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.
When she and Roger had begun to make mud pies together, she had told him about the Tower and got him interested in it, too—all but the Boy whose face she was unable to see and whose name she did not know. In the Tower, she addressed him simply as "Boy." Barbara kept him to herself for some occult reason. Roger liked the Tower very much, but thought the construction might possibly be improved. Barbara never allowed him to make any changes. He could build another Tower for himself, if he chose, and have it just as he wanted it, but this was her very own.
It all seemed as if it were yesterday. "And," mused Barbara, "it was almost sixteen years ago, when I was six and Roger 'seven-going-on-eight,' as he always said." The dear Tower still stood in her memory, but far off and veiled, like a mirage seen in the clouds. The Boy who helped her over the difficult places was a grown man now, tall and straight and strong, but she could not see his face.
"It's queer," thought Barbara, as she put out the light. "I wonder if I ever shall."
An Enchanted Land
That night she dreamed of the Tower of Cologne, in the old, enchanted land, where a blue sky bent down to meet a bluer sea. She and the Boy were in the cupola, making music with the golden bells. Their laughter chimed in with the sweet sound of the ringing, but still, she could not see his face.