she miss him.

In her bedroom she threw her arms in the air in clear pain of
magnificence. Oh, it was her transfiguration, she was beyond
herself. She wanted to fling herself into all the hidden
brightness of the air. It was there, it was there, if she could
but meet it.

But the next day she knew he had gone. Her glory had partly
died down--but never from her memory. It was too real. Yet
it was gone by, leaving a wistfulness. A deeper yearning came
into her soul, a new reserve.

She shrank from touch and question. She was very proud, but
very new, and very sensitive. Oh, that no one should lay hands
on her!

She was happier running on by herself. Oh, it was a joy to
run along the lanes without seeing things, yet being with them.
It was such a joy to be alone with all one's riches.

The holidays came, when she was free. She spent most of her
time running on by herself, curled up in a squirrel-place in the
garden, lying in a hammock in the coppice, while the birds came
near--near--so near. Oh, in rainy weather, she flitted
to the Marsh, and lay hidden with her book in a hay-loft.

All the time, she dreamed of him, sometimes definitely, but
when she was happiest, only vaguely. He was the warm colouring
of her dreams, he was the hot blood beating within them.

When she was less happy, out of sorts, she pondered over his
appearance, his clothes, the buttons with his regimental badge,
which he had given her. Or she tried to imagine his life in
barracks. Or she conjured up a vision of herself as she appeared
in his eyes.

His birthday was in August, and she spent some pains on
making him a cake. She felt that it would not be in good taste
for her to give him a present.

Their correspondence was brief, mostly an exchange of
post-cards, not at all frequent. But with her cake she must send
him a letter.

"Dear Anton. The sunshine has come back specially for your
birthday, I think. I made the cake myself, and wish you many
happy returns of the day. Don't eat it if it is not good. Mother
hopes you will come and see us when you are near enough.

"I am

"Your Sincere Friend,

"Ursula Brangwen."

It bored her to write a letter even to him. After all,
writing words on paper had nothing to do with him and her.

The fine weather had set in, the cutting machine went on from
dawn till sunset, chattering round the fields. She heard from
Skrebensky; he too was on duty in the country, on Salisbury
Plain. He was no