Roger took both her hands and attempted to speak, but his face suddenly crimsoned, and he floundered out into the darkness like an awkward school-boy instead of a self-possessed young man of almost twenty-four.  It had occurred to him that it might be very nice to kiss Barbara.

[Sidenote:  Back to Childhood]

But Barbara, magically taken back to childhood, did not notice his confusion.  The Tower of Cologne had been a fancy of hers ever since she could remember, though it had been temporarily eclipsed by the hard work which circumstances had thrust upon her.  As she grew from childhood to womanhood, it had changed very little—­the dream, always, was practically the same.

[Sidenote:  A Day Dream]

The Tower itself was made of cologne bottles neatly piled together, and the brightly-tinted labels gave it a bizarre but beautiful effect.  It was square in shape and very high, with a splendid cupola of clear glass arches—­the labels probably would not show, up so high.  It stood in an enchanted land with the sea behind it—­nobody had ever thought of taking Barbara down to the sea, though it was so near.  The sea was always blue, of course, like the sky, or the larkspur—­she was never quite sure of the colour.

The air all around the Tower smelled sweet, just like cologne.  There was a flight of steps, also made of cologne bottles, but they did not break when you walked on them, and the door was always ajar.  Inside was a great, winding staircase which led to the cupola.  You could climb and climb and climb, and when you were tired, you could stop to rest in any of the rooms that were on the different floors.

Strangely enough, in the Tower of Cologne, Barbara was never lame.  She always left her crutches leaning up against the steps outside.  She could walk and run like anyone else and never even think of crutches.  There were many charming people in the Tower and none of them ever said, pityingly, “It’s too bad you’re lame.”

All the dear people of the books lived in the Tower of Cologne, besides many more, whom Barbara did not know.  Maggie Tulliver, Little Nell, Dora, Agnes, Mr. Pickwick, King Arthur, the Lady of Shalott, and unnumbered others dwelt happily there.  They all knew Barbara and were always glad to see her.

Wonderful tapestries were hung along the stairs, there were beautiful pictures in every room, and whatever you wanted to eat was instantly placed before you.  Each room smelled of a different kind of cologne and no two rooms were furnished alike.  Her friends in the Tower were of all ages and of many different stations in life, but there was one whose face she had never seen.  He was always just as old as Barbara, and was closer to her than the rest.

[Sidenote:  The Boy]

When she lost herself in the queer winding passages, the Boy, whose face she was unable to picture, was always at her side to show her the way out.  They both wanted to get up into the cupola and ring all the golden bells at once, but there seemed to be some law against it, for when they were almost there, something always happened.  Either the Tower itself vanished beyond recall, or Aunt Miriam called her, or an imperative voice summoned the Boy downstairs—­and Barbara would not think of going to the cupola without him.