he dismal yew trees, across
the wet flagstones of the kitchen, whilst the cleaning-woman
grumbled and scolded; children were swarming on the sofa,
children were kicking the piano in the parlour, to make it sound
like a beehive, children were rolling on the hearthrug, legs in
air, pulling a book in two between them, children, fiendish,
ubiquitous, were stealing upstairs to find out where our Ursula
was, whispering at bedroom doors, hanging on the latch, calling
mysteriously, "Ursula! Ursula!" to the girl who had locked
herself in to read. And it was hopeless. The locked door excited
their sense of mystery, she had to open to dispel the lure.
These children hung on to her with round-eyed excited
questions.

The mother flourished amid all this.

"Better have them noisy than ill," she said.

But the growing girls, in turn, suffered bitterly. Ursula was
just coming to the stage when Andersen and Grimm were being left
behind for the "Idylls of the King" and romantic
love-stories.

"Elaine the fair Elaine the lovable,
Elaine the lily maid of Astolat,
High in her chamber in a tower to the east
Guarded the sacred shield of Launcelot."

How she loved it! How she leaned in her bedroom window with
her black, rough hair on her shoulders, and her warm face all
rapt, and gazed across at the churchyard and the little church,
which was a turreted castle, whence Launcelot would ride just
now, would wave to her as he rode by, his scarlet cloak passing
behind the dark yew trees and between the open space: whilst
she, ah, she, would remain the lonely maid high up and isolated
in the tower, polishing the terrible shield, weaving it a
covering with a true device, and waiting, waiting, always remote
and high.

At which point there would be a faint scuffle on the stairs,
a light-pitched whispering outside the door, and a creaking of
the latch: then Billy, excited, whispering:

"It's locked--it's locked."

Then the knocking, kicking at the door with childish knees,
and the urgent, childish:

"Ursula--our Ursula? Ursula? Eh, our Ursula?"

No reply.

"Ursula! Eh--our Ursula?" the name was shouted now Still
no answer.

"Mother, she won't answer," came the yell. "She's dead."

"Go away--I'm not dead. What do you want?" came the
angry voice of the girl.

"Open the door, our Ursula," came the complaining cry. It was
all over. She must open the door. She heard the screech of the
bucket downstairs dragged across the f