wonderful things to do--things which were so unlike anything
Judith had ever seen or heard or thought of that it was not
strange that she realized afterwards that all her past life and
its belongings had been so forgotten as to be wholly blotted out
while she was in the Closed Room. She did not know her playmate's
name, she did not remember that there were such things as names.
Every moment was happiness. Every moment the little girl seemed
to grow more beautiful in the flower whiteness of her face and
hands and the strange lightness and freedom of her movements.
There was an ecstasy in looking at her--in feeling her near.

Not long before Judith went down-stairs she found herself
standing with her outside the window in among the withered
flowers.

"It was my garden," the little girl said. "It has been so hot and
no one has been near to water them, so they could not live."

She went lightly to one of the brown rose-bushes and put her
pointed-fingered little hand quite near it. She did not touch it,
but held her hand near--and the leaves began to stir and uncurl
and become fresh and tender again, and roses were nodding,
blooming on the stems. And she went in the same manner to each
flower and plant in turn until all the before dreary little
garden was bright and full of leaves and flowers.

"It's Life," she said to Judith. Judith nodded and smiled back at
her, understanding quite well just as she had understood the eyes
of the bird who had swung on the twig so near her cheek the day
she had hidden among the bushes in the Park.