 

 THE SECRET GARDEN

BY FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT

 CHAPTER I

THERE IS NO ONE LEFT

When Mary Lennox was sent to
Misselthwaite Manor to live with her
uncle everybody said she was the most
disagreeable-looking child ever seen. It
was true, too. She had a little thin
face and a little thin body, thin light
hair and a sour expression. Her hair was
yellow, and her face was yellow because
she had been born in India and had
always been ill in one way or another.
Her father had held a position under the
English Government and had always been
busy and ill himself, and her mother had
been a great beauty who cared only to go
to parties and amuse herself with gay
people. She had not wanted a little girl
at all, and when Mary was born she
handed her over to the care of an Ayah,
who was made to understand that if she
wished to please the Mem Sahib she must
keep the child out of sight as much as
possible. So when she was a sickly,
fretful, ugly little baby she was kept
out of the way, and when she became a
sickly, fretful, toddling thing she was
kept out of the way also. She never
remembered seeing familiarly anything
but the dark faces of her Ayah and the
other native servants, and as they
always obeyed her and gave her her own
way in everything, because the Mem Sahib
would be angry if she was disturbed by
her crying, by the time she was six
years old she was as tyrannical and
selfish a little pig as ever lived. The
young English governess who came to
teach her to read and write disliked her
so much that she gave up her place in
three months, and when other governesses
came to try to fill it they always went
away in a shorter time than the first
one. So if Mary had not chosen to really
want to know how to read books she would
never have learned her letters at all.

One frightfully hot morning, when she
was about nine years old, she awakened
feeling very cross, and she became
crosser still when she saw that the
servant who stood by her bedside was not
her Ayah.

"Why did you come?" she said to the
strange woman. "I will not let you stay.
Send my Ayah to me."

The woman looked frightened, but she
only stammered that the Ayah could not
come and when Mary threw herself into a
passion and beat and kicked her, she
looked only more frightened and repeated
that it was not possible for the Ayah to
come to Missie Sahib.

There was something mysterious in the
air that morning. Nothing was done in
its regular order and several of the
native servants seemed missing, while
those whom Mary saw slunk or hurried
about with ashy and scared faces. But no
one would tell her anything and her Ayah
did not come. She was actually left
alone as the morning went on, and at
last she wandered out into the garden
and began to play by herself under a
tree near the veranda. She pretended
that she was making a flower-bed, and
she stuck big scarlet hibiscus blossoms
into little heaps of earth, all the time
growing more and more angry and
muttering to herself the things she
would say and the names she would call
Saidie when she returned.

"Pig! Pig! Daughter of Pigs!" she said,
because to call a native a pig is the
worst insult of all.

She was grinding her teeth and saying
this over and over again when she heard
her mother come out on the veranda with
some one. She was with a fair young man
and they stood talking together in low
strange voices. Mary knew the fair young
man who looked like a boy. She had heard
that he was a very young officer who had
just come from England. The child stared
at him, but she stared most at her
mother. She always did this when she had
a chance to see her, because the Mem
Sahib--Mary used to call her that
oftener than anything else--was such a
tall, slim, pretty person and wore such
lovely clothes. Her hair was like curly
silk and she had a delicate little nose
which seemed to be disdaining things,
and she had large laughing eyes. All her
clothes were thin and floating, and Mary
said they were "full of lace." They
looked fuller of lace than ever this
morning, but her eyes were not laughing
at all. They were large and scared and
lifted imploringly to the fair boy
officer's face.

"Is it so very bad? Oh, is it?" Mary
heard her say.

"Awfully," the young man answered in a
trembling voice. "Awfully, Mrs. Lennox.
You ought to have gone to the hills two
weeks ago."

The Mem Sahib wrung her hands.

"Oh, I know I ought!" she cried. "I only
stayed to go to that silly dinner party.
What a fool I was!"

At that very moment such a loud sound of
wailing broke out from the servants'
quarters that she clutched the young
man's arm, and Mary stood shivering from
head to foot. The wailing grew wilder
and wilder. "What is it? What is it?"
Mrs. Lennox gasped.

"Some one has died," answered the boy
officer. "You did not say it had broken
out among your servants."

"I did not know!" the Mem Sahib cried.
"Come with me! Come with me!" and she
turned and ran into the house.

After that, appalling things happened,
and the mysteriousness of the morning
was explained to Mary. The cholera had
broken out in its most fatal form and
people were dying like flies. The Ayah
had been taken ill in the night, and it
was because she had just died that the
servants had wailed in the huts. Before
the next day three other servants were
dead and others had run away in terror.
There was panic on every side, and dying
people in all the bungalows.

During the confusion and bewilderment of
the second day Mary hid herself in the
nursery and was forgotten by everyone.
Nobody thought of her, nobody wanted
her, and strange things happened of
which she knew nothing. Mary alternately
cried and slept through the hours. She
only knew that people were ill and that
she heard mysterious and frightening
sounds. Once she crept into the
dining-room and found it empty, though a
partly finished meal was on the table
and chairs and plates looked as if they
had been hastily pushed back when the
diners rose suddenly for some reason.
The child ate some fruit and biscuits,
and being thirsty she drank a glass of
wine which stood nearly filled. It was
sweet, and she did not know how strong
it was. Very soon it made her intensely
drowsy, and she went back to her nursery
and shut herself in again, frightened by
cries she heard in the huts and by the
hurrying sound of feet. The wine made
her so sleepy that she could scarcely
keep her eyes open and she lay down on
her bed and knew nothing more for a long
time.

Many things happened during the hours in
which she slept so heavily, but she was
not disturbed by the wails and the sound
of things being carried in and out of
the bungalow.

When she awakened she lay and stared at
the wall. The house was perfectly still.
She had never known it to be so silent
before. She heard neither voices nor
footsteps, and wondered if everybody had
got well of the cholera and all the
trouble was over. She wondered also who
would take care of her now her Ayah was
dead. There would be a new Ayah, and
perhaps she would know some new stories.
Mary had been rather tired of the old
ones. She did not cry because her nurse
had died. She was not an affectionate
child and had never cared much for any
one. The noise and hurrying about and
wailing over the cholera had frightened
her, and she had been angry because no
one seemed to remember that she was
alive. Everyone was too panic-stricken
to think of a little girl no one was
fond of. When people had the cholera it
seemed that they remembered nothing but
themselves. But if everyone had got well
again, surely some one would remember
and come to look for her.

But no one came, and as she lay waiting
the house seemed to grow more and more
silent. She heard something rustling on
the matting and when she looked down she
saw a little snake gliding along and
watching her with eyes like jewels. She
was not frightened, because he was a
harmless little thing who would not hurt
her and he seemed in a hurry to get out
of the room. He slipped under the door
as she watched him.

"How queer and quiet it is," she said.
"It sounds as if there were no one in
the bungalow but me and the snake."

Almost the next minute she heard
footsteps in the compound, and then on
the veranda. They were men's footsteps,
and the men entered the bungalow and
talked in low voices. No one went to
meet or speak to them and they seemed to
open doors and look into rooms. "What
desolation!" she heard one voice say.
"That pretty, pretty woman! I suppose
the child, too. I heard there was a
child, though no one ever saw her."

Mary was standing in the middle of the
nursery when they opened the door a few
minutes later. She looked an ugly, cross
little thing and was frowning because
she was beginning to be hungry and feel
disgracefully neglected. The first man
who came in was a large officer she had
once seen talking to her father. He
looked tired and troubled, but when he
saw her he was so startled that he
almost jumped back.

"Barney!" he cried out. "There is a
child here! A child alone! In a place
like this! Mercy on us, who is she!"

"I am Mary Lennox," the little girl
said, drawing herself up stiffly. She
thought the man was very rude to call
her father's bungalow "A place like
this!" "I fell asleep when everyone had
the cholera and I have only just wakened
up. Why does nobody come?"

"It is the child no one ever saw!"
exclaimed the man, turning to his
companions. "She has actually been
forgotten!"

"Why was I forgotten?" Mary said,
stamping her foot. "Why does nobody
come?"

The young man whose name was Barney
looked at her very sadly. Mary even
thought she saw him wink his eyes as if
to wink tears away.

"Poor little kid!" he said. "There is
nobody left to come."

It was in that strange and sudden way
that Mary found out that she had neither
father nor mother left; that they had
died and been carried away in the night,
and that the few native servants who had
not died also had left the house as
quickly as they could get out of it,
none of them even remembering that there
was a Missie Sahib. That was why the
place was so quiet. It was true that
there was no one in the bungalow but
herself and the little rustling snake.




CHAPTER II

MISTRESS MARY QUITE CONTRARY

Mary had liked to look at her mother
from a distance and she had thought her
very pretty, but as she knew very little
of her she could scarcely have been
expected to love her or to miss her very
much when she was gone. She did not miss
her at all, in fact, and as she was a
self-absorbed child she gave her entire
thought to herself, as she had always
done. If she had been older she would no
doubt have been very anxious at being
left alone in the world, but she was
very young, and as she had always been
taken care of, she supposed she always
would be. What she thought was that she
would like to know if she was going to
nice people, who would be polite to her
and give her her own way as her Ayah and
the other native servants had done.

She knew that she was not going to stay
at the English clergyman's house where
she was taken at first. She did not want
to stay. The English clergyman was poor
and he had five children nearly all the
same age and they wore shabby clothes
and were always quarreling and snatching
toys from each other. Mary hated their
untidy bungalow and was so disagreeable
to them that after the first day or two
nobody would play with her. By the
second day they had given her a nickname
which made her furious.

It was Basil who thought of it first.
Basil was a little boy with impudent
blue eyes and a turned-up nose, and Mary
hated him. She was playing by herself
under a tree, just as she had been
playing the day the cholera broke out.
She was making heaps of earth and paths
for a garden and Basil came and stood
near to watch her. Presently he got
rather interested and suddenly made a
suggestion.

"Why don't you put a heap of stones
there and pretend it is a rockery?" he
said. "There in the middle," and he
leaned over her to point.

"Go away!" cried Mary. "I don't want
boys. Go away!"

For a moment Basil looked angry, and
then he began to tease. He was always
teasing his sisters. He danced round and
round her and made faces and sang and
laughed.

 "Mistress Mary, quite contrary, How
does your garden grow? With silver
bells, and cockle shells, And marigolds
all in a row."

He sang it until the other children
heard and laughed, too; and the crosser
Mary got, the more they sang "Mistress
Mary, quite contrary"; and after that as
long as she stayed with them they called
her "Mistress Mary Quite Contrary" when
they spoke of her to each other, and
often when they spoke to her.

"You are going to be sent home," Basil
said to her, "at the end of the week.
And we're glad of it."

"I am glad of it, too," answered Mary.
"Where is home?"

"She doesn't know where home is!" said
Basil, with seven-year-old scorn. "It's
England, of course. Our grandmama lives
there and our sister Mabel was sent to
her last year. You are not going to your
grandmama. You have none. You are going
to your uncle. His name is Mr. Archibald
Craven."

"I don't know anything about him,"
snapped Mary.

"I know you don't," Basil answered. "You
don't know anything. Girls never do. I
heard father and mother talking about
him. He lives in a great, big, desolate
old house in the country and no one goes
near him. He's so cross he won't let
them, and they wouldn't come if he would
let them. He's a hunchback, and he's
horrid." "I don't believe you," said
Mary; and she turned her back and stuck
her fingers in her ears, because she
would not listen any more.

But she thought over it a great deal
afterward; and when Mrs. Crawford told
her that night that she was going to
sail away to England in a few days and
go to her uncle, Mr. Archibald Craven,
who lived at Misselthwaite Manor, she
looked so stony and stubbornly
uninterested that they did not know what
to think about her. They tried to be
kind to her, but she only turned her
face away when Mrs. Crawford attempted
to kiss her, and held herself stiffly
when Mr. Crawford patted her shoulder.

"She is such a plain child," Mrs.
Crawford said pityingly, afterward. "And
her mother was such a pretty creature.
She had a very pretty manner, too, and
Mary has the most unattractive ways I
ever saw in a child. The children call
her 'Mistress Mary Quite Contrary,' and
though it's naughty of them, one can't
help understanding it."

"Perhaps if her mother had carried her
pretty face and her pretty manners
oftener into the nursery Mary might have
learned some pretty ways too. It is very
sad, now the poor beautiful thing is
gone, to remember that many people never
even knew that she had a child at
all."

