“But—­it’s odd—­there’s a gap in my memory.  I don’t remember the games we played.  I never remembered.  Afterwards, as a child, I spent long hours trying, even with tears, to recall the form of that happiness.  I wanted to play it all over again—­in my nursery—­by myself.  No!  All I remember is the happiness and two dear playfellows who were most with me . . . .  Then presently came a sombre dark woman, with a grave, pale face and dreamy eyes, a sombre woman wearing a soft long robe of pale purple, who carried a book and beckoned and took me aside with her into a gallery above a hall—­though my playmates were loth to have me go, and ceased their game and stood watching as I was carried away.  ’Come back to us!’ they cried.  ‘Come back to us soon!’ I looked up at her face, but she heeded them not at all.  Her face was very gentle and grave.  She took me to a seat in the gallery, and I stood beside her, ready to look at her book as she opened it upon her knee.  The pages fell open.  She pointed, and I looked, marvelling, for in the living pages of that book I saw myself; it was a story about myself, and in it were all the things that had happened to me since ever I was born . . . .

“It was wonderful to me, because the pages of that book were not pictures, you understand, but realities.”

Wallace paused gravely—­looked at me doubtfully.

“Go on,” I said.  “I understand.”

“They were realities—­yes, they must have been; people moved and things came and went in them; my dear mother, whom I had near forgotten; then my father, stern and upright, the servants, the nursery, all the familiar things of home.  Then the front door and the busy streets, with traffic to and fro:  I looked and marvelled, and looked half doubtfully again into the woman’s face and turned the pages over, skipping this and that, to see more of this book, and more, and so at last I came to myself hovering and hesitating outside the green door in the long white wall, and felt again the conflict and the fear.

“‘And next?’ I cried, and would have turned on, but the cool hand of the grave woman delayed me.

“‘Next?’ I insisted, and struggled gently with her hand, pulling up her fingers with all my childish strength, and as she yielded and the page came over she bent down upon me like a shadow and kissed my brow.

“But the page did not show the enchanted garden, nor the panthers, nor the girl who had led me by the hand, nor the playfellows who had been so loth to let me go.  It showed a long grey street in West Kensington, on that chill hour of afternoon before the lamps are lit, and I was there, a wretched little figure, weeping aloud, for all that I could do to restrain myself, and I was weeping because I could not return to my dear play-fellows who had called after me, ’Come back to us!  Come back to us soon!’ I was there.  This was no page in a book, but harsh reality; that enchanted place and the restraining hand of the grave mother at whose knee I stood had gone—­whither have they gone?”