Going and coming back; gathered together; incredibly free; disentangled from the net of nerves and veins. It didn't move any more with the movement of the net. It was clear and still in the blackness; intensely real. Then it willed. Your self willed. It was free to will. You knew that it had never been free before except once; it had never willed before except once. Willing was this. Waves and waves of will, coming on and on, making your will, driving it through empty time.... "The time of time": that was the Self.... Time where nothing happens except this. Where nothing happens except God's will. God's will in your will. Self of your self. Reality of reality.... It had felt like that. Mamma had waked up. She was saying she was better. * * * * * Mamma was better. She said she felt perfectly well. She could walk across the room. She could walk without your holding her. It couldn't have been that. It couldn't, possibly. It was a tiny haemorrhage and it had dried up. It would have dried up just the same if you hadn't done anything. Those things _don't happen_. What did happen was extraordinary enough. The queer dying. The freedom afterwards. The intense stillness, the intense energy; the certainty. Something was there. * * * * * That horrible dream. Dorsy oughtn't to have made me go and see the old woman in the workhouse. A body without a mind. That's what made the dream come. It was Mamma's face; but she was doing what the old woman did. "Mamma!"--That's the second time I've dreamed Mamma was dead. The little lamb, lying on her back with her mouth open, making that funny noise: "Cluck-cluck," like a hen. Why can't I dream about something I want to happen? Why can't I dream about Richard? ... Poor Richard, how can he go on believing I shall come to him? VII. Dear Dr. Charles, with his head sticking out between the tubes of the stethoscope, like a ram. His poor old mouth hung loose as he breathed. He was out late last night; there was white stubble on his chin. "It won't do it when you want it to." "It's doing quite enough.... Let me see, it's two years since your mother had that illness. You must go away, Mary. For a month at least. Dorsy'll come and take care of your mother." "Does it matter where I go?" "N-no. Not so much. Go where you'll get a thorough change, my dear. I wouldn't stay with relations, if I were you." "All right, I'll go if you'll tell me what's the matter with me." "You've got your brother Rodney's heart. But it won't kill you if you'll take care of yourself." (Roddy's heart, the net of flesh and blood drawing in a bit of your body.) XXXIII I. Richard had gone up into his own flat and left her to wash and dress and explore. He had told her she was to have Tiedeman's flat. Not knowing who Tiedeman was made it more wonderful that God should have put it into his head to go away for Easter and lend you his flat.