"I believe she scarcely ever looked at
her," sighed Mrs. Crawford. "When her
Ayah was dead there was no one to give a
thought to the little thing. Think of
the servants running away and leaving
her all alone in that deserted bungalow.
Colonel McGrew said he nearly jumped out
of his skin when he opened the door and
found her standing by herself in the
middle of the room."

Mary made the long voyage to England
under the care of an officer's wife, who
was taking her children to leave them in
a boarding-school. She was very much
absorbed in her own little boy and girl,
and was rather glad to hand the child
over to the woman Mr. Archibald Craven
sent to meet her, in London. The woman
was his housekeeper at Misselthwaite
Manor, and her name was Mrs. Medlock.
She was a stout woman, with very red
cheeks and sharp black eyes. She wore a
very purple dress, a black silk mantle
with jet fringe on it and a black bonnet
with purple velvet flowers which stuck
up and trembled when she moved her head.
Mary did not like her at all, but as she
very seldom liked people there was
nothing remarkable in that; besides
which it was very evident Mrs. Medlock
did not think much of her.

"My word! she's a plain little piece of
goods!" she said. "And we'd heard that
her mother was a beauty. She hasn't
handed much of it down, has she, ma'am?"
"Perhaps she will improve as she grows
older," the officer's wife said
good-naturedly. "If she were not so
sallow and had a nicer expression, her
features are rather good. Children alter
so much."

"She'll have to alter a good deal,"
answered Mrs. Medlock. "And, there's
nothing likely to improve children at
Misselthwaite--if you ask me!" They
thought Mary was not listening because
she was standing a little apart from
them at the window of the private hotel
they had gone to. She was watching the
passing buses and cabs and people, but
she heard quite well and was made very
curious about her uncle and the place he
lived in. What sort of a place was it,
and what would he be like? What was a
hunchback? She had never seen one.
Perhaps there were none in India.

Since she had been living in other
people's houses and had had no Ayah, she
had begun to feel lonely and to think
queer thoughts which were new to her.
She had begun to wonder why she had
never seemed to belong to anyone even
when her father and mother had been
alive. Other children seemed to belong
to their fathers and mothers, but she
had never seemed to really be anyone's
little girl. She had had servants, and
food and clothes, but no one had taken
any notice of her. She did not know that
this was because she was a disagreeable
child; but then, of course, she did not
know she was disagreeable. She often
thought that other people were, but she
did not know that she was so herself.

She thought Mrs. Medlock the most
disagreeable person she had ever seen,
with her common, highly colored face and
her common fine bonnet. When the next
day they set out on their journey to
Yorkshire, she walked through the
station to the railway carriage with her
head up and trying to keep as far away
from her as she could, because she did
not want to seem to belong to her. It
would have made her angry to think
people imagined she was her little
girl.

But Mrs. Medlock was not in the least
disturbed by her and her thoughts. She
was the kind of woman who would "stand
no nonsense from young ones." At least,
that is what she would have said if she
had been asked. She had not wanted to go
to London just when her sister Maria's
daughter was going to be married, but
she had a comfortable, well paid place
as housekeeper at Misselthwaite Manor
and the only way in which she could keep
it was to do at once what Mr. Archibald
Craven told her to do. She never dared
even to ask a question.

"Captain Lennox and his wife died of the
cholera," Mr. Craven had said in his
short, cold way. "Captain Lennox was my
wife's brother and I am their daughter's
guardian. The child is to be brought
here. You must go to London and bring
her yourself."

So she packed her small trunk and made
the journey.

Mary sat in her corner of the railway
carriage and looked plain and fretful.
She had nothing to read or to look at,
and she had folded her thin little
black-gloved hands in her lap. Her black
dress made her look yellower than ever,
and her limp light hair straggled from
under her black crepe hat.

"A more marred-looking young one I never
saw in my life," Mrs. Medlock thought.
(Marred is a Yorkshire word and means
spoiled and pettish.) She had never seen
a child who sat so still without doing
anything; and at last she got tired of
watching her and began to talk in a
brisk, hard voice.

"I suppose I may as well tell you
something about where you are going to,"
she said. "Do you know anything about
your uncle?"

"No," said Mary.

"Never heard your father and mother talk
about him?"

"No," said Mary frowning. She frowned
because she remembered that her father
and mother had never talked to her about
anything in particular. Certainly they
had never told her things.

"Humph," muttered Mrs. Medlock, staring
at her queer, unresponsive little face.
She did not say any more for a few
moments and then she began again.

"I suppose you might as well be told
something--to prepare you. You are going
to a queer place."

Mary said nothing at all, and Mrs.
Medlock looked rather discomfited by her
apparent indifference, but, after taking
a breath, she went on.

"Not but that it's a grand big place in
a gloomy way, and Mr. Craven's proud of
it in his way--and that's gloomy enough,
too. The house is six hundred years old
and it's on the edge of the moor, and
there's near a hundred rooms in it,
though most of them's shut up and
locked. And there's pictures and fine
old furniture and things that's been
there for ages, and there's a big park
round it and gardens and trees with
branches trailing to the ground--some of
them." She paused and took another
breath. "But there's nothing else," she
ended suddenly.

Mary had begun to listen in spite of
herself. It all sounded so unlike India,
and anything new rather attracted her.
But she did not intend to look as if she
were interested. That was one of her
unhappy, disagreeable ways. So she sat
still.

"Well," said Mrs. Medlock. "What do you
think of it?"

"Nothing," she answered. "I know nothing
about such places."

That made Mrs. Medlock laugh a short
sort of laugh.

"Eh!" she said, "but you are like an old
woman. Don't you care?"

"It doesn't matter" said Mary, "whether
I care or not."

"You are right enough there," said Mrs.
Medlock. "It doesn't. What you're to be
kept at Misselthwaite Manor for I don't
know, unless because it's the easiest
way. He's not going to trouble himself
about you, that's sure and certain. He
never troubles himself about no one."

She stopped herself as if she had just
remembered something in time.

"He's got a crooked back," she said.
"That set him wrong. He was a sour young
man and got no good of all his money and
big place till he was married."

Mary's eyes turned toward her in spite
of her intention not to seem to care.
She had never thought of the hunchback's
being married and she was a trifle
surprised. Mrs. Medlock saw this, and as
she was a talkative woman she continued
with more interest. This was one way of
passing some of the time, at any rate.

"She was a sweet, pretty thing and he'd
have walked the world over to get her a
blade o' grass she wanted. Nobody
thought she'd marry him, but she did,
and people said she married him for his
money. But she didn't--she didn't,"
positively. "When she died--"

Mary gave a little involuntary jump.

"Oh! did she die!" she exclaimed, quite
without meaning to. She had just
remembered a French fairy story she had
once read called "Riquet a la Houppe."
It had been about a poor hunchback and a
beautiful princess and it had made her
suddenly sorry for Mr. Archibald
Craven.

"Yes, she died," Mrs. Medlock answered.
"And it made him queerer than ever. He
cares about nobody. He won't see people.
Most of the time he goes away, and when
he is at Misselthwaite he shuts himself
up in the West Wing and won't let any
one but Pitcher see him. Pitcher's an
old fellow, but he took care of him when
he was a child and he knows his ways."

It sounded like something in a book and
it did not make Mary feel cheerful. A
house with a hundred rooms, nearly all
shut up and with their doors locked--a
house on the edge of a moor--whatsoever
a moor was--sounded dreary. A man with a
crooked back who shut himself up also!
She stared out of the window with her
lips pinched together, and it seemed
quite natural that the rain should have
begun to pour down in gray slanting
lines and splash and stream down the
window-panes. If the pretty wife had
been alive she might have made things
cheerful by being something like her own
mother and by running in and out and
going to parties as she had done in
frocks "full of lace." But she was not
there any more.

"You needn't expect to see him, because
ten to one you won't," said Mrs.
Medlock. "And you mustn't expect that
there will be people to talk to you.
You'll have to play about and look after
yourself. You'll be told what rooms you
can go into and what rooms you're to
keep out of. There's gardens enough. But
when you're in the house don't go
wandering and poking about. Mr. Craven
won't have it."

"I shall not want to go poking about,"
said sour little Mary and just as
suddenly as she had begun to be rather
sorry for Mr. Archibald Craven she began
to cease to be sorry and to think he was
unpleasant enough to deserve all that
had happened to him.

And she turned her face toward the
streaming panes of the window of the
railway carriage and gazed out at the
gray rain-storm which looked as if it
would go on forever and ever. She
watched it so long and steadily that the
grayness grew heavier and heavier before
her eyes and she fell asleep.



CHAPTER III

ACROSS THE MOOR

She slept a long time, and when she
awakened Mrs. Medlock had bought a
lunchbasket at one of the stations and
they had some chicken and cold beef and
bread and butter and some hot tea. The
rain seemed to be streaming down more
heavily than ever and everybody in the
station wore wet and glistening
waterproofs. The guard lighted the lamps
in the carriage, and Mrs. Medlock
cheered up very much over her tea and
chicken and beef. She ate a great deal
and afterward fell asleep herself, and
Mary sat and stared at her and watched
her fine bonnet slip on one side until
she herself fell asleep once more in the
corner of the carriage, lulled by the
splashing of the rain against the
windows. It was quite dark when she
awakened again. The train had stopped at
a station and Mrs. Medlock was shaking
her.

"You have had a sleep!" she said. "It's
time to open your eyes! We're at Thwaite
Station and we've got a long drive
before us."

Mary stood up and tried to keep her eyes
open while Mrs. Medlock collected her
parcels. The little girl did not offer
to help her, because in India native
servants always picked up or carried
things and it seemed quite proper that
other people should wait on one.

The station was a small one and nobody
but themselves seemed to be getting out
of the train. The station-master spoke
to Mrs. Medlock in a rough, good-natured
way, pronouncing his words in a queer
broad fashion which Mary found out
afterward was Yorkshire.

"I see tha's got back," he said. "An'
tha's browt th' young 'un with thee."

"Aye, that's her," answered Mrs.
Medlock, speaking with a Yorkshire
accent herself and jerking her head over
her shoulder toward Mary. "How's thy
Missus?"

"Well enow. Th' carriage is waitin'
outside for thee."

A brougham stood on the road before the
little outside platform. Mary saw that
it was a smart carriage and that it was
a smart footman who helped her in. His
long waterproof coat and the waterproof
covering of his hat were shining and
dripping with rain as everything was,
the burly station-master included.

When he shut the door, mounted the box
with the coachman, and they drove off,
the little girl found herself seated in
a comfortably cushioned corner, but she
was not inclined to go to sleep again.
She sat and looked out of the window,
curious to see something of the road
over which she was being driven to the
queer place Mrs. Medlock had spoken of.
She was not at all a timid child and she
was not exactly frightened, but she felt
that there was no knowing what might
happen in a house with a hundred rooms
nearly all shut up--a house standing on
the edge of a moor.

"What is a moor?" she said suddenly to
Mrs. Medlock.

"Look out of the window in about ten
minutes and you'll see," the woman
answered. "We've got to drive five miles
across Missel Moor before we get to the
Manor. You won't see much because it's a
dark night, but you can see
something."

Mary asked no more questions but waited
in the darkness of her corner, keeping
her eyes on the window. The carriage
lamps cast rays of light a little
distance ahead of them and she caught
glimpses of the things they passed.
After they had left the station they had
driven through a tiny village and she
had seen whitewashed cottages and the
lights of a public house. Then they had
passed a church and a vicarage and a
little shop-window or so in a cottage
with toys and sweets and odd things set
out for sale. Then they were on the
highroad and she saw hedges and trees.
After that there seemed nothing
different for a long time--or at least
it seemed a long time to her.

At last the horses began to go more
slowly, as if they were climbing
up-hill, and presently there seemed to
be no more hedges and no more trees. She
could see nothing, in fact, but a dense
darkness on either side. She leaned
forward and pressed her face against the
window just as the carriage gave a big
jolt.

"Eh! We're on the moor now sure enough,"
said Mrs. Medlock.

The carriage lamps shed a yellow light
on a rough-looking road which seemed to
be cut through bushes and low-growing
things which ended in the great expanse
of dark apparently spread out before and
around them. A wind was rising and
making a singular, wild, low, rushing
sound.

"It's--it's not the sea, is it?" said
Mary, looking round at her companion.

"No, not it," answered Mrs. Medlock.
"Nor it isn't fields nor mountains, it's
just miles and miles and miles of wild
land that nothing grows on but heather
and gorse and broom, and nothing lives
on but wild ponies and sheep."

"I feel as if it might be the sea, if
there were water on it," said Mary. "It
sounds like the sea just now."

