was of him. Bright with an amazing light as she was, how could she miss him?
In her bedroom she threw her arms in the air in clear pain of magnificence. Oh, it was her transfiguration, she was beyond herself. She wanted to fling herself into all the hidden brightness of the air. It was there, it was there, if she could but meet it.
But the next day she knew he had gone. Her glory had partly died down—but never from her memory. It was too real. Yet it was gone by, leaving a wistfulness. A deeper yearning came into her soul, a new reserve.
She shrank from touch and question. She was very proud, but very new, and very sensitive. Oh, that no one should lay hands on her!
She was happier running on by herself. Oh, it was a joy to run along the lanes without seeing things, yet being with them. It was such a joy to be alone with all one's riches.
The holidays came, when she was free. She spent most of her time running on by herself, curled up in a squirrel-place in the garden, lying in a hammock in the coppice, while the birds came near—near—so near. Or, in rainy weather, she flitted to the Marsh, and lay hidden with her book in a hay-loft.
All the time, she dreamed of him, sometimes definitely, but when she was happiest, only vaguely. He was the warm colouring to her dreams, he was the hot blood beating within them.
When she was less happy, out of sorts, she pondered over his appearance, his clothes, the buttons with his regimental badge, which he had given her. Or she tried to imagine his life in barracks. Or she conjured up a vision of herself as she appeared in his eyes.
His birthday was in August, and she spent some pains on making him a cake. She felt that it would not be in good taste for her to give him a present.
Their correspondence was brief, mostly an exchange of post-cards, not at all frequent. But with her cake she must send him a letter.
"Dear Anton. The sunshine has come back specially for your birthday, I think.
"I made the cake myself, and wish you many happy returns
