ow different it was from the
mist of rain blowing over Cossethay. As she thought of her own
village, a spasm of yearning crossed her, it seemed so far off,
so lost to her.

She was here in this hard, stark reality--reality. It
was queer that she should call this the reality, which she had
never known till to-day, and which now so filled her with dread
and dislike, that she wished she might go away. This was the
reality, and Cossethay, her beloved, beautiful, wellknown
Cossethay, which was as herself unto her, that was minor
reality. This prison of a school was reality. Here, then, she
would sit in state, the queen of scholars! Here she would
realize her dream of being the beloved teacher bringing light
and joy to her children! But the desks before her had an
abstract angularity that bruised her sentiment and made her
shrink. She winced, feeling she had been a fool in her
anticipations. She had brought her feelings and her generosity
to where neither generosity nor emotion were wanted. And already
she felt rebuffed, troubled by the new atmosphere, out of
place.

She slid down, and they returned to the teacher's room. It
was queer to feel that one ought to alter one's personality. She
was nobody, there was no reality in herself, the reality was all
outside of her, and she must apply herself to it.

Mr. Harby was in the teachers' room, standing before a big,
open cupboard, in which Ursula could see piles of pink
blotting-paper, heaps of shiny new books, boxes of chalk, and
bottles of coloured inks. It looked a treasure store.

The schoolmaster was a short, sturdy man, with a fine head,
and a heavy jowl. Nevertheless he was good-looking, with his
shapely brows and nose, and his great, hanging moustache. He
seemed absorbed in his work, and took no notice of Ursula's
entry. There was something insulting in the way he could be so
actively unaware of another person, so occupied.

When he had a moment of absence, he looked up from the table
and said good-morning to Ursula. There was a pleasant light in
his brown eyes. He seemed very manly and incontrovertible, like
something she wanted to push over.

"You had a wet walk," he said to Ursula.

"Oh, I don't mind, I'm used to it," she replied, with a
nervous little laugh.

But already he was not listening. Her words sounded
ridiculous and babbling. He was taking no notice of her.

"You will sign your name here," he said to her, as if she
were some child--"and the tim