"That's the wind blowing through the
bushes," Mrs. Medlock said. "It's a
wild, dreary enough place to my mind,
though there's plenty that likes
it--particularly when the heather's in
bloom."

On and on they drove through the
darkness, and though the rain stopped,
the wind rushed by and whistled and made
strange sounds. The road went up and
down, and several times the carriage
passed over a little bridge beneath
which water rushed very fast with a
great deal of noise. Mary felt as if the
drive would never come to an end and
that the wide, bleak moor was a wide
expanse of black ocean through which she
was passing on a strip of dry land.

"I don't like it," she said to herself.
"I don't like it," and she pinched her
thin lips more tightly together.

The horses were climbing up a hilly
piece of road when she first caught
sight of a light. Mrs. Medlock saw it as
soon as she did and drew a long sigh of
relief.

"Eh, I am glad to see that bit o' light
twinkling," she exclaimed. "It's the
light in the lodge window. We shall get
a good cup of tea after a bit, at all
events."

It was "after a bit," as she said, for
when the carriage passed through the
park gates there was still two miles of
avenue to drive through and the trees
(which nearly met overhead) made it seem
as if they were driving through a long
dark vault.

They drove out of the vault into a clear
space and stopped before an immensely
long but low-built house which seemed to
ramble round a stone court. At first
Mary thought that there were no lights
at all in the windows, but as she got
out of the carriage she saw that one
room in a corner upstairs showed a dull
glow.

The entrance door was a huge one made of
massive, curiously shaped panels of oak
studded with big iron nails and bound
with great iron bars. It opened into an
enormous hall, which was so dimly
lighted that the faces in the portraits
on the walls and the figures in the
suits of armor made Mary feel that she
did not want to look at them. As she
stood on the stone floor she looked a
very small, odd little black figure, and
she felt as small and lost and odd as
she looked.

A neat, thin old man stood near the
manservant who opened the door for
them.

"You are to take her to her room," he
said in a husky voice. "He doesn't want
to see her. He's going to London in the
morning."

"Very well, Mr. Pitcher," Mrs. Medlock
answered. "So long as I know what's
expected of me, I can manage."

"What's expected of you, Mrs. Medlock,"
Mr. Pitcher said, "is that you make sure
that he's not disturbed and that he
doesn't see what he doesn't want to
see."

And then Mary Lennox was led up a broad
staircase and down a long corridor and
up a short flight of steps and through
another corridor and another, until a
door opened in a wall and she found
herself in a room with a fire in it and
a supper on a table.

Mrs. Medlock said unceremoniously:

"Well, here you are! This room and the
next are where you'll live--and you must
keep to them. Don't you forget that!"

It was in this way Mistress Mary arrived
at Misselthwaite Manor and she had
perhaps never felt quite so contrary in
all her life.



CHAPTER IV

MARTHA

When she opened her eyes in the morning
it was because a young housemaid had
come into her room to light the fire and
was kneeling on the hearth-rug raking
out the cinders noisily. Mary lay and
watched her for a few moments and then
began to look about the room. She had
never seen a room at all like it and
thought it curious and gloomy. The walls
were covered with tapestry with a forest
scene embroidered on it. There were
fantastically dressed people under the
trees and in the distance there was a
glimpse of the turrets of a castle.
There were hunters and horses and dogs
and ladies. Mary felt as if she were in
the forest with them. Out of a deep
window she could see a great climbing
stretch of land which seemed to have no
trees on it, and to look rather like an
endless, dull, purplish sea.

"What is that?" she said, pointing out
of the window.

Martha, the young housemaid, who had
just risen to her feet, looked and
pointed also. "That there?" she said.

"Yes."

"That's th' moor," with a good-natured
grin. "Does tha' like it?"

"No," answered Mary. "I hate it."

"That's because tha'rt not used to it,"
Martha said, going back to her hearth.
"Tha' thinks it's too big an' bare now.
But tha' will like it."

"Do you?" inquired Mary.

"Aye, that I do," answered Martha,
cheerfully polishing away at the grate.
"I just love it. It's none bare. It's
covered wi' growin' things as smells
sweet. It's fair lovely in spring an'
summer when th' gorse an' broom an'
heather's in flower. It smells o' honey
an' there's such a lot o' fresh air--an'
th' sky looks so high an' th' bees an'
skylarks makes such a nice noise hummin'
an' singin'. Eh! I wouldn't live away
from th' moor for anythin'."

Mary listened to her with a grave,
puzzled expression. The native servants
she had been used to in India were not
in the least like this. They were
obsequious and servile and did not
presume to talk to their masters as if
they were their equals. They made
salaams and called them "protector of
the poor" and names of that sort. Indian
servants were commanded to do things,
not asked. It was not the custom to say
"please" and "thank you" and Mary had
always slapped her Ayah in the face when
she was angry. She wondered a little
what this girl would do if one slapped
her in the face. She was a round, rosy,
good-natured-looking creature, but she
had a sturdy way which made Mistress
Mary wonder if she might not even slap
back--if the person who slapped her was
only a little girl.

"You are a strange servant," she said
from her pillows, rather haughtily.

Martha sat up on her heels, with her
blacking-brush in her hand, and laughed,
without seeming the least out of
temper.

"Eh! I know that," she said. "If there
was a grand Missus at Misselthwaite I
should never have been even one of th'
under house-maids. I might have been let
to be scullerymaid but I'd never have
been let upstairs. I'm too common an' I
talk too much Yorkshire. But this is a
funny house for all it's so grand. Seems
like there's neither Master nor Mistress
except Mr. Pitcher an' Mrs. Medlock. Mr.
Craven, he won't be troubled about
anythin' when he's here, an' he's nearly
always away. Mrs. Medlock gave me th'
place out o' kindness. She told me she
could never have done it if
Misselthwaite had been like other big
houses." "Are you going to be my
servant?" Mary asked, still in her
imperious little Indian way.

Martha began to rub her grate again.

"I'm Mrs. Medlock's servant," she said
stoutly. "An' she's Mr. Craven's--but
I'm to do the housemaid's work up here
an' wait on you a bit. But you won't
need much waitin' on."

"Who is going to dress me?" demanded
Mary.

Martha sat up on her heels again and
stared. She spoke in broad Yorkshire in
her amazement.

"Canna' tha' dress thysen!" she said.

"What do you mean? I don't understand
your language," said Mary.

"Eh! I forgot," Martha said. "Mrs.
Medlock told me I'd have to be careful
or you wouldn't know what I was sayin'.
I mean can't you put on your own
clothes?"

"No," answered Mary, quite indignantly.
"I never did in my life. My Ayah dressed
me, of course."

"Well," said Martha, evidently not in
the least aware that she was impudent,
"it's time tha' should learn. Tha'
cannot begin younger. It'll do thee good
to wait on thysen a bit. My mother
always said she couldn't see why grand
people's children didn't turn out fair
fools--what with nurses an' bein' washed
an' dressed an' took out to walk as if
they was puppies!"

"It is different in India," said
Mistress Mary disdainfully. She could
scarcely stand this.

But Martha was not at all crushed.

"Eh! I can see it's different," she
answered almost sympathetically. "I dare
say it's because there's such a lot o'
blacks there instead o' respectable
white people. When I heard you was
comin' from India I thought you was a
black too."

Mary sat up in bed furious.

"What!" she said. "What! You thought I
was a native. You--you daughter of a
pig!"

Martha stared and looked hot.

"Who are you callin' names?" she said.
"You needn't be so vexed. That's not th'
way for a young lady to talk. I've
nothin' against th' blacks. When you
read about 'em in tracts they're always
very religious. You always read as a
black's a man an' a brother. I've never
seen a black an' I was fair pleased to
think I was goin' to see one close. When
I come in to light your fire this
mornin' I crep' up to your bed an'
pulled th' cover back careful to look at
you. An' there you was," disappointedly,
"no more black than me--for all you're
so yeller."

Mary did not even try to control her
rage and humiliation. "You thought I was
a native! You dared! You don't know
anything about natives! They are not
people--they're servants who must salaam
to you. You know nothing about India.
You know nothing about anything!"

She was in such a rage and felt so
helpless before the girl's simple stare,
and somehow she suddenly felt so
horribly lonely and far away from
everything she understood and which
understood her, that she threw herself
face downward on the pillows and burst
into passionate sobbing. She sobbed so
unrestrainedly that good-natured
Yorkshire Martha was a little frightened
and quite sorry for her. She went to the
bed and bent over her.

"Eh! you mustn't cry like that there!"
she begged. "You mustn't for sure. I
didn't know you'd be vexed. I don't know
anythin' about anythin'--just like you
said. I beg your pardon, Miss. Do stop
cryin'."

There was something comforting and
really friendly in her queer Yorkshire
speech and sturdy way which had a good
effect on Mary. She gradually ceased
crying and became quiet. Martha looked
relieved.

"It's time for thee to get up now," she
said. "Mrs. Medlock said I was to carry
tha' breakfast an' tea an' dinner into
th' room next to this. It's been made
into a nursery for thee. I'll help thee
on with thy clothes if tha'll get out o'
bed. If th' buttons are at th' back tha'
cannot button them up tha'self."

When Mary at last decided to get up, the
clothes Martha took from the wardrobe
were not the ones she had worn when she
arrived the night before with Mrs.
Medlock.

"Those are not mine," she said. "Mine
are black."

She looked the thick white wool coat and
dress over, and added with cool
approval:

"Those are nicer than mine."

"These are th' ones tha' must put on,"
Martha answered. "Mr. Craven ordered
Mrs. Medlock to get 'em in London. He
said 'I won't have a child dressed in
black wanderin' about like a lost soul,'
he said. 'It'd make the place sadder
than it is. Put color on her.' Mother
she said she knew what he meant. Mother
always knows what a body means. She
doesn't hold with black hersel'."

"I hate black things," said Mary.

The dressing process was one which
taught them both something. Martha had
"buttoned up" her little sisters and
brothers but she had never seen a child
who stood still and waited for another
person to do things for her as if she
had neither hands nor feet of her own.

"Why doesn't tha' put on tha' own
shoes?" she said when Mary quietly held
out her foot.

"My Ayah did it," answered Mary,
staring. "It was the custom."

She said that very often--"It was the
custom." The native servants were always
saying it. If one told them to do a
thing their ancestors had not done for a
thousand years they gazed at one mildly
and said, "It is not the custom" and one
knew that was the end of the matter.

It had not been the custom that Mistress
Mary should do anything but stand and
allow herself to be dressed like a doll,
but before she was ready for breakfast
she began to suspect that her life at
Misselthwaite Manor would end by
teaching her a number of things quite
new to her--things such as putting on
her own shoes and stockings, and picking
up things she let fall. If Martha had
been a well-trained fine young lady's
maid she would have been more
subservient and respectful and would
have known that it was her business to
brush hair, and button boots, and pick
things up and lay them away. She was,
however, only an untrained Yorkshire
rustic who had been brought up in a
moorland cottage with a swarm of little
brothers and sisters who had never
dreamed of doing anything but waiting on
themselves and on the younger ones who
were either babies in arms or just
learning to totter about and tumble over
things.

If Mary Lennox had been a child who was
ready to be amused she would perhaps
have laughed at Martha's readiness to
talk, but Mary only listened to her
coldly and wondered at her freedom of
manner. At first she was not at all
interested, but gradually, as the girl
rattled on in her good-tempered, homely
way, Mary began to notice what she was
saying.

"Eh! you should see 'em all," she said.
"There's twelve of us an' my father only
gets sixteen shilling a week. I can tell
you my mother's put to it to get
porridge for 'em all. They tumble about
on th' moor an' play there all day an'
mother says th' air of th' moor fattens
'em. She says she believes they eat th'
grass same as th' wild ponies do. Our
Dickon, he's twelve years old and he's
got a young pony he calls his own."

"Where did he get it?" asked Mary.

"He found it on th' moor with its mother
when it was a little one an' he began to
make friends with it an' give it bits o'
bread an' pluck young grass for it. And
it got to like him so it follows him
about an' it lets him get on its back.
Dickon's a kind lad an' animals likes
him."

Mary had never possessed an animal pet
of her own and had always thought she
should like one. So she began to feel a
slight interest in Dickon, and as she
had never before been interested in any
one but herself, it was the dawning of a
healthy sentiment. When she went into
the room which had been made into a
nursery for her, she found that it was
rather like the one she had slept in. It
was not a child's room, but a grown-up
person's room, with gloomy old pictures
on the walls and heavy old oak chairs. A
table in the center was set with a good
substantial breakfast. But she had
always had a very small appetite, and
she looked with something more than
indifference at the first plate Martha
set before her.

