le nogs of wood. She
never touched him: his feet and legs were near, she did not
approach them.

She liked to flit out after him when he was going to church
at night. If he were going to be alone, he swung her over the
wall, and let her come.

Again she was transported when the door was shut behind them,
and they two inherited the big, pale, void place. She would
watch him as he lit the organ candles, wait whilst he began his
practicing his tunes, then she ran foraging here and there, like
a kitten playing by herself in the darkness with eyes dilated.
The ropes hung vaguely, twining on the floor, from the bells in
the tower, and Ursula always wanted the fluffy, red-and-white,
or blue-and-white rope-grips. But they were above her.

Sometimes her mother came to claim her. Then the child was
seized with resentment. She passionately resented her mother's
superficial authority. She wanted to assert her own
detachment.

He, however, also gave her occasional cruel shocks. He let
her play about in the church, she rifled foot-stools and
hymn-books and cushions, like a bee among flowers, whilst the
organ echoed away. This continued for some weeks. Then the
charwoman worked herself up into a frenzy of rage, to dare to
attack Brangwen, and one day descended on him like a harpy. He
wilted away, and wanted to break the old beast's neck.

Instead he came glowering in fury to the house, and turned on
Ursula.

"Why, you tiresome little monkey, can't you even come to
church without pulling the place to bits?"

His voice was harsh and cat-like, he was blind to the child.
She shrank away in childish anguish and dread. What was it, what
awful thing was it?

The mother turned with her calm, almost superb manner.

"What has she done, then?"

"Done? She shall go in the church no more, pulling and
littering and destroying."

The wife slowly rolled her eyes and lowered her eyelids.

"What has she destroyed, then?"

He did not know.

"I've just had Mrs. Wilkinson at me," he cried, "with a list
of things she's done."

Ursula withered under the contempt and anger of the "she", as
he spoke of her.

"Send Mrs. Wilkinson here to me with a list of the things
she's done," said Anna. "I am the one to hear that."

"It's not the things the child has done," continued the
mother, "that have put you out so much, it's because you can't
bear being spoken to by that old woman. But you haven't the
courage to turn on her when she attack