lagstones as the woman
washed the kitchen floor. And the children were prowling in the
bedroom, asking:

"What were you doing? What had you locked the door for?" Then
she discovered the key of the parish room, and betook herself
there, and sat on some sacks with her books. There began another
dream.

She was the only daughter of the old lord, she was gifted
with magic. Day followed day of rapt silence, whilst she
wandered ghost-like in the hushed, ancient mansion, or flitted
along the sleeping terraces.

Here a grave grief attacked her: that her hair was dark. She
must have fair hair and a white skin. She was rather
bitter about her black mane.

Never mind, she would dye it when she grew up, or bleach it
in the sun, till it was bleached fair. Meanwhile she wore a fair
white coif of pure Venetian lace.

She flitted silently along the terraces, where jewelled
lizards basked upon the stone, and did not move when her shadow
fell upon them. In the utter stillness she heard the tinkle of
the fountain, and smelled the roses whose blossoms hung rich and
motionless. So she drifted, drifted on the wistful feet of
beauty, past the water and the swans, to the noble park, where,
underneath a great oak, a doe all dappled lay with her four fine
feet together, her fawn nestling sun-coloured beside her.

Oh, and this doe was her familiar. It would talk to her,
because she was a magician, it would tell her stories as if the
sunshine spoke.

Then one day, she left the door of the parish room unlocked,
careless and unheeding as she always was; the children found
their way in, Katie cut her finger and howled, Billy hacked
notches in the fine chisels, and did much damage. There was a
great commotion.

The crossness of the mother was soon finished. Ursula locked
up the room again, and considered all was over. Then her father
came in with the notched tools, his forehead knotted.

"Who the deuce opened the door?" he cried in anger.

"It was Ursula who opened the door," said her mother. He had
a duster in his hand. He turned and flapped the cloth hard
across the girl's face. The cloth stung, for a moment the girl
was as if stunned. Then she remained motionless, her face closed
and stubborn. But her heart was blazing. In spite of herself the
tears surged higher, in spite of her they surged higher.

In spite of her, her face broke, she made a curious gulping
grimace, and the tears were falling. So she went away, desolate.
But he