Barbara, groping about in the desolation of having no one to grope with
her, discovered that her Friend came now less frequently to see her. She
was even beginning to wonder whether he had ever really come at all. She
had perhaps imagined him just as on occasion she would imagine her doll,
Jane, the Queen of England, or her afternoon tea the most wonderful
meal, with sausages, blackberry jam and chocolates. 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