"I don't want it," she said.

"Tha' doesn't want thy porridge!" Martha
exclaimed incredulously.

"No."

"Tha' doesn't know how good it is. Put a
bit o' treacle on it or a bit o'
sugar."

"I don't want it," repeated Mary.

"Eh!" said Martha. "I can't abide to see
good victuals go to waste. If our
children was at this table they'd clean
it bare in five minutes."

"Why?" said Mary coldly. "Why!" echoed
Martha. "Because they scarce ever had
their stomachs full in their lives.
They're as hungry as young hawks an'
foxes."

"I don't know what it is to be hungry,"
said Mary, with the indifference of
ignorance.

Martha looked indignant.

"Well, it would do thee good to try it.
I can see that plain enough," she said
outspokenly. "I've no patience with folk
as sits an' just stares at good bread
an' meat. My word! don't I wish Dickon
and Phil an' Jane an' th' rest of 'em
had what's here under their
pinafores."

"Why don't you take it to them?"
suggested Mary.

"It's not mine," answered Martha
stoutly. "An' this isn't my day out. I
get my day out once a month same as th'
rest. Then I go home an' clean up for
mother an' give her a day's rest."

Mary drank some tea and ate a little
toast and some marmalade.

"You wrap up warm an' run out an' play
you," said Martha. "It'll do you good
and give you some stomach for your
meat."

Mary went to the window. There were
gardens and paths and big trees, but
everything looked dull and wintry.

"Out? Why should I go out on a day like
this?" "Well, if tha' doesn't go out
tha'lt have to stay in, an' what has
tha' got to do?"

Mary glanced about her. There was
nothing to do. When Mrs. Medlock had
prepared the nursery she had not thought
of amusement. Perhaps it would be better
to go and see what the gardens were
like.

"Who will go with me?" she inquired.

Martha stared.

"You'll go by yourself," she answered.
"You'll have to learn to play like other
children does when they haven't got
sisters and brothers. Our Dickon goes
off on th' moor by himself an' plays for
hours. That's how he made friends with
th' pony. He's got sheep on th' moor
that knows him, an' birds as comes an'
eats out of his hand. However little
there is to eat, he always saves a bit
o' his bread to coax his pets."

It was really this mention of Dickon
which made Mary decide to go out, though
she was not aware of it. There would be,
birds outside though there would not be
ponies or sheep. They would be different
from the birds in India and it might
amuse her to look at them.

Martha found her coat and hat for her
and a pair of stout little boots and she
showed her her way downstairs.

"If tha' goes round that way tha'll come
to th' gardens," she said, pointing to a
gate in a wall of shrubbery. "There's
lots o' flowers in summer-time, but
there's nothin' bloomin' now." She
seemed to hesitate a second before she
added, "One of th' gardens is locked up.
No one has been in it for ten years."

"Why?" asked Mary in spite of herself.
Here was another locked door added to
the hundred in the strange house.

"Mr. Craven had it shut when his wife
died so sudden. He won't let no one go
inside. It was her garden. He locked th'
door an' dug a hole and buried th' key.
There's Mrs. Medlock's bell ringing--I
must run."

After she was gone Mary turned down the
walk which led to the door in the
shrubbery. She could not help thinking
about the garden which no one had been
into for ten years. She wondered what it
would look like and whether there were
any flowers still alive in it. When she
had passed through the shrubbery gate
she found herself in great gardens, with
wide lawns and winding walks with
clipped borders. There were trees, and
flower-beds, and evergreens clipped into
strange shapes, and a large pool with an
old gray fountain in its midst. But the
flower-beds were bare and wintry and the
fountain was not playing. This was not
the garden which was shut up. How could
a garden be shut up? You could always
walk into a garden.

She was just thinking this when she saw
that, at the end of the path she was
following, there seemed to be a long
wall, with ivy growing over it. She was
not familiar enough with England to know
that she was coming upon the
kitchen-gardens where the vegetables and
fruit were growing. She went toward the
wall and found that there was a green
door in the ivy, and that it stood open.
This was not the closed garden,
evidently, and she could go into it.

She went through the door and found that
it was a garden with walls all round it
and that it was only one of several
walled gardens which seemed to open into
one another. She saw another open green
door, revealing bushes and pathways
between beds containing winter
vegetables. Fruit-trees were trained
flat against the wall, and over some of
the beds there were glass frames. The
place was bare and ugly enough, Mary
thought, as she stood and stared about
her. It might be nicer in summer when
things were green, but there was nothing
pretty about it now.

Presently an old man with a spade over
his shoulder walked through the door
leading from the second garden. He
looked startled when he saw Mary, and
then touched his cap. He had a surly old
face, and did not seem at all pleased to
see her--but then she was displeased
with his garden and wore her "quite
contrary" expression, and certainly did
not seem at all pleased to see him.

"What is this place?" she asked.

"One o' th' kitchen-gardens," he
answered.

"What is that?" said Mary, pointing
through the other green door.

"Another of 'em," shortly. "There's
another on t'other side o' th' wall an'
there's th' orchard t'other side o'
that."

"Can I go in them?" asked Mary.

"If tha' likes. But there's nowt to
see."

Mary made no response. She went down the
path and through the second green door.
There, she found more walls and winter
vegetables and glass frames, but in the
second wall there was another green door
and it was not open. Perhaps it led into
the garden which no one had seen for ten
years. As she was not at all a timid
child and always did what she wanted to
do, Mary went to the green door and
turned the handle. She hoped the door
would not open because she wanted to be
sure she had found the mysterious
garden--but it did open quite easily and
she walked through it and found herself
in an orchard. There were walls all
round it also and trees trained against
them, and there were bare fruit-trees
growing in the winter-browned grass--but
there was no green door to be seen
anywhere. Mary looked for it, and yet
when she had entered the upper end of
the garden she had noticed that the wall
did not seem to end with the orchard but
to extend beyond it as if it enclosed a
place at the other side. She could see
the tops of trees above the wall, and
when she stood still she saw a bird with
a bright red breast sitting on the
topmost branch of one of them, and
suddenly he burst into his winter
song--almost as if he had caught sight
of her and was calling to her.

She stopped and listened to him and
somehow his cheerful, friendly little
whistle gave her a pleased feeling--even
a disagreeable little girl may be
lonely, and the big closed house and big
bare moor and big bare gardens had made
this one feel as if there was no one
left in the world but herself. If she
had been an affectionate child, who had
been used to being loved, she would have
broken her heart, but even though she
was "Mistress Mary Quite Contrary" she
was desolate, and the bright-breasted
little bird brought a look into her sour
little face which was almost a smile.
She listened to him until he flew away.
He was not like an Indian bird and she
liked him and wondered if she should
ever see him again. Perhaps he lived in
the mysterious garden and knew all about
it.

Perhaps it was because she had nothing
whatever to do that she thought so much
of the deserted garden. She was curious
about it and wanted to see what it was
like. Why had Mr. Archibald Craven
buried the key? If he had liked his wife
so much why did he hate her garden? She
wondered if she should ever see him, but
she knew that if she did she should not
like him, and he would not like her, and
that she should only stand and stare at
him and say nothing, though she should
be wanting dreadfully to ask him why he
had done such a queer thing.

"People never like me and I never like
people," she thought. "And I never can
talk as the Crawford children could.
They were always talking and laughing
and making noises."

She thought of the robin and of the way
he seemed to sing his song at her, and
as she remembered the tree-top he
perched on she stopped rather suddenly
on the path.

"I believe that tree was in the secret
garden--I feel sure it was," she said.
"There was a wall round the place and
there was no door."

She walked back into the first
kitchen-garden she had entered and found
the old man digging there. She went and
stood beside him and watched him a few
moments in her cold little way. He took
no notice of her and so at last she
spoke to him.

"I have been into the other gardens,"
she said.

"There was nothin' to prevent thee," he
answered crustily.

"I went into the orchard."

"There was no dog at th' door to bite
thee," he answered.

"There was no door there into the other
garden," said Mary.

"What garden?" he said in a rough voice,
stopping his digging for a moment.

"The one on the other side of the wall,"
answered Mistress Mary. "There are trees
there--I saw the tops of them. A bird
with a red breast was sitting on one of
them and he sang."

To her surprise the surly old
weather-beaten face actually changed its
expression. A slow smile spread over it
and the gardener looked quite different.
It made her think that it was curious
how much nicer a person looked when he
smiled. She had not thought of it
before.

He turned about to the orchard side of
his garden and began to whistle--a low
soft whistle. She could not understand
how such a surly man could make such a
coaxing sound. Almost the next moment a
wonderful thing happened. She heard a
soft little rushing flight through the
air--and it was the bird with the red
breast flying to them, and he actually
alighted on the big clod of earth quite
near to the gardener's foot.

"Here he is," chuckled the old man, and
then he spoke to the bird as if he were
speaking to a child.

"Where has tha' been, tha' cheeky little
beggar?" he said. "I've not seen thee
before today. Has tha, begun tha'
courtin' this early in th' season?
Tha'rt too forrad."

The bird put his tiny head on one side
and looked up at him with his soft
bright eye which was like a black
dewdrop. He seemed quite familiar and
not the least afraid. He hopped about
and pecked the earth briskly, looking
for seeds and insects. It actually gave
Mary a queer feeling in her heart,
because he was so pretty and cheerful
and seemed so like a person. He had a
tiny plump body and a delicate beak, and
slender delicate legs.

"Will he always come when you call him?"
she asked almost in a whisper.

"Aye, that he will. I've knowed him ever
since he was a fledgling. He come out of
th' nest in th' other garden an' when
first he flew over th' wall he was too
weak to fly back for a few days an' we
got friendly. When he went over th' wall
again th' rest of th' brood was gone an'
he was lonely an' he come back to me."

"What kind of a bird is he?" Mary
asked.

"Doesn't tha' know? He's a robin
redbreast an' they're th' friendliest,
curiousest birds alive. They're almost
as friendly as dogs--if you know how to
get on with 'em. Watch him peckin' about
there an' lookin' round at us now an'
again. He knows we're talkin' about
him."

It was the queerest thing in the world
to see the old fellow. He looked at the
plump little scarlet-waistcoated bird as
if he were both proud and fond of him.

"He's a conceited one," he chuckled. "He
likes to hear folk talk about him. An'
curious--bless me, there never was his
like for curiosity an' meddlin'. He's
always comin' to see what I'm plantin'.
He knows all th' things Mester Craven
never troubles hissel' to find out. He's
th' head gardener, he is."

The robin hopped about busily pecking
the soil and now and then stopped and
looked at them a little. Mary thought
his black dewdrop eyes gazed at her with
great curiosity. It really seemed as if
he were finding out all about her. The
queer feeling in her heart increased.
"Where did the rest of the brood fly
to?" she asked.

"There's no knowin'. The old ones turn
'em out o' their nest an' make 'em fly
an' they're scattered before you know
it. This one was a knowin' one an' he
knew he was lonely."

Mistress Mary went a step nearer to the
robin and looked at him very hard.

"I'm lonely," she said.

She had not known before that this was
one of the things which made her feel
sour and cross. She seemed to find it
out when the robin looked at her and she
looked at the robin.

The old gardener pushed his cap back on
his bald head and stared at her a
minute.

"Art tha' th' little wench from India?"
he asked.

Mary nodded.

"Then no wonder tha'rt lonely. Tha'lt be
lonlier before tha's done," he said.

He began to dig again, driving his spade
deep into the rich black garden soil
while the robin hopped about very busily
employed.

"What is your name?" Mary inquired.

He stood up to answer her.

"Ben Weatherstaff," he answered, and
then he added with a surly chuckle, "I'm
lonely mysel' except when he's with me,"
and he jerked his thumb toward the
robin. "He's th' only friend I've
got."

"I have no friends at all," said Mary.
"I never had. My Ayah didn't like me and
I never played with any one."

It is a Yorkshire habit to say what you
think with blunt frankness, and old Ben
Weatherstaff was a Yorkshire moor man.

"Tha' an' me are a good bit alike," he
said. "We was wove out of th' same
cloth. We're neither of us good lookin'
an' we're both of us as sour as we look.
We've got the same nasty tempers, both
of us, I'll warrant."

This was plain speaking, and Mary Lennox
had never heard the truth about herself
in her life. Native servants always
salaamed and submitted to you, whatever
you did. She had never thought much
about her looks, but she wondered if she
was as unattractive as Ben Weatherstaff
and she also wondered if she looked as
sour as he had looked before the robin
came. She actually began to wonder also
if she was "nasty tempered." She felt
uncomfortable.

