Judith ran up the three flights of stairs lightly. She was glad
she had told her mother, though she wondered vaguely why it had
never seemed right to tell her until last night, and last night
it had seemed not so much necessary as imperative. Something had
obliged her to tell her. The time had come when she must know.
The Closed Room door had always shut itself gently after Judith
had passed through it, and yesterday, when her mother passing by
chance, had tried the handle so vigorously, the two children
inside the room had stood still gazing at each other, but neither
had spoken and Judith had not thought of speaking. She was out of
the realm of speech, and without any sense of amazement was aware
that she was out of it. People with voices and words were in that
faraway world below.

The playing to-day was even a lovelier, happier thing than it had
ever been before. It seemed to become each minute a thing farther
and farther away from the world in the streets where the Elevated
Railroad went humming past like a monster bee. And with the sense
of greater distance came a sense of greater lightness and
freedom. Judith found that she was moving about the room and the
little roof garden almost exactly as she had moved in the waking
dreams where she saw Aunt Hester--almost as if she was floating
and every movement was ecstasy. Once as she thought this she
looked at her playmate, and the child smiled and answered her as
she always did before she spoke.

"Yes," she said; "I know her. She will come. She sent me."

She had this day a special plan with regard to the arranging of
the Closed Room. She wanted all the things in it--the doll--the