that she wouldn't, and promised not to interrupt her.

"Well, there's not much to tell," she began. "You see I heard a great bang, and could not bear the silence that followed it. I don't know why. I felt obliged to open my door and listen; then to come out into the passage and listen at your door; then to tap at your door; then, getting no answer, to open your door; and there you were lying on the floor, staring with such fright at me and moving your mouth, as a bunny might look at a stoat or something. I had an immense great impulse not to call the others, but to lull your fear away myself. So I put you to bed and held you in my arms and sent you to sleep. I've seen some one else have a complete nervous collapse. All the evening I'd watched something wrong with you. I always obey an impulse. You were half wandering, half sensible. I think that's all. You must have been going through an awful time lately."

"Yes, I have. I thought I was going mad.” "Don't you think so any more?"

"No, I don't. Why don't I?"

"I don't know."

me.

"I hoped you would. There's been a change in As though I'd been falling, falling, falling down a hill, had reached the bottom, and was beginning to climb up again."

"I feel I've found something, and don't quite know what it is. I hoped you'd be able to tell me, because it's somehow through you I've found it.

Everything in some queer way does not seem different; everything is different; as though something had died or something had been born. It's not my fault, this change, or whatever it is. I've been taken by the neck and chucked into it. Do you knowplease don't mind my saying this — but I feel a sort of worship of you; the room feels the holier for having you in it. I woke up into that sense of holiness, and was almost afraid to breathe lest I might scatter it, but it lasted quietly on and deepened perceptibly when you came in. Queerest of all I can tell you of it quite unshyly, quite naturally, quite quietly, like thanking a rose for smelling sweetly. I mean it's accidental that I should have noticed it. It's there for every one who likes to notice it. So is the smell of a rose. O Lord! I wonder, can it be that it is everywhere? This . . . This... this this.. this

"Don't worry now. There's lots of time," she said. "I'm quite sure it is everywhere. I mean, don't worry about its name. Whatever it is you've found won't be more yours by naming it. And you're weak and your brain's weak and you mustn't perplex it. Once one has felt a thing so deeply as you have this, one never loses it. Of that I'm quite sure. One definite thing you've found is a friend. Now please try and go to sleep."

She leaned over me and with simple naturalness she kissed my forehead and both my eyes, saying softly as she kissed them, "Keep them shut." I did as she told me; but I held her arm and said:

66

Corinna, I need you, you know."

"Yes, dear, I know you do," she answered.

"Just one more thing," I begged. “Why is it that I can speak to you without the least trace of the least fear of being misunderstood." I added reverently, "Almost as though I were talking to God." And she answered reverently, "Where else is God but in ourselves? To speak with, I mean. To be seen, of course, everywhere; in primroses for instance."

"Primroses?" I said. "What made you say primroses?"

"I particularly love them," she said.

"That's

all. No, keep them shut, dear, and sleep. I'm going now."

"It's true.

You are much more than a girl to

me. We'll find out, won't we?"

"Yes, we will."

Oh, just one more thing," I said sleepily, for I was very tired. "I'm as much in love with you as an infant in arms is with its mother, and my need of you is as great. Can you understand that, too?" 66 I think I can."

Imagine an infant who's been able to talk some twenty-six years, and that's really what I am. Heavens! how I want to go for my first walk!" snuggled down. Corinna stroked my forehead.

I

"Worship. That's it. Worship," I said drowsily. "How funny!" I heard the door close, and almost instantly fell asleep, feeling as though I should sleep for at least a week.

XII

I SMILED So often, and I dare say so idiotically, during those first days that I am quite sure mother had fears for my reason. Her own cheerfulness was

forced, and once or twice, when she thought I was not looking at her, I surprised on her face a look of anxiety.

I spoke to Corinna about it without hesitation.

"Mother thinks the collapse has left me a little dotty," I said "a little soft in the brain. Do you?"

She laughed, and said she didn't.

"I'm not so sure about it myself," I went on, "though I don't fret about it. I simply feel that I'd rather be what I am now, crazy or not, than what I was. I can't remain as I am though, can I? I mean, I must either become more what I am now or get back into what I was. Which do you think I

shall do?"

"I don't know. It rather depends, doesn't it?" "Depends on what?"

"On which you wish to do."

"Does it? That's just the point. Does it? My wishing's not had much to do with it so far. It's just been pitch and toss, and here I am. And what does getting more and more so mean? Does it mean getting dottier and dottier? What'll hap

pen when I get up and leave off lying here and being petted and waited on?"

"There's a difference between 'wish' and ' will,’ Miss Rinnie, my nurse, used to say."

"I like the Miss Rinnie awfully."

"She was such an old dear. Any child can pull a chicken bone and wish for a pony; but willing means . . .'

Means what?"

Definitely making up your mind to a definite thing. And with me," she added, “ now, it means prayer."

"I feel in the jolly old place where proverbs come from, and all the nice things we used to write out in our copybooks. Do go on talking like that. You're a mother and a nurse all rolled into one, and so young and fresh, and such a friend.

Do you know, It's so decent any particular

I feel almost on the brink of tears. to feel a kid, and for you not to be age or anything but just dearness and kindness and sweetness and trust; just some one to whom I don't open my heart but to whom my heart lies open. I've no memory for these things, but this is how I must have felt, when I was a little boy, to my mother."

66

I always felt there was a friend for me hidden away within you; now we are friends," Corinna said. "Yes, that's one way of putting it, but I've made friends before. With Amy, for instance. But Amy . . I stopped, and Corinna waited for me to go on, which I presently did:

Why can't I talk to you about Amy in the same way? It's not that it's not done. To speak, I mean,