ng, but not really looking to the two figures, the girl and
the warm-coloured, almost effeminately-dressed man Ursula waved
her handkerchief. The train gathered speed, it grew smaller and
smaller. Still it ran in a straight line. The speck of white
vanished. The rear of the train was small in the distance. Still
she stood on the platform, feeling a great emptiness about her.
In spite of herself her mouth was quivering: she did not want to
cry: her heart was dead cold.

Her Uncle Tom had gone to an automatic machine, and was
getting matches.

"Would you like some sweets?" he said, turning round.

Her face was covered with tears, she made curious, downward
grimaces with her mouth, to get control. Yet her heart was not
crying--it was cold and earthy.

"What kind would you like--any?" persisted her
uncle.

"I should love some peppermint drops," she said, in a
strange, normal voice, from her distorted face. But in a few
moments she had gained control of herself, and was still,
detached.

"Let us go into the town," he said, and he rushed her into a
train, moving to the town station. They went to a cafe to drink
coffee, she sat looking at people in the street, and a great
wound was in her breast, a cold imperturbability in her
soul.

This cold imperturbability of spirit continued in her now. It
was as if some disillusion had frozen upon her, a hard
disbelief. Part of her had gone cold, apathetic. She was too
young, too baffled to understand, or even to know that she
suffered much. And she was too deeply hurt to submit.

She had her blind agonies, when she wanted him, she wanted
him. But from the moment of his departure, he had become a
visionary thing of her own. All her roused torment and passion
and yearning she turned to him.

She kept a diary, in which she wrote impulsive thoughts.
Seeing the moon in the sky, her own heart surcharged, she went
and wrote:

"If I were the moon, I know where I would fall down."

It meant so much to her, that sentence--she put into it
all the anguish of her youth and her young passion and yearning.
She called to him from her heart wherever she went, her limbs
vibrated with anguish towards him wherever she was, the
radiating force of her soul seemed to travel to him, endlessly,
endlessly, and in her soul's own creation, find him.

But who was he, and where did he exist? In her own desire
only.

She received a post-card from him, and she put it in her
bosom. It did not mea