"The Closed Room!" Jane cried out. "What are you saying? You
couldn't get in?"

"Yes, I can."

Jane was conscious of experiencing a shock. She said afterwards
that suddenly something gave her the creeps.

"You couldn't open the door," she persisted. "I tried it again
yesterday as I passed by--turned the handle and gave it a regular
shove and it wouldn't give an inch."

"Yes," the child answered; "I heard you. We were inside then."

A few days later, when Jane weepingly related the incident to
awe-stricken and sympathizing friends, she described as
graphically as her limited vocabulary would allow her to do so,
the look in Judith's face as she came nearer to her.

"Don't tell me there was nothing happening then," she said. "She
just came up to me with them dead flowers in her hand an' a kind
of look in her eyes as if she was half sorry for me an' didn't
know quite why.

"'The door opens for me,' she says. 'That's where I play every
day. There's a little girl comes and plays with me. She comes in
at the window, I think. She is like the picture in the room where
the books are. Her hair hangs down and she has a dimple near her
mouth.'