It may account, when we are displeased, for so much. It accounted for a
great deal with Mary--but not all. She had, I believe, a quite genuine
affection for Barbara, nothing very disturbing, that could rival the
question as to whether she would receive a second helping of pudding or
no, or whether she looked better in blue or pink. Nevertheless, the
affection was there. During several months she considered Barbara more
than she had ever considered any one in her life before. At that first
tea party she was aware, perhaps, that Barbara's proffered devotion was
for complete and absolute self-sacrifice, something that her vanity
would not often find to feed it. There was, too, no question of
comparison between them.

Even when Barbara grew to be nine she would be a poor thing beside the
lusty self-confidence of Mary Adams--and this was quite as it should be.
All that Barbara wanted was some one upon whom she might pour her
devotion, and one of the things that Mary wanted was some one who would
spend it upon her. But there stirred, nevertheless, some breath of
emotion across that stagnant little pool, Mary's heart. She was moved,
perhaps, by pity for Barbara's amazing simplicities, moved also by
curiosity as to how far Barbara's devotion to her would go, moved even
by some sense of distrust of her own self-satisfaction. She did, indeed,
admire any one who could realise, as completely as did Barbara, the
greatness of Mary Adams.

It may seem strange to us, and almost terrible, that a small child of
seven can feel anything as devastating as this passion of Barbara. But
Barbara was made to be swept by storms stronger than she could control,
and Mary Adams was the first storm of her life. They spent now a great
deal of their time together. Mrs. Adams, who was beginning to find Mary
more than she could control, hailed the gentle Barbara with joy; she