There she was! Quite as I had fleetingly seen her, with lacy skirts and vague, sweeping sleeves and bending line of shoulder, my Lady of the Tree was there again. I looked at her breathlessly, unsurprised at the gracious movement of her, so skilfully concealed by the disguises of the wind. Oh, was she there all the time, or only in apple-blossom time? Would she be there not only in white Spring but in green Summer and yellow Fall--why, perhaps all those times came only because she changed her gown. Perhaps night came only because she put on something dusky, made of veils. Maybe the stars that I had thought looked to be caught in the branches were the jewels in her hair. And the wind might be her voice! I listened with all my might. What if she should tell me her name ... and know my name!... “Seventeen un-twists,” announced Delia. “Did you ever get that many out of such a little stingy swing as you gave me?” I did not question the desirability of telling Delia. The four Eversley girls had been barbarians (so I thought). Delia I had known always. To be sure, she had sometimes failed me, but these times were not real. My eyes were on the tree, and Delia came curiously toward me. “Bird?” she whispered. I shook my head and beckoned her. Still looking at my lady, I drew Delia down beside me, brought her head close to mine. “Look,” I said, “her skirt is all branches--and her face is turned the other way. See her?” Delia looked faithfully. She scanned the tree long and impartially. “See her? See her?” I insisted, under the impression that I was defining her. “It’s a lady,” I breathed it finally. “Oh,” said Delia, “you mean that side of the tree is the shape of one. Yes, it is--kind of. I’m going home. We got chocolate layer cake for supper. Good-bye. Last tag.” I turned to Delia for a second. When she went, I looked back for my lady--but she had gone. Only--now I did not try to bring her back. Neither did I doubt her, even then. But there came back a certain loneliness that I had felt before, only never so much as now. Why was it that the others could not see? I lay face downward in the grass under the tree. There were other things like this lady that I had been conscious of, which nobody else seemed to care about. Sometimes I had tried to tell. More often I had instinctively kept still. Now slowly I thought that I understood: I was different. Different from the whole world. Did I not remember how, when I walked on the street, groups of children would sometimes whisper: “There she is--there she is!” Or, “Here she comes!” I had thought, poor child, that this would be because my hair was long, like little Eva’s in the only play that most of us had seen. But now I thought I knew what they had known and I had not known: That I was different.