Suddenly a clear rippling little sound
broke out near her and she turned round.
She was standing a few feet from a young
apple-tree and the robin had flown on to
one of its branches and had burst out
into a scrap of a song. Ben Weatherstaff
laughed outright.

"What did he do that for?" asked Mary.

"He's made up his mind to make friends
with thee," replied Ben. "Dang me if he
hasn't took a fancy to thee."

"To me?" said Mary, and she moved toward
the little tree softly and looked up.

"Would you make friends with me?" she
said to the robin just as if she was
speaking to a person. "Would you?" And
she did not say it either in her hard
little voice or in her imperious Indian
voice, but in a tone so soft and eager
and coaxing that Ben Weatherstaff was as
surprised as she had been when she heard
him whistle.

"Why," he cried out, "tha' said that as
nice an' human as if tha' was a real
child instead of a sharp old woman. Tha'
said it almost like Dickon talks to his
wild things on th' moor."

"Do you know Dickon?" Mary asked,
turning round rather in a hurry.

"Everybody knows him. Dickon's wanderin'
about everywhere. Th' very blackberries
an' heather-bells knows him. I warrant
th' foxes shows him where their cubs
lies an' th' skylarks doesn't hide their
nests from him."

Mary would have liked to ask some more
questions. She was almost as curious
about Dickon as she was about the
deserted garden. But just that moment
the robin, who had ended his song, gave
a little shake of his wings, spread them
and flew away. He had made his visit and
had other things to do.

"He has flown over the wall!" Mary cried
out, watching him. "He has flown into
the orchard--he has flown across the
other wall--into the garden where there
is no door!"

"He lives there," said old Ben. "He came
out o' th' egg there. If he's courtin',
he's makin' up to some young madam of a
robin that lives among th' old
rose-trees there."

"Rose-trees," said Mary. "Are there
rose-trees?"

Ben Weatherstaff took up his spade again
and began to dig.

"There was ten year' ago," he mumbled.

"I should like to see them," said Mary.
"Where is the green door? There must be
a door somewhere."

Ben drove his spade deep and looked as
uncompanionable as he had looked when
she first saw him.

"There was ten year' ago, but there
isn't now," he said.

"No door!" cried Mary. "There must be."
"None as any one can find, an' none as
is any one's business. Don't you be a
meddlesome wench an' poke your nose
where it's no cause to go. Here, I must
go on with my work. Get you gone an'
play you. I've no more time."

And he actually stopped digging, threw
his spade over his shoulder and walked
off, without even glancing at her or
saying good-by.



CHAPTER V

THE CRY IN THE CORRIDOR

At first each day which passed by for
Mary Lennox was exactly like the others.
Every morning she awoke in her
tapestried room and found Martha
kneeling upon the hearth building her
fire; every morning she ate her
breakfast in the nursery which had
nothing amusing in it; and after each
breakfast she gazed out of the window
across to the huge moor which seemed to
spread out on all sides and climb up to
the sky, and after she had stared for a
while she realized that if she did not
go out she would have to stay in and do
nothing--and so she went out. She did
not know that this was the best thing
she could have done, and she did not
know that, when she began to walk
quickly or even run along the paths and
down the avenue, she was stirring her
slow blood and making herself stronger
by fighting with the wind which swept
down from the moor. She ran only to make
herself warm, and she hated the wind
which rushed at her face and roared and
held her back as if it were some giant
she could not see. But the big breaths
of rough fresh air blown over the
heather filled her lungs with something
which was good for her whole thin body
and whipped some red color into her
cheeks and brightened her dull eyes when
she did not know anything about it.

But after a few days spent almost
entirely out of doors she wakened one
morning knowing what it was to be
hungry, and when she sat down to her
breakfast she did not glance
disdainfully at her porridge and push it
away, but took up her spoon and began to
eat it and went on eating it until her
bowl was empty.

"Tha' got on well enough with that this
mornin', didn't tha'?" said Martha.

"It tastes nice today," said Mary,
feeling a little surprised her self.

"It's th' air of th' moor that's givin'
thee stomach for tha' victuals,"
answered Martha. "It's lucky for thee
that tha's got victuals as well as
appetite. There's been twelve in our
cottage as had th' stomach an' nothin'
to put in it. You go on playin' you out
o' doors every day an' you'll get some
flesh on your bones an' you won't be so
yeller."

"I don't play," said Mary. "I have
nothing to play with."

"Nothin' to play with!" exclaimed
Martha. "Our children plays with sticks
and stones. They just runs about an'
shouts an' looks at things." Mary did
not shout, but she looked at things.
There was nothing else to do. She walked
round and round the gardens and wandered
about the paths in the park. Sometimes
she looked for Ben Weatherstaff, but
though several times she saw him at work
he was too busy to look at her or was
too surly. Once when she was walking
toward him he picked up his spade and
turned away as if he did it on
purpose.

One place she went to oftener than to
any other. It was the long walk outside
the gardens with the walls round them.
There were bare flower-beds on either
side of it and against the walls ivy
grew thickly. There was one part of the
wall where the creeping dark green
leaves were more bushy than elsewhere.
It seemed as if for a long time that
part had been neglected. The rest of it
had been clipped and made to look neat,
but at this lower end of the walk it had
not been trimmed at all.

A few days after she had talked to Ben
Weatherstaff, Mary stopped to notice
this and wondered why it was so. She had
just paused and was looking up at a long
spray of ivy swinging in the wind when
she saw a gleam of scarlet and heard a
brilliant chirp, and there, on the top
of the wall, forward perched Ben
Weatherstaff's robin redbreast, tilting
forward to look at her with his small
head on one side.

"Oh!" she cried out, "is it you--is it
you?" And it did not seem at all queer
to her that she spoke to him as if she
were sure that he would understand and
answer her.

He did answer. He twittered and chirped
and hopped along the wall as if he were
telling her all sorts of things. It
seemed to Mistress Mary as if she
understood him, too, though he was not
speaking in words. It was as if he
said:

"Good morning! Isn't the wind nice?
Isn't the sun nice? Isn't everything
nice? Let us both chirp and hop and
twitter. Come on! Come on!"

Mary began to laugh, and as he hopped
and took little flights along the wall
she ran after him. Poor little thin,
sallow, ugly Mary--she actually looked
almost pretty for a moment.

"I like you! I like you!" she cried out,
pattering down the walk; and she chirped
and tried to whistle, which last she did
not know how to do in the least. But the
robin seemed to be quite satisfied and
chirped and whistled back at her. At
last he spread his wings and made a
darting flight to the top of a tree,
where he perched and sang loudly. That
reminded Mary of the first time she had
seen him. He had been swinging on a
tree-top then and she had been standing
in the orchard. Now she was on the other
side of the orchard and standing in the
path outside a wall--much lower
down--and there was the same tree
inside.

"It's in the garden no one can go into,"
she said to herself. "It's the garden
without a door. He lives in there. How I
wish I could see what it is like!"

She ran up the walk to the green door
she had entered the first morning. Then
she ran down the path through the other
door and then into the orchard, and when
she stood and looked up there was the
tree on the other side of the wall, and
there was the robin just finishing his
song and, beginning to preen his
feathers with his beak.

"It is the garden," she said. "I am sure
it is."

She walked round and looked closely at
that side of the orchard wall, but she
only found what she had found
before--that there was no door in it.
Then she ran through the kitchen-gardens
again and out into the walk outside the
long ivy-covered wall, and she walked to
the end of it and looked at it, but
there was no door; and then she walked
to the other end, looking again, but
there was no door.

"It's very queer," she said. "Ben
Weatherstaff said there was no door and
there is no door. But there must have
been one ten years ago, because Mr.
Craven buried the key."

This gave her so much to think of that
she began to be quite interested and
feel that she was not sorry that she had
come to Misselthwaite Manor. In India
she had always felt hot and too languid
to care much about anything. The fact
was that the fresh wind from the moor
had begun to blow the cobwebs out of her
young brain and to waken her up a
little.

She stayed out of doors nearly all day,
and when she sat down to her supper at
night she felt hungry and drowsy and
comfortable. She did not feel cross when
Martha chattered away. She felt as if
she rather liked to hear her, and at
last she thought she would ask her a
question. She asked it after she had
finished her supper and had sat down on
the hearth-rug before the fire.

"Why did Mr. Craven hate the garden?"
she said.

She had made Martha stay with her and
Martha had not objected at all. She was
very young, and used to a crowded
cottage full of brothers and sisters,
and she found it dull in the great
servants' hall downstairs where the
footman and upper-housemaids made fun of
her Yorkshire speech and looked upon her
as a common little thing, and sat and
whispered among themselves. Martha liked
to talk, and the strange child who had
lived in India, and been waited upon by
"blacks," was novelty enough to attract
her.

She sat down on the hearth herself
without waiting to be asked.

"Art tha' thinkin' about that garden
yet?" she said. "I knew tha' would. That
was just the way with me when I first
heard about it."

"Why did he hate it?" Mary persisted.

Martha tucked her feet under her and
made herself quite comfortable.

"Listen to th' wind wutherin' round the
house," she said. "You could bare stand
up on the moor if you was out on it
tonight."

Mary did not know what "wutherin'" meant
until she listened, and then she
understood. It must mean that hollow
shuddering sort of roar which rushed
round and round the house as if the
giant no one could see were buffeting it
and beating at the walls and windows to
try to break in. But one knew he could
not get in, and somehow it made one feel
very safe and warm inside a room with a
red coal fire.

"But why did he hate it so?" she asked,
after she had listened. She intended to
know if Martha did.

Then Martha gave up her store of
knowledge.

"Mind," she said, "Mrs. Medlock said
it's not to be talked about. There's
lots o' things in this place that's not
to be talked over. That's Mr. Craven's
orders. His troubles are none servants'
business, he says. But for th' garden he
wouldn't be like he is. It was Mrs.
Craven's garden that she had made when
first they were married an' she just
loved it, an' they used to 'tend the
flowers themselves. An' none o' th'
gardeners was ever let to go in. Him an'
her used to go in an' shut th' door an'
stay there hours an' hours, readin' and
talkin'. An' she was just a bit of a
girl an' there was an old tree with a
branch bent like a seat on it. An' she
made roses grow over it an' she used to
sit there. But one day when she was
sittin' there th' branch broke an' she
fell on th' ground an' was hurt so bad
that next day she died. Th' doctors
thought he'd go out o' his mind an' die,
too. That's why he hates it. No one's
never gone in since, an' he won't let
any one talk about it."

Mary did not ask any more questions. She
looked at the red fire and listened to
the wind "wutherin'." It seemed to be
"wutherin'" louder than ever. At that
moment a very good thing was happening
to her. Four good things had happened to
her, in fact, since she came to
Misselthwaite Manor. She had felt as if
she had understood a robin and that he
had understood her; she had run in the
wind until her blood had grown warm; she
had been healthily hungry for the first
time in her life; and she had found out
what it was to be sorry for some one.

But as she was listening to the wind she
began to listen to something else. She
did not know what it was, because at
first she could scarcely distinguish it
from the wind itself. It was a curious
sound--it seemed almost as if a child
were crying somewhere. Sometimes the
wind sounded rather like a child crying,
but presently Mistress Mary felt quite
sure this sound was inside the house,
not outside it. It was far away, but it
was inside. She turned round and looked
at Martha.

"Do you hear any one crying?" she
said.

Martha suddenly looked confused.

"No," she answered. "It's th' wind.
Sometimes it sounds like as if some one
was lost on th' moor an' wailin'. It's
got all sorts o' sounds."

"But listen," said Mary. "It's in the
house--down one of those long
corridors."

And at that very moment a door must have
been opened somewhere downstairs; for a
great rushing draft blew along the
passage and the door of the room they
sat in was blown open with a crash, and
as they both jumped to their feet the
light was blown out and the crying sound
was swept down the far corridor so that
it was to be heard more plainly than
ever.

"There!" said Mary. "I told you so! It
is some one crying--and it isn't a
grown-up person."

Martha ran and shut the door and turned
the key, but before she did it they both
heard the sound of a door in some far
passage shutting with a bang, and then
everything was quiet, for even the wind
ceased "wutherin'" for a few moments.

"It was th' wind," said Martha
stubbornly. "An' if it wasn't, it was
little Betty Butterworth, th'
scullery-maid. She's had th' toothache
all day."

But something troubled and awkward in
her manner made Mistress Mary stare very
hard at her. She did not believe she was
speaking the truth.



