It may seem strange to us, and almost terrible, that a small child of seven can feel anything as devastating as this passion of Barbara. But Barbara was made to be swept by storms stronger than she could control, and Mary Adams was the first storm of her life. They spent now a great deal of their time together. Mrs. Adams, who was beginning to find Mary more than she could control, hailed the gentle Barbara with joy; she welcomed also perhaps a certain note of rather haughty protection which Mary seemed to be developing. During the hours when Barbara was alone she thought of the many things that she would say to her friend when they met, and then at the meeting could say nothing. Mary talked or she did not talk according to her mood, but she soon made it very plain that there was only one way of looking at everything inside and outside the earth, and that was Mary's way. Barbara had no affection, but a certain blind terror for God. It was precisely as though some one were standing with a hammer behind a tree, and were waiting to hit you on the back of your head at the first opportunity. But God was not, on the whole, of much importance; her Friend was the great problem, and before many days were passed Mary was told all about him. "He used to come often and often. He'd be there just where you wanted him--when the light was out or anything. And he _was_ nice." Barbara sighed. Mary stared at her, seeming in the first full sweep of confidence, to be almost alarmed. "You don't mean----?" She stopped, then cried, "Why, you silly, you believe in ghosts!" "No, I don't," said Barbara, not far from tears. "Yes, you do." "No, I don't." "Of course you do, you silly." "No, I don't. He--he's real." "Well," Mary said, with a final toss of the head, "if you go seeing ghosts like that you can't have me for your friend, Barbara Flint--you can choose, that's all." Barbara was aghast. Such a catastrophe had never been contemplated. Lose Mary? Sooner life itself. She resolved, sorrowfully, to say no more about her Friend. But here occurred a strange thing. It was as though Mary felt that over this one matter Barbara had eluded her; she returned to it again and again, always with contemptuous but inquisitive allusion. "Did he come last night, Barbara?" "No." "P'r'aps he did, only you were asleep." "No, he didn't." "You don't believe he'll come ever any more, do you? Now that I've said he isn't there really?" "Yes, I do." "Very well, then, I won't see you to-morrow--not at all--not all day--I won't."