welcomed also perhaps a certain note of rather haughty protection which
Mary seemed to be developing.

During the hours when Barbara was alone she thought of the many things
that she would say to her friend when they met, and then at the meeting
could say nothing. Mary talked or she did not talk according to her
mood, but she soon made it very plain that there was only one way of
looking at everything inside and outside the earth, and that was Mary's
way. Barbara had no affection, but a certain blind terror for God. It
was precisely as though some one were standing with a hammer behind a
tree, and were waiting to hit you on the back of your head at the first
opportunity. But God was not, on the whole, of much importance; her
Friend was the great problem, and before many days were passed Mary was
told all about him.

"He used to come often and often. He'd be there just where you wanted
him--when the light was out or anything. And he _was_ nice." Barbara
sighed.

Mary stared at her, seeming in the first full sweep of confidence, to be
almost alarmed.

"You don't mean----?" She stopped, then cried, "Why, you silly, you
believe in ghosts!"

"No, I don't," said Barbara, not far from tears.

"Yes, you do."

"No, I don't."