t yet. I stand and c a minute; and tly. I go to tairs, and from to t room I lock t my back and lig is beating , noicipation. But time is racing, and I cannot . I cross to my uncles sen tain Dra: I take it, and open it, and set it upon  t tig. tiff, but springs t inc is its nature to cut, after all.

    Still, it is  is terribly  cannot do it—to put tal for t time to t and naked paper. I am almost afraid t it does not s sigs oion; and s become ser and more true.

    urn to Sue s t . But soo relieved to scold me. en it up noake your bag.—Not t one, t ones too  go. Ss o my mouteady takes my he house.

    Soft as a tells me  I ly stood, ligc ts airs are strange to me, all t of trange to me. Sil s doo make turn. Sc ac.

    takes me into t; and the house seems queer—for of course, I have never

    before seen it at sucood at my . If I stood tugging my rees, tones and stumps of ivy? For a second I ate, turn and ce sure t, if I only , I  ther windows. ill no-one wake, and come, and call me back?

    No-one  my urn and folloe in t again I let it fall among tand in sing a Pyramus. t black.

    o t. t sits loer—a dark-, slender, rising at t of my dreams. I c come, feel Sues urn in mine; tep from ake ts, let o my seat, unresisting. Saggering,  against ts, urn, and t takes us.

    No-one speaks. No-one moves, save Ricly, in silence, into our dark and separate hells.

    follo t I so keep upon t, but am made to leave it and mount a  any otime; but I sit lifelessl