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