It might
be expected that, under these unfavourable circumstances, Barbara was
growing into a depressed and melancholy childhood.
Barbara, happily, was saved by her imagination. Surely nothing quite
like Barbara's imagination had ever been seen before, because it came to
her, outside inheritance, outside environment, outside observation. She
had it altogether, in spite of Flints past and present. But, perhaps,
not altogether in spite of March Square. It would be difficult to say
how deeply the fountain, the almond tree, the green, flat shining grass
had stung her intuition; but stung it only, not created it--the thing
was there from the beginning of all time. She talked, at first to
nurses, servants, her mother, about the things that she knew; about her
Friend who often came to see her, who was there so many times--there in
the room with her when they couldn't catch a glimpse of him; about the
days and nights when she was away anywhere, up in the sky, out on the
air, deep in the sea, about all the other experiences that she
remembered but was now rapidly losing consciousness of. She talked, at
first easily, naturally, and inviting, as it were, return confidences.
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