty. So, he
had never lived. So, he had died and passed away. Yet there had
been strength and power in him.

She could scarcely forgive him that he had never lived. If it
were not for Anna, and for this little Ursula, who had his
brows, there would be no more left of him than of a broken
vessel thrown away, and just remembered.

Tom Brangwen had served her. He had come to her, and taken
from her. He had died and gone his way into death. But he had
made himself immortal in his knowledge with her. So she had her
place here, in life, and in immortality. For he had taken his
knowledge of her into death, so that she had her place in death.
"In my father's house are many mansions."

She loved both her husbands. To one she had been a naked
little girl-bride, running to serve him. The other she loved out
of fulfilment, because he was good and had given her being,
because he had served her honourably, and become her man, one
with her.

She was established in this stretch of life, she had come to
herself. During her first marriage, she had not existed, except
through him, he was the substance and she the shadow running at
his feet. She was very glad she had come to her own self. She
was grateful to Brangwen. She reached out to him in gratitude,
into death.

In her heart she felt a vague tenderness and pity for her
first husband, who had been