the
school-term the removal would begin.

Ursula left school at the end of July, when the summer
holiday commenced. The morning outside was bright and sunny, and
the freedom got inside the schoolroom this last day. It was as
if the walls of the school were going to melt away. Already they
seemed shadowy and unreal. It was breaking-up morning. Soon
scholars and teachers would be outside, each going his own way.
The irons were struck off, the sentence was expired, the prison
was a momentary shadow halting about them. The children were
carrying away books and inkwell, and rolling up maps. All their
faces were bright with gladness and goodwill. There was a bustle
of cleaning and clearing away all marks of this last term of
imprisonment. They were all breaking free. Busily, eagerly,
Ursula made up her totals of attendances in the register. With
pride she wrote down the thousands: to so many thousands of
children had she given another sessions's lessons. It looked
tremendous. The excited hours passed slowly in suspense. Then at
last it was over. For the last time, she stood before her
children whilst they said their prayers and sang a hymn. Then it
was over.

"Good-bye, children," she said. "I shall not forget you, and
you must not forget me."

"No, miss," cried the children in chorus, with shining
faces.

She stood smiling on them, moved, as they filed out. Then she
gave her monitors their term sixpences, and they too departed.
Cupboards were locked, blackboards washed, ink wells and dusters
removed. The place stood bare and vacated. She had triumphed
over it. It was a shell now. She had fought a good fight here,
and it had not been altogether unenjoyable. She owed some
gratitude even to this hard, vacant place, that stood like a
memorial or a trophy. So much of her life had been fought for
and won and lost here. Something of this school would always
belong to her, something of her to it. She acknowledged it. And
now came the leave-taking.

In the teachers' room the teachers were chatting and
loitering, talking excitedly of where they were going: to the
Isle of Man, to Llandudno, to Yarmouth. They were eager, and
attached to each other, like comrades leaving a ship.

Then it was Mr. Harby's turn to make a speech to Ursula. He
looked handsome, with his silver-grey temples and black brows,
and his imperturbable male solidity.

"Well," he said, "we must say good-bye to Miss Brangwen and
wish her all good fortune f