Young though, she was, she was able to realise that this imagination of hers was _capable de tout_, and that every one older than herself said that it was wicked; therefore was her Friend, perhaps, wicked also.
And yet, if the dark curtains that veiled the nursery windows at night, if the glimmering shape of the picture-frames, if the square black sides of the dolls' house were real, real also was the figure of her Friend, real his arousal in her of all the memories of the old days before she was Barbara Flint at all--real, too, his love, his care, his protection; as real, yes, as Miss Letts's bony figure.

It was all very puzzling.

But he did not come now as in the old days.
Barbara played very often in the gardens in the middle of the Square, but because she was a timid little girl she did not make many friends.
She knew many of the other children who played there, and sometimes she shared in their games; but her sensitive feelings were so easily hurt, she frequently retired in tears.

Every day on going into the garden she looked about her, hoping that she would find before she left it again some one whom it would be possible to worship.

She tried on several occasions to erect altars, but our English temperament is against public display, and she was misunderstood.
Then, quite suddenly, as though she had sprung out of the fountain, Mary Adams was there.