nurses, servants, her mother, about the things that she knew; about her
Friend who often came to see her, who was there so many times--there in
the room with her when they couldn't catch a glimpse of him; about the
days and nights when she was away anywhere, up in the sky, out on the
air, deep in the sea, about all the other experiences that she
remembered but was now rapidly losing consciousness of. She talked, at
first easily, naturally, and inviting, as it were, return confidences.
Then, quite suddenly, she realised that she simply wasn't believed, that
she was considered a wicked little girl "for making things up so," that
there was no hope at all for her unless she abandoned her "lying ways."

The shock of this discovery flung her straight back upon herself; if
they refused to believe these things, then there was nothing to be done.
But for herself their incredulity should not stop her. She became a very
quiet little girl--what her nurse called "brooding." This incredulity
of theirs drove them all instantly into a hostile camp, and the
affection that she had been longing to lavish upon them must now be
reserved for other, and, she could not help feeling, wiser persons. This
division of herself from the immediate world hurt her very much. From a
very early age, indeed, we need reassurance as to the necessity for our
existence. Barbara simply did not seem to be wanted.

But still worse: now that her belief in certain things had been
challenged, she herself began to question them. Was it true, possibly,
when a flaming sunset struck a sword across the Square and caught the
fountain, slashing it into a million glittering fragments, that that was
all that occurred? Such a thing had been for Barbara simply a door into
her earlier world. See the fountain--well, you have been tested; you are
still simple enough to go back into the real world. But was Barbara
simple enough? She was seven; it is just about then that we begin, under