“I don’t believe that can be true,” said Jay.  “I know I wasn’t there.”

“Why can’t you see the truth of it?” asked Mr. Russell, sighing for so many words wasted.  “In that House by the Sea, who was your Secret Friend?”

“My Friend,” said Jay, “is young and very full of youth.  He is like a baby who knows life and yet finds it very amusing, and very new.  He is without the gift of rest, but then he does not need it, the world in which he lives is not so tired and not so muddling as our world.  In him my only belief and my only colour and my last dregs of romance, and certainly my youth survive.  We never bother about reserve, and we never mind being sentimental in my Secret World.  We just live, and we are never tortured by the futility of knowledge.”

“Well,” said Mr. Russell, “I had a Secret Friend in my House, and she was wonderful because she was so young that she knew nothing.  She never asked questions, but she thought questions.  She knew nothing, she was waiting to grow up.  She had little colour, only peace and promise.  I knew she would grow up, but I also knew she would never grow old.  I knew she would learn much, but I also knew she would never become complete and ask no more questions.  That voice of hers would always end on a questioning note.  You see, I have found my Secret Friend, grown-up, grown old enough to enjoy and understand a new and more vital youth.”

“Shall I find my Friend?” asked Jay.

“Yes,” said Mr. Russell in a very low voice.  “You can find him if you look.  You can find him, grown very old and ugly and tired.  There are different ways of growing up, and your Secret Friend was rash in using up too great a share of his sum of life in the House by the Sea.”

Then Jay was suddenly enormously happy, and the veil of failure fell away from the day and from her life.  She held in her hand incredible coincidences.  The angle of the forest, the upright trees upon the sloping earth, the bend of the sky, the round bubble shapes of the clouds upon their appointed way, the agreement of the young leaves one with another, the unfailing pulse of the spring,—­all these things seemed to her a chance, an unlikely and perfect consummation, that had been reached only by the extraordinary cleverness of God.  All love and all success were pressed into a hair’s-breadth, and yet the target was never missed.

“You shall go down to the House by the Sea,” said Jay.  “You shall go when the moon is next full over the sea that drowned our house.  You shall come from the east, along the rocky path, as you used to come, between the foxgloves; you shall play at being a god, coming between the stars and the sea.  And I will play at being a goddess, as I used to play at being a ghost, and I will run to meet you from the west, and the high grasses and the ferns shall whip my knees, and the thistles shall bow to me, and the sea shall be very calm and say no word, and there shall be no ship in sight.  And we will