I saw fairies again in the village of West Meon in late June, 1943. I had offered to help pick fruit in a garden attached to a large house there. I did not know the lady of the house, and had only seen her once or twice. After we had finished fruit-picking she said ‘I’d like you to see my special garden, one I made in memory of my son after he had passed over: we entered it by a wrought iron gate, and I found myself standing in a very lovely walled garden, which was peaceful and secluded, and ablaze with colour. The atmosphere was so wonderful that I often recapture it. Soon I became aware of numbers of fairies tending the flowers and moving swiftly amongst them, and also some little men who were paying special attention to the roots. My companion turned to me and said ‘Ah, you can see them; I knew you would. That was why I brought you in.’” Marjorie Johnson, Seeing Fairies