pretending. It's gone on long enough. Are you going to give me away?"

But Barbara could do nothing. Her whole world was there, like the Nankin
vase, smashed about her feet, as it never, never would be again.

"So you did this, Barbara?" Mrs. Flint said.

"Yes," said Barbara. Then she began to cry.


VI

At home she was sent to bed. Her mother read her a chapter of the Gospel
according to St. Matthew, and then left her; she lay there, sick with
crying, her eyes stiff and red, wondering how she would ever get through
the weeks and weeks of life that remained to her. She thought: "I'll
never love any one again. Mary took my Friend away--and then she wasn't
there herself. There isn't anybody."

Then it suddenly occurred to her that she need never be put through the
agony of her denials again, that she could believe what she liked, make
up stories.

Her Friend would, of course, never come to see her any more, but at
least now she would be able to think about him. She would be allowed to
remember. Her brain was drowsy, her eyes half closed. Through the
humming air something was coming; the dark curtains were parted, the
light of the late afternoon sun was faint yellow upon the opposite
wall--there was a little breeze. Drowsily, drowsily, her drooping eyes
felt the light, the stir of the air, the sense that some one was in the