“ Her name’s Ursula now ,” said the mother, smiling a little bit ingratiatingly from the door. And she came out to examine the jewel on the child’s neck.
“ It is Ursula, isn’t it?” said Ursula Brangwen.
The father looked up at her, with an intimate, half-gallant, half-impudent, but wistful look. His captive soul loved her: but his soul was captive, he knew, always.
She wanted to go. He set a little ladder for her to climb up to the wharf. She kissed the child, which was in its mother’s arms, then she turned away. The mother was effusive. The man stood silent by the ladder.
Ursula joined Skrebensky. The two young figures crossed the lock, above the shining yellow water. The barge-man watched them go.
“ I loved them,” she was saying. “He was so gentle—oh, so gentl