CHAPTER VI

"THERE WAS SOME ONE CRYING--THERE WAS!"


The next day the rain poured down in
torrents again, and when Mary looked out
of her window the moor was almost hidden
by gray mist and cloud. There could be
no going out today.

"What do you do in your cottage when it
rains like this?" she asked Martha.

"Try to keep from under each other's
feet mostly," Martha answered. "Eh!
there does seem a lot of us then.
Mother's a good-tempered woman but she
gets fair moithered. The biggest ones
goes out in th' cow-shed and plays
there. Dickon he doesn't mind th' wet.
He goes out just th' same as if th' sun
was shinin'. He says he sees things on
rainy days as doesn't show when it's
fair weather. He once found a little fox
cub half drowned in its hole and he
brought it home in th' bosom of his
shirt to keep it warm. Its mother had
been killed nearby an' th' hole was swum
out an' th' rest o' th' litter was dead.
He's got it at home now. He found a
half-drowned young crow another time an'
he brought it home, too, an' tamed it.
It's named Soot because it's so black,
an' it hops an' flies about with him
everywhere."

The time had come when Mary had
forgotten to resent Martha's familiar
talk. She had even begun to find it
interesting and to be sorry when she
stopped or went away. The stories she
had been told by her Ayah when she lived
in India had been quite unlike those
Martha had to tell about the moorland
cottage which held fourteen people who
lived in four little rooms and never had
quite enough to eat. The children seemed
to tumble about and amuse themselves
like a litter of rough, good-natured
collie puppies. Mary was most attracted
by the mother and Dickon. When Martha
told stories of what "mother" said or
did they always sounded comfortable.

"If I had a raven or a fox cub I could
play with it," said Mary. "But I have
nothing."

Martha looked perplexed.

"Can tha' knit?" she asked.

"No," answered Mary.

"Can tha' sew?"

"No."

"Can tha' read?"

"Yes."

"Then why doesn't tha, read somethin',
or learn a bit o' spellin'? Tha'st old
enough to be learnin' thy book a good
bit now."

"I haven't any books," said Mary. "Those
I had were left in India."

"That's a pity," said Martha. "If Mrs.
Medlock'd let thee go into th' library,
there's thousands o' books there."

Mary did not ask where the library was,
because she was suddenly inspired by a
new idea. She made up her mind to go and
find it herself. She was not troubled
about Mrs. Medlock. Mrs. Medlock seemed
always to be in her comfortable
housekeeper's sitting-room downstairs.
In this queer place one scarcely ever
saw any one at all. In fact, there was
no one to see but the servants, and when
their master was away they lived a
luxurious life below stairs, where there
was a huge kitchen hung about with
shining brass and pewter, and a large
servants' hall where there were four or
five abundant meals eaten every day, and
where a great deal of lively romping
went on when Mrs. Medlock was out of the
way.

Mary's meals were served regularly, and
Martha waited on her, but no one
troubled themselves about her in the
least. Mrs. Medlock came and looked at
her every day or two, but no one
inquired what she did or told her what
to do. She supposed that perhaps this
was the English way of treating
children. In India she had always been
attended by her Ayah, who had followed
her about and waited on her, hand and
foot. She had often been tired of her
company. Now she was followed by nobody
and was learning to dress herself
because Martha looked as though she
thought she was silly and stupid when
she wanted to have things handed to her
and put on.

"Hasn't tha' got good sense?" she said
once, when Mary had stood waiting for
her to put on her gloves for her. "Our
Susan Ann is twice as sharp as thee an'
she's only four year' old. Sometimes
tha' looks fair soft in th' head."

Mary had worn her contrary scowl for an
hour after that, but it made her think
several entirely new things.

She stood at the window for about ten
minutes this morning after Martha had
swept up the hearth for the last time
and gone downstairs. She was thinking
over the new idea which had come to her
when she heard of the library. She did
not care very much about the library
itself, because she had read very few
books; but to hear of it brought back to
her mind the hundred rooms with closed
doors. She wondered if they were all
really locked and what she would find if
she could get into any of them. Were
there a hundred really? Why shouldn't
she go and see how many doors she could
count? It would be something to do on
this morning when she could not go out.
She had never been taught to ask
permission to do things, and she knew
nothing at all about authority, so she
would not have thought it necessary to
ask Mrs. Medlock if she might walk about
the house, even if she had seen her.

She opened the door of the room and went
into the corridor, and then she began
her wanderings. It was a long corridor
and it branched into other corridors and
it led her up short flights of steps
which mounted to others again. There
were doors and doors, and there were
pictures on the walls. Sometimes they
were pictures of dark, curious
landscapes, but oftenest they were
portraits of men and women in queer,
grand costumes made of satin and velvet.
She found herself in one long gallery
whose walls were covered with these
portraits. She had never thought there
could be so many in any house. She
walked slowly down this place and stared
at the faces which also seemed to stare
at her. She felt as if they were
wondering what a little girl from India
was doing in their house. Some were
pictures of children--little girls in
thick satin frocks which reached to
their feet and stood out about them, and
boys with puffed sleeves and lace
collars and long hair, or with big ruffs
around their necks. She always stopped
to look at the children, and wonder what
their names were, and where they had
gone, and why they wore such odd
clothes. There was a stiff, plain little
girl rather like herself. She wore a
green brocade dress and held a green
parrot on her finger. Her eyes had a
sharp, curious look.

"Where do you live now?" said Mary aloud
to her. "I wish you were here."

Surely no other little girl ever spent
such a queer morning. It seemed as if
there was no one in all the huge
rambling house but her own small self,
wandering about upstairs and down,
through narrow passages and wide ones,
where it seemed to her that no one but
herself had ever walked. Since so many
rooms had been built, people must have
lived in them, but it all seemed so
empty that she could not quite believe
it true.

It was not until she climbed to the
second floor that she thought of turning
the handle of a door. All the doors were
shut, as Mrs. Medlock had said they
were, but at last she put her hand on
the handle of one of them and turned it.
She was almost frightened for a moment
when she felt that it turned without
difficulty and that when she pushed upon
the door itself it slowly and heavily
opened. It was a massive door and opened
into a big bedroom. There were
embroidered hangings on the wall, and
inlaid furniture such as she had seen in
India stood about the room. A broad
window with leaded panes looked out upon
the moor; and over the mantel was
another portrait of the stiff, plain
little girl who seemed to stare at her
more curiously than ever.

"Perhaps she slept here once," said
Mary. "She stares at me so that she
makes me feel queer."

After that she opened more doors and
more. She saw so many rooms that she
became quite tired and began to think
that there must be a hundred, though she
had not counted them. In all of them
there were old pictures or old
tapestries with strange scenes worked on
them. There were curious pieces of
furniture and curious ornaments in
nearly all of them.

In one room, which looked like a lady's
sitting-room, the hangings were all
embroidered velvet, and in a cabinet
were about a hundred little elephants
made of ivory. They were of different
sizes, and some had their mahouts or
palanquins on their backs. Some were
much bigger than the others and some
were so tiny that they seemed only
babies. Mary had seen carved ivory in
India and she knew all about elephants.
She opened the door of the cabinet and
stood on a footstool and played with
these for quite a long time. When she
got tired she set the elephants in order
and shut the door of the cabinet.

In all her wanderings through the long
corridors and the empty rooms, she had
seen nothing alive; but in this room she
saw something. Just after she had closed
the cabinet door she heard a tiny
rustling sound. It made her jump and
look around at the sofa by the
fireplace, from which it seemed to come.
In the corner of the sofa there was a
cushion, and in the velvet which covered
it there was a hole, and out of the hole
peeped a tiny head with a pair of
frightened eyes in it.

Mary crept softly across the room to
look. The bright eyes belonged to a
little gray mouse, and the mouse had
eaten a hole into the cushion and made a
comfortable nest there. Six baby mice
were cuddled up asleep near her. If
there was no one else alive in the
hundred rooms there were seven mice who
did not look lonely at all.

"If they wouldn't be so frightened I
would take them back with me," said
Mary.

She had wandered about long enough to
feel too tired to wander any farther,
and she turned back. Two or three times
she lost her way by turning down the
wrong corridor and was obliged to ramble
up and down until she found the right
one; but at last she reached her own
floor again, though she was some
distance from her own room and did not
know exactly where she was.

"I believe I have taken a wrong turning
again," she said, standing still at what
seemed the end of a short passage with
tapestry on the wall. "I don't know
which way to go. How still everything
is!"

It was while she was standing here and
just after she had said this that the
stillness was broken by a sound. It was
another cry, but not quite like the one
she had heard last night; it was only a
short one, a fretful childish whine
muffled by passing through walls.

"It's nearer than it was," said Mary,
her heart beating rather faster. "And it
is crying."

She put her hand accidentally upon the
tapestry near her, and then sprang back,
feeling quite startled. The tapestry was
the covering of a door which fell open
and showed her that there was another
part of the corridor behind it, and Mrs.
Medlock was coming up it with her bunch
of keys in her hand and a very cross
look on her face.

"What are you doing here?" she said, and
she took Mary by the arm and pulled her
away. "What did I tell you?"

"I turned round the wrong corner,"
explained Mary. "I didn't know which way
to go and I heard some one crying." She
quite hated Mrs. Medlock at the moment,
but she hated her more the next.

"You didn't hear anything of the sort,"
said the housekeeper. "You come along
back to your own nursery or I'll box
your ears."

And she took her by the arm and half
pushed, half pulled her up one passage
and down another until she pushed her in
at the door of her own room.

"Now," she said, "you stay where you're
told to stay or you'll find yourself
locked up. The master had better get you
a governess, same as he said he would.
You're one that needs some one to look
sharp after you. I've got enough to
do."

She went out of the room and slammed the
door after her, and Mary went and sat on
the hearth-rug, pale with rage. She did
not cry, but ground her teeth.

"There was some one crying--there
was--there was!" she said to herself.

She had heard it twice now, and sometime
she would find out. She had found out a
great deal this morning. She felt as if
she had been on a long journey, and at
any rate she had had something to amuse
her all the time, and she had played
with the ivory elephants and had seen
the gray mouse and its babies in their
nest in the velvet cushion.



CHAPTER VII

THE KEY TO THE GARDEN

Two days after this, when Mary opened
her eyes she sat upright in bed
immediately, and called to Martha.

"Look at the moor! Look at the moor!"

The rainstorm had ended and the gray
mist and clouds had been swept away in
the night by the wind. The wind itself
had ceased and a brilliant, deep blue
sky arched high over the moorland.
Never, never had Mary dreamed of a sky
so blue. In India skies were hot and
blazing; this was of a deep cool blue
which almost seemed to sparkle like the
waters of some lovely bottomless lake,
and here and there, high, high in the
arched blueness floated small clouds of
snow-white fleece. The far-reaching
world of the moor itself looked softly
blue instead of gloomy purple-black or
awful dreary gray.

"Aye," said Martha with a cheerful grin.
"Th' storm's over for a bit. It does
like this at this time o' th' year. It
goes off in a night like it was
pretendin' it had never been here an'
never meant to come again. That's
because th' springtime's on its way.
It's a long way off yet, but it's
comin'."

"I thought perhaps it always rained or
looked dark in England," Mary said.

"Eh! no!" said Martha, sitting up on her
heels among her black lead brushes.
"Nowt o' th' soart!"

"What does that mean?" asked Mary
seriously. In India the natives spoke
different dialects which only a few
people understood, so she was not
surprised when Martha used words she did
not know.

Martha laughed as she had done the first
morning.

"There now," she said. "I've talked
broad Yorkshire again like Mrs. Medlock
said I mustn't. 'Nowt o' th' soart'
means 'nothin'-of-the-sort,'" slowly and
carefully, "but it takes so long to say
it. Yorkshire's th' sunniest place on
earth when it is sunny. I told thee
tha'd like th' moor after a bit. Just
you wait till you see th' gold-colored
gorse blossoms an' th' blossoms o' th'
broom, an' th' heather flowerin', all
purple bells, an' hundreds o'
butterflies flutterin' an' bees hummin'
an' skylarks soarin' up an' singin'.
You'll want to get out on it as sunrise
an' live out on it all day like Dickon
does." "Could I ever get there?" asked
Mary wistfully, looking through her
window at the far-off blue. It was so
new and big and wonderful and such a
heavenly color.

"I don't know," answered Martha. "Tha's
never used tha' legs since tha' was
born, it seems to me. Tha' couldn't walk
five mile. It's five mile to our
cottage."

"I should like to see your cottage."

