We drove away, through green lanes, in the cab, nurse and I; and in spite of the Horror, which surrounded me always, and the Picture, which recurred every time I shut my eyes to think, I enjoyed that drive very much, with all the fresh vividness of childish pleasure.  Though I learnt later I was eighteen years old at least, I was in my inner self just like a baby of ten months, going ta-ta.  At the end of the drive, we drew up sharp at a house, where some more men stood about, with red bands on their caps, and took boxes from the cab and put them into a van, while nurse and I got into a different carriage, drawn quickly by a thing that went puff-puff, puff-puff.  I didn’t know it was a railway, and yet in a way I did.  I half forgot, half remembered it.  Things that I’d seen in my previous state seemed to come back to me, in fact, as soon as I saw them; or at least to be more familiar to me than things I’d never seen before.  Especially afterwards.  But while things were remembered, persons, I found by-and-by, were completely forgotten.  Or rather, while I remembered after a while generalities, such as houses and men, recognising them in the abstract as a house, or a man, or a horse, or a baby, I forgot entirely particulars, such as the names of people and the places I had lived in.  Words soon came back to me:  names and facts were lost:  I knew the world as a whole, not my own old part in it.

Well, not to make my story too long in these early childish stages, we went on the train, as it seemed to me, a long way across fields to Aunt Emma’s.  I didn’t know she was Aunt Emma then for, indeed, I had never seen her before; but I remember arriving there at her pretty little cottage, and seeing a sweet old lady—­barely sixty, I should say, but with smooth white hair,—­who stood on the steps of the house and cried like a child, and held out her hands to me, and hugged me and kissed me.  And it was there that I learned my first word.  A great many times over, she spoke about “Una.”  She said it so often, I caught vaguely at the sound.  And nurse, when she answered her, said “Una” also.  Then, when Aunt Emma called me, she always said “Una.”  So it came to me dimly that Una meant me.  But I didn’t exactly recollect it had been my name before, though I learned in due time afterwards that I’d always been called so.  However, just at first, I picked up the word as a child might pick it up; and when, some months later, I began to talk easily, I spoke of myself always in the third person as Una.  I can remember with a smile now how I went one day to Aunt Emma—­I, a great girl of eighteen—­and held up my skirt, that I’d muddied in the street, and said to her, with great gravity: 

“Una naughty girl:  Una got her frock wet.  Aunt Emma going to scold poor Una for being so naughty!”