of a man, unsoftened by any feminine attribute, to have these sheathed in convention, impossible to break without hurt to those she had no wish to hurt, to feel so thoroughly unlike a girl-this was the tragedy.

She was shaken by a craving for colour, for friendship; for something to still the hunger of her starving brain and fill it with expression. Perhaps it was experience she needed - she wanted to live, but knew not how to start. She tried reasoning, patience, to be calm; but the sudden sight of a wild-rose sky, a line of a poem, a single dream, and all the foundations of her citadel of reason crumbled into foam. Stung with the thousand trifles of an ordinary day, choked with her own inarticulate verse, taut on a thread of wavering hope, she trusted the absolute certainty behind her doubts that all these differing elements would mingle in her making, shape her eventual writing, be absorbed and form her mind.

Rain, sharp silver slanting lines beating down the street, crystal breaking a dull transparence of wet slate. The grey and flooded road mirrored the separate trees, an etching on the water. There might be ever an illusion of freedom in the hurricane and knowledge; there was always knowledge. Flaubert, de Régnier,

Verhaeren, lines, thoughts, vitality, surged through her in a single enthusiasm. Oh, that she might help to part the universe from narrowness, to pour beauty and a splendid tolerance within the reach of all. To them nothing was impossible. Surely to might at last attain.

personal liberty she

The park was deserted; long silver lines of rain hung on the branches, a forest of icicles. Cold drops trickled down her collar, a wet draggling skirt made impediment at each step. Would she were out in a boy's suit, free and joyous and careless as a boy is.

A wilder wind snowed the ground with leaves. An An orange leaf bounded by, a runaway hoop, rolling over and over the wet gravel. They made a tapestry of brown and scarlet on the water; they drifted on the slanting gale. Le vent." Mightily shouting, it burst between the trees. The glorious vigour of the forces of the world thundered through the hurricane. Knowledge: there was always knowledge. Wisdom spelt conquest. She would force everything into her brain, absorb it and pour it back in riches to the earth. Tempestuous conflict there might be, but sometime, sometime, freedom should be hers. "Le vent." Rhythm of rain and beating wind.

Whatever might befall, space, storm and air kept for ever immortality.

Night was near. The reflected lamps shone, distant crocuses waving in the Serpentine as the wind blew lightly across the surface of the black and shimmering water. She turned towards the darkness of the streets. The lamps hung lemon-wise between a silver mist; light fell in lemon ripples on the sombre pavement. She passed into a tranquil blankness of warm light, uneasy in its silence.

The years must bring her freedom and achievement.

CHAPTER III

BARRIERS

HER book had come. Nancy turned the pages without excitement, almost without interest. Weary of having her ambitions treated as a passing whim, weary for friendship; she had arranged for the best of her verses to be published at her own expense. They had seemed so beautiful when she sent the manuscript away, but in the months that had elapsed before it returned to her, a bound and printed volume, the vital impulses of "vers libre" had discovered and cut away much of the stagnation, due to Downwood, from her mind. She saw now that her rhythms were but echoes, that her thoughts had no strength. And here was a newspaper praising some of the verses; how dull it was and false.

Was this all that life meant? A veritable wresting of expression from a soul not yet articulate ; even with printing the conscious

ness of failure. Were the years to fill only with fresh hopes, the making of one book to be succeeded by another book, each inevitable with disillusion? Was it true what people told her, that she sought a reality that had never known existence ?

She closed the volume. Another hope had gone.

Everybody wanted to read Nancy's verses ; nobody wanted to buy them. Older people smiled at her as though she were a spoilt child given a new toy, and watched to see her tire of it. Reviews came; they were read in a quiet, impersonal way.

Monday brought "It is somewhat of a disappointment that the South should have inspired such aimless versifying. The author should remember that the light of the celestial flame needs no aid of coloured glass. Possibly the sense of rhythm may one day win a place among the minorities." Tuesday retaliated with "This tiny book of verse contains more of the true gold of poetry than many a weightier and more pretentious volume. Unlike much modern verse, all that is attempted is well within the scope of the poet, and some of the smaller poems are exquisite, clearly-cut gems. The rich-worded pictures are finer than mere