won't."

These crises tore Barbara's spirit. Seven is not an age that can reason
with life's difficulties, and Barbara had, in this business, no
reasoning powers at all. She would die for Mary; she could not deny her
Friend. What was she to do? And yet--just at this moment when, of all
others, it was important that he should come to her and confirm his
reality--he made no sign. Not only did he make no sign, but he seemed to
withdraw, silently and surely, all his supports. Barbara discovered that
the company of Mary Adams did in very truth make everything that was not
sure and certain absurd and impossible. There was visible no longer, as
there had been before, that country wherein anything was possible, where
wonderful things had occurred and where wonderful things would surely
occur again.

"You're pretending," said Mary Adams sharply when Barbara ventured some
possibly extravagant version of some ordinary occurrence, or suggested
that events, rich and wonderful, had occurred during the night.
"Nonsense," said Mary sharply.

She said "nonsense" as though it were the very foundation of her creed
of life--as, indeed, to the end of her days, it was. What, then, was
Barbara to do? Her friend would not come, although passionately she
begged and begged and begged that he would. Mary Adams was there every
day, sharp, and shining, and resolved, demanding the whole of Barbara
Flint, body and soul--nothing was to be kept from her, nothing. What was
Barbara Flint to do?

She denied her Friend, denied that earlier world, denied her dreams and
her hopes. She cried a good deal, was very lonely in the dark. Mary