account of ts of to c your share.

    I say notrain en o roll upon its tracks. I feel t, and grip trap of leatil my ers in its glove.

    So t seems to me t  cross vast distances of space.—For you and t my sense of distance and space is ratrange. e stop at a village of red-bricked  anot a t every station t seems to me a press of people clamouring to board, train—perurn it.

    I to be crusrain; and almost hey do.

    t. treets and treets and spires t seen; more eady traffic of cattle and ve. But Ricudies me as I gaze, and smiles unpleasantly. Your natural op at tation and I see t: MAIDENhEAD.

    tly y miles, and y to go. I sit, still gripping trap, leaning close to t tation is filled he men idly walking; and from

    train gives a s bulk, and so terrible life. e leave treets of Maidenrees. Beyond trees t as my uncles, some greater. tages  icks for climbing beans, and rees, on buss of broken carts—laundry everywhere, drooping and yellow.

    I keep my pose and c all. Look, Maud, I ture. y, unfolding like a bolt of cloth . . .

    I hey have her in, now.

    Ricries to see beyond my veil. Youre not rouble over it still.

    I say, Dont look at me.

    S Briar, . You kno, soon, t it. Believe me, I kno only be patient. e must botient noogetune becomes ours. I am sorry I spoke  London, soon. t to you t;

    I do not ans last,  up. to ty. treaks of soot upon ttages o be replaced by o patco ditcco dark canals, to dreary es of road, to mounds of s