Martha stared at her a moment curiously
before she took up her polishing brush
and began to rub the grate again. She
was thinking that the small plain face
did not look quite as sour at this
moment as it had done the first morning
she saw it. It looked just a trifle like
little Susan Ann's when she wanted
something very much.

"I'll ask my mother about it," she said.
"She's one o' them that nearly always
sees a way to do things. It's my day out
today an' I'm goin' home. Eh! I am glad.
Mrs. Medlock thinks a lot o' mother.
Perhaps she could talk to her."

"I like your mother," said Mary.

"I should think tha' did," agreed
Martha, polishing away.

"I've never seen her," said Mary.

"No, tha' hasn't," replied Martha.

She sat up on her heels again and rubbed
the end of her nose with the back of her
hand as if puzzled for a moment, but she
ended quite positively.

"Well, she's that sensible an' hard
workin' an' goodnatured an' clean that
no one could help likin' her whether
they'd seen her or not. When I'm goin'
home to her on my day out I just jump
for joy when I'm crossin' the moor."

"I like Dickon," added Mary. "And I've
never seen him."

"Well," said Martha stoutly, "I've told
thee that th' very birds likes him an'
th' rabbits an' wild sheep an' ponies,
an' th' foxes themselves. I wonder,"
staring at her reflectively, "what
Dickon would think of thee?"

"He wouldn't like me," said Mary in her
stiff, cold little way. "No one does."

Martha looked reflective again.

"How does tha' like thysel'?" she
inquired, really quite as if she were
curious to know.

Mary hesitated a moment and thought it
over.

"Not at all--really," she answered. "But
I never thought of that before."

Martha grinned a little as if at some
homely recollection.

"Mother said that to me once," she said.
"She was at her wash-tub an' I was in a
bad temper an' talkin' ill of folk, an'
she turns round on me an' says: 'Tha'
young vixen, tha'! There tha' stands
sayin' tha' doesn't like this one an'
tha' doesn't like that one. How does
tha' like thysel'?' It made me laugh an'
it brought me to my senses in a
minute."

She went away in high spirits as soon as
she had given Mary her breakfast. She
was going to walk five miles across the
moor to the cottage, and she was going
to help her mother with the washing and
do the week's baking and enjoy herself
thoroughly.

Mary felt lonelier than ever when she
knew she was no longer in the house. She
went out into the garden as quickly as
possible, and the first thing she did
was to run round and round the fountain
flower garden ten times. She counted the
times carefully and when she had
finished she felt in better spirits. The
sunshine made the whole place look
different. The high, deep, blue sky
arched over Misselthwaite as well as
over the moor, and she kept lifting her
face and looking up into it, trying to
imagine what it would be like to lie
down on one of the little snow-white
clouds and float about. She went into
the first kitchen-garden and found Ben
Weatherstaff working there with two
other gardeners. The change in the
weather seemed to have done him good. He
spoke to her of his own accord.
"Springtime's comin,'" he said. "Cannot
tha' smell it?"

Mary sniffed and thought she could.

"I smell something nice and fresh and
damp," she said.

"That's th' good rich earth," he
answered, digging away. "It's in a good
humor makin' ready to grow things. It's
glad when plantin' time comes. It's dull
in th' winter when it's got nowt to do.
In th' flower gardens out there things
will be stirrin' down below in th' dark.
Th' sun's warmin' 'em. You'll see bits
o' green spikes stickin' out o' th'
black earth after a bit."

"What will they be?" asked Mary.

"Crocuses an' snowdrops an'
daffydowndillys. Has tha' never seen
them?"

"No. Everything is hot, and wet, and
green after the rains in India," said
Mary. "And I think things grow up in a
night."

"These won't grow up in a night," said
Weatherstaff. "Tha'll have to wait for
'em. They'll poke up a bit higher here,
an' push out a spike more there, an'
uncurl a leaf this day an' another that.
You watch 'em."

"I am going to," answered Mary.

Very soon she heard the soft rustling
flight of wings again and she knew at
once that the robin had come again. He
was very pert and lively, and hopped
about so close to her feet, and put his
head on one side and looked at her so
slyly that she asked Ben Weatherstaff a
question.

"Do you think he remembers me?" she
said.

"Remembers thee!" said Weatherstaff
indignantly. "He knows every cabbage
stump in th' gardens, let alone th'
people. He's never seen a little wench
here before, an' he's bent on findin'
out all about thee. Tha's no need to try
to hide anything from him."

"Are things stirring down below in the
dark in that garden where he lives?"
Mary inquired.

"What garden?" grunted Weatherstaff,
becoming surly again.

"The one where the old rose-trees are."
She could not help asking, because she
wanted so much to know. "Are all the
flowers dead, or do some of them come
again in the summer? Are there ever any
roses?"

"Ask him," said Ben Weatherstaff,
hunching his shoulders toward the robin.
"He's the only one as knows. No one else
has seen inside it for ten year'."

Ten years was a long time, Mary thought.
She had been born ten years ago.

She walked away, slowly thinking. She
had begun to like the garden just as she
had begun to like the robin and Dickon
and Martha's mother. She was beginning
to like Martha, too. That seemed a good
many people to like--when you were not
used to liking. She thought of the robin
as one of the people. She went to her
walk outside the long, ivy-covered wall
over which she could see the tree-tops;
and the second time she walked up and
down the most interesting and exciting
thing happened to her, and it was all
through Ben Weatherstaff's robin.

She heard a chirp and a twitter, and
when she looked at the bare flower-bed
at her left side there he was hopping
about and pretending to peck things out
of the earth to persuade her that he had
not followed her. But she knew he had
followed her and the surprise so filled
her with delight that she almost
trembled a little.

"You do remember me!" she cried out.
"You do! You are prettier than anything
else in the world!"

She chirped, and talked, and coaxed and
he hopped, and flirted his tail and
twittered. It was as if he were talking.
His red waistcoat was like satin and he
puffed his tiny breast out and was so
fine and so grand and so pretty that it
was really as if he were showing her how
important and like a human person a
robin could be. Mistress Mary forgot
that she had ever been contrary in her
life when he allowed her to draw closer
and closer to him, and bend down and
talk and try to make something like
robin sounds.

Oh! to think that he should actually let
her come as near to him as that! He knew
nothing in the world would make her put
out her hand toward him or startle him
in the least tiniest way. He knew it
because he was a real person--only nicer
than any other person in the world. She
was so happy that she scarcely dared to
breathe.

The flower-bed was not quite bare. It
was bare of flowers because the
perennial plants had been cut down for
their winter rest, but there were tall
shrubs and low ones which grew together
at the back of the bed, and as the robin
hopped about under them she saw him hop
over a small pile of freshly turned up
earth. He stopped on it to look for a
worm. The earth had been turned up
because a dog had been trying to dig up
a mole and he had scratched quite a deep
hole.

Mary looked at it, not really knowing
why the hole was there, and as she
looked she saw something almost buried
in the newly-turned soil. It was
something like a ring of rusty iron or
brass and when the robin flew up into a
tree nearby she put out her hand and
picked the ring up. It was more than a
ring, however; it was an old key which
looked as if it had been buried a long
time.

Mistress Mary stood up and looked at it
with an almost frightened face as it
hung from her finger.

"Perhaps it has been buried for ten
years," she said in a whisper. "Perhaps
it is the key to the garden!"



CHAPTER VIII

THE ROBIN WHO SHOWED THE WAY

She looked at the key quite a long time.
She turned it over and over, and thought
about it. As I have said before, she was
not a child who had been trained to ask
permission or consult her elders about
things. All she thought about the key
was that if it was the key to the closed
garden, and she could find out where the
door was, she could perhaps open it and
see what was inside the walls, and what
had happened to the old rose-trees. It
was because it had been shut up so long
that she wanted to see it. It seemed as
if it must be different from other
places and that something strange must
have happened to it during ten years.
Besides that, if she liked it she could
go into it every day and shut the door
behind her, and she could make up some
play of her own and play it quite alone,
because nobody would ever know where she
was, but would think the door was still
locked and the key buried in the earth.
The thought of that pleased her very
much.

Living as it were, all by herself in a
house with a hundred mysteriously closed
rooms and having nothing whatever to do
to amuse herself, had set her inactive
brain to working and was actually
awakening her imagination. There is no
doubt that the fresh, strong, pure air
from the moor had a great deal to do
with it. Just as it had given her an
appetite, and fighting with the wind had
stirred her blood, so the same things
had stirred her mind. In India she had
always been too hot and languid and weak
to care much about anything, but in this
place she was beginning to care and to
want to do new things. Already she felt
less "contrary," though she did not know
why.

She put the key in her pocket and walked
up and down her walk. No one but herself
ever seemed to come there, so she could
walk slowly and look at the wall, or,
rather, at the ivy growing on it. The
ivy was the baffling thing. Howsoever
carefully she looked she could see
nothing but thickly growing, glossy,
dark green leaves. She was very much
disappointed. Something of her
contrariness came back to her as she
paced the walk and looked over it at the
tree-tops inside. It seemed so silly,
she said to herself, to be near it and
not be able to get in. She took the key
in her pocket when she went back to the
house, and she made up her mind that she
would always carry it with her when she
went out, so that if she ever should
find the hidden door she would be
ready.

Mrs. Medlock had allowed Martha to sleep
all night at the cottage, but she was
back at her work in the morning with
cheeks redder than ever and in the best
of spirits.

"I got up at four o'clock," she said.
"Eh! it was pretty on th' moor with th'
birds gettin' up an' th' rabbits
scamperin' about an' th' sun risin'. I
didn't walk all th' way. A man gave me a
ride in his cart an' I did enjoy
myself."

She was full of stories of the delights
of her day out. Her mother had been glad
to see her and they had got the baking
and washing all out of the way. She had
even made each of the children a
doughcake with a bit of brown sugar in
it.

"I had 'em all pipin' hot when they came
in from playin' on th' moor. An' th'
cottage all smelt o' nice, clean hot
bakin' an' there was a good fire, an'
they just shouted for joy. Our Dickon he
said our cottage was good enough for a
king."

In the evening they had all sat round
the fire, and Martha and her mother had
sewed patches on torn clothes and mended
stockings and Martha had told them about
the little girl who had come from India
and who had been waited on all her life
by what Martha called "blacks" until she
didn't know how to put on her own
stockings.

"Eh! they did like to hear about you,"
said Martha. "They wanted to know all
about th' blacks an' about th' ship you
came in. I couldn't tell 'em enough."

Mary reflected a little.

"I'll tell you a great deal more before
your next day out," she said, "so that
you will have more to talk about. I dare
say they would like to hear about riding
on elephants and camels, and about the
officers going to hunt tigers."

"My word!" cried delighted Martha. "It
would set 'em clean off their heads.
Would tha' really do that, Miss? It
would be same as a wild beast show like
we heard they had in York once."

"India is quite different from
Yorkshire," Mary said slowly, as she
thought the matter over. "I never
thought of that. Did Dickon and your
mother like to hear you talk about
me?"

"Why, our Dickon's eyes nearly started
out o' his head, they got that round,"
answered Martha. "But mother, she was
put out about your seemin' to be all by
yourself like. She said, 'Hasn't Mr.
Craven got no governess for her, nor no
nurse?' and I said, 'No, he hasn't,
though Mrs. Medlock says he will when he
thinks of it, but she says he mayn't
think of it for two or three years.'"

"I don't want a governess," said Mary
sharply.

"But mother says you ought to be
learnin' your book by this time an' you
ought to have a woman to look after you,
an' she says: 'Now, Martha, you just
think how you'd feel yourself, in a big
place like that, wanderin' about all
alone, an' no mother. You do your best
to cheer her up,' she says, an' I said I
would."

Mary gave her a long, steady look.

"You do cheer me up," she said. "I like
to hear you talk."

Presently Martha went out of the room
and came back with something held in her
hands under her apron.

"What does tha' think," she said, with a
cheerful grin. "I've brought thee a
present."

"A present!" exclaimed Mistress Mary.
How could a cottage full of fourteen
hungry people give any one a present!

"A man was drivin' across the moor
peddlin'," Martha explained. "An' he
stopped his cart at our door. He had
pots an' pans an' odds an' ends, but
mother had no money to buy anythin'.
Just as he was goin' away our 'Lizabeth
Ellen called out, 'Mother, he's got
skippin'-ropes with red an' blue
handles.' An' mother she calls out quite
sudden, 'Here, stop, mister! How much
are they?' An' he says 'Tuppence', an'
mother she began fumblin' in her pocket
an' she says to me, 'Martha, tha's
brought me thy wages like a good lass,
an' I've got four places to put every
penny, but I'm just goin' to take
tuppence out of it to buy that child a
skippin'-rope,' an' she bought one an'
here it is."

She brought it out from under her apron
and exhibited it quite proudly. It was a
strong, slender rope with a striped red
and blue handle at each end, but Mary
Lennox had never seen a skipping-rope
before. She gazed at it with a mystified
expression.

"What is it for?" she asked curiously.

"For!" cried out Martha. "Does tha' mean
that they've not got skippin'-ropes in
India, for all they've got elephants and
tigers and camels! No wonder most of
'em's black. This is what it's for; just
watch me."

And she ran into the middle of the room
and, taking a handle in each hand, began
to skip, and skip, and skip, while Mary
turned in her chair to stare at her, and
the queer faces in the old portraits
seemed to stare at her, too, and wonder
what on earth this common little
cottager had the impudence to be doing
under their very noses. But Martha did
not even see them. The interest and
curiosity in Mistress Mary's face
delighted her, and she went on skipping
and counted as she skipped until she had
reached a hundred.

"I could skip longer than that," she
said when she stopped. "I've skipped as
much as five hundred when I was twelve,
but I wasn't as fat then as I am now,
an' I was in practice."

Mary got up from her chair beginning to
feel excited herself.

"It looks nice," she said. "Your mother
is a kind woman. Do you think I could
ever skip like that?"

"You just try it," urged Martha, handing
her the skipping-rope. "You can't skip a
hundred at first, but if you practice
you'll mount up. That's what mother
said. She says, 'Nothin' will do her
more good than skippin' rope. It's th'
sensiblest toy a child can have. Let her
play out in th' fresh air skippin' an'
it'll stretch her legs an' arms an' give
her some strength in 'em.'"

It was plain that there was not a great
deal of strength in Mistress Mary's arms
and legs when she first began to skip.
She was not very clever at it, but she
liked it so much that she did not want
to stop.

"Put on tha' things and run an' skip out
o' doors," said Martha. "Mother said I
must tell you to keep out o' doors as
much as you could, even when it rains a
bit, so as tha' wrap up warm."

Mary put on her coat and hat and took
her skipping-rope over her arm. She
opened the door to go out, and then
suddenly thought of something and turned
back rather slowly.

"Martha," she said, "they were your
wages. It was your two-pence really.
Thank you." She said it stiffly because
she was not used to thanking people or
noticing that they did things for her.
"Thank you," she said, and held out her
hand because she did not know what else
to do.

Martha gave her hand a clumsy little
shake, as if she was not accustomed to
this sort of thing either. Then she
laughed.

"Eh! th' art a queer, old-womanish
thing," she said. "If tha'd been our
'Lizabeth Ellen tha'd have given me a
kiss."

Mary looked stiffer than ever.

"Do you want me to kiss you?"

Martha laughed again.

"Nay, not me," she answered. "If tha'
was different, p'raps tha'd want to
thysel'. But tha' isn't. Run off outside
an' play with thy rope."

Mistress Mary felt a little awkward as
she went out of the room. Yorkshire
people seemed strange, and Martha was
always rather a puzzle to her. At first
she had disliked her very much, but now
she did not. The skipping-rope was a
wonderful thing. She counted and
skipped, and skipped and counted, until
her cheeks were quite red, and she was
more interested than she had ever been
since she was born. The sun was shining
and a little wind was blowing--not a
rough wind, but one which came in
delightful little gusts and brought a
fresh scent of newly turned earth with
it. She skipped round the fountain
garden, and up one walk and down
another. She skipped at last into the
kitchen-garden and saw Ben Weatherstaff
digging and talking to his robin, which
was hopping about him. She skipped down
the walk toward him and he lifted his
head and looked at her with a curious
expression. She had wondered if he would
notice her. She wanted him to see her
skip.

"Well!" he exclaimed. "Upon my word.
P'raps tha' art a young 'un, after all,
an' p'raps tha's got child's blood in
thy veins instead of sour buttermilk.
Tha's skipped red into thy cheeks as
sure as my name's Ben Weatherstaff. I
wouldn't have believed tha' could do
it."

"I never skipped before," Mary said.
"I'm just beginning. I can only go up to
twenty."

"Tha' keep on," said Ben. "Tha' shapes
well enough at it for a young 'un that's
lived with heathen. Just see how he's
watchin' thee," jerking his head toward
the robin. "He followed after thee
yesterday. He'll be at it again today.
He'll be bound to find out what th'
skippin'-rope is. He's never seen one.
Eh!" shaking his head at the bird, "tha'
curiosity will be th' death of thee
sometime if tha' doesn't look sharp."

Mary skipped round all the gardens and
round the orchard, resting every few
minutes. At length she went to her own
special walk and made up her mind to try
if she could skip the whole length of
it. It was a good long skip and she
began slowly, but before she had gone
half-way down the path she was so hot
and breathless that she was obliged to
stop. She did not mind much, because she
had already counted up to thirty. She
stopped with a little laugh of pleasure,
and there, lo and behold, was the robin
swaying on a long branch of ivy. He had
followed her and he greeted her with a
chirp. As Mary had skipped toward him
she felt something heavy in her pocket
strike against her at each jump, and
when she saw the robin she laughed
again.

"You showed me where the key was
yesterday," she said. "You ought to show
me the door today; but I don't believe
you know!"

The robin flew from his swinging spray
of ivy on to the top of the wall and he
opened his beak and sang a loud, lovely
trill, merely to show off. Nothing in
the world is quite as adorably lovely as
a robin when he shows off--and they are
nearly always doing it.

Mary Lennox had heard a great deal about
Magic in her Ayah's stories, and she
always said that what happened almost at
that moment was Magic.

One of the nice little gusts of wind
rushed down the walk, and it was a
stronger one than the rest. It was
strong enough to wave the branches of
the trees, and it was more than strong
enough to sway the trailing sprays of
untrimmed ivy hanging from the wall.
Mary had stepped close to the robin, and
suddenly the gust of wind swung aside
some loose ivy trails, and more suddenly
still she jumped toward it and caught it
in her hand. This she did because she
had seen something under it--a round
knob which had been covered by the
leaves hanging over it. It was the knob
of a door.

She put her hands under the leaves and
began to pull and push them aside. Thick
as the ivy hung, it nearly all was a
loose and swinging curtain, though some
had crept over wood and iron. Mary's
heart began to thump and her hands to
shake a little in her delight and
excitement. The robin kept singing and
twittering away and tilting his head on
one side, as if he were as excited as
she was. What was this under her hands
which was square and made of iron and
which her fingers found a hole in?

It was the lock of the door which had
been closed ten years and she put her
hand in her pocket, drew out the key and
found it fitted the keyhole. She put the
key in and turned it. It took two hands
to do it, but it did turn.

And then she took a long breath and
looked behind her up the long walk to
see if any one was coming. No one was
coming. No one ever did come, it seemed,
and she took another long breath,
because she could not help it, and she
held back the swinging curtain of ivy
and pushed back the door which opened
slowly--slowly.

Then she slipped through it, and shut it
behind her, and stood with her back
against it, looking about her and
breathing quite fast with excitement,
and wonder, and delight.

She was standing inside the secret
garden.



CHAPTER IX

THE STRANGEST HOUSE ANY ONE EVER LIVED
IN

It was the sweetest, most
mysterious-looking place any one could
imagine. The high walls which shut it in
were covered with the leafless stems of
climbing roses which were so thick that
they were matted together. Mary Lennox
knew they were roses because she had
seen a great many roses in India. All
the ground was covered with grass of a
wintry brown and out of it grew clumps
of bushes which were surely rosebushes
if they were alive. There were numbers
of standard roses which had so spread
their branches that they were like
little trees. There were other trees in
the garden, and one of the things which
made the place look strangest and
loveliest was that climbing roses had
run all over them and swung down long
tendrils which made light swaying
curtains, and here and there they had
caught at each other or at a
far-reaching branch and had crept from
one tree to another and made lovely
bridges of themselves. There were
neither leaves nor roses on them now and
Mary did not know whether they were dead
or alive, but their thin gray or brown
branches and sprays looked like a sort
of hazy mantle spreading over
everything, walls, and trees, and even
brown grass, where they had fallen from
their fastenings and run along the
ground. It was this hazy tangle from
tree to tree which made it all look so
mysterious. Mary had thought it must be
different from other gardens which had
not been left all by themselves so long;
and indeed it was different from any
other place she had ever seen in her
life.

"How still it is!" she whispered. "How
still!"

Then she waited a moment and listened at
the stillness. The robin, who had flown
to his treetop, was still as all the
rest. He did not even flutter his wings;
he sat without stirring, and looked at
Mary.

"No wonder it is still," she whispered
again. "I am the first person who has
spoken in here for ten years."

She moved away from the door, stepping
as softly as if she were afraid of
awakening some one. She was glad that
there was grass under her feet and that
her steps made no sounds. She walked
under one of the fairy-like gray arches
between the trees and looked up at the
sprays and tendrils which formed them.
"I wonder if they are all quite dead,"
she said. "Is it all a quite dead
garden? I wish it wasn't."

If she had been Ben Weatherstaff she
could have told whether the wood was
alive by looking at it, but she could
only see that there were only gray or
brown sprays and branches and none
showed any signs of even a tiny leaf-bud
anywhere.

But she was inside the wonderful garden
and she could come through the door
under the ivy any time and she felt as
if she had found a world all her own.

The sun was shining inside the four
walls and the high arch of blue sky over
this particular piece of Misselthwaite
seemed even more brilliant and soft than
it was over the moor. The robin flew
down from his tree-top and hopped about
or flew after her from one bush to
another. He chirped a good deal and had
a very busy air, as if he were showing
her things. Everything was strange and
silent and she seemed to be hundreds of
miles away from any one, but somehow she
did not feel lonely at all. All that
troubled her was her wish that she knew
whether all the roses were dead, or if
perhaps some of them had lived and might
put out leaves and buds as the weather
got warmer. She did not want it to be a
quite dead garden. If it were a quite
alive garden, how wonderful it would be,
and what thousands of roses would grow
on every side!

Her skipping-rope had hung over her arm
when she came in and after she had
walked about for a while she thought she
would skip round the whole garden,
stopping when she wanted to look at
things. There seemed to have been grass
paths here and there, and in one or two
corners there were alcoves of evergreen
with stone seats or tall moss-covered
flower urns in them.

As she came near the second of these
alcoves she stopped skipping. There had
once been a flowerbed in it, and she
thought she saw something sticking out
of the black earth--some sharp little
pale green points. She remembered what
Ben Weatherstaff had said and she knelt
down to look at them.

"Yes, they are tiny growing things and
they might be crocuses or snowdrops or
daffodils," she whispered.

She bent very close to them and sniffed
the fresh scent of the damp earth. She
liked it very much.

"Perhaps there are some other ones
coming up in other places," she said. "I
will go all over the garden and look."

She did not skip, but walked. She went
slowly and kept her eyes on the ground.
She looked in the old border beds and
among the grass, and after she had gone
round, trying to miss nothing, she had
found ever so many more sharp, pale
green points, and she had become quite
excited again.

"It isn't a quite dead garden," she
cried out softly to herself. "Even if
the roses are dead, there are other
things alive."

She did not know anything about
gardening, but the grass seemed so thick
in some of the places where the green
points were pushing their way through
that she thought they did not seem to
have room enough to grow. She searched
about until she found a rather sharp
piece of wood and knelt down and dug and
weeded out the weeds and grass until she
made nice little clear places around
them.

"Now they look as if they could
breathe," she said, after she had
finished with the first ones. "I am
going to do ever so many more. I'll do
all I can see. If I haven't time today I
can come tomorrow."

She went from place to place, and dug
and weeded, and enjoyed herself so
immensely that she was led on from bed
to bed and into the grass under the
trees. The exercise made her so warm
that she first threw her coat off, and
then her hat, and without knowing it she
was smiling down on to the grass and the
pale green points all the time.

The robin was tremendously busy. He was
very much pleased to see gardening begun
on his own estate. He had often wondered
at Ben Weatherstaff. Where gardening is
done all sorts of delightful things to
eat are turned up with the soil. Now
here was this new kind of creature who
was not half Ben's size and yet had had
the sense to come into his garden and
begin at once.

Mistress Mary worked in her garden until
it was time to go to her midday dinner.
In fact, she was rather late in
remembering, and when she put on her
coat and hat, and picked up her
skipping-rope, she could not believe
that she had been working two or three
hours. She had been actually happy all
the time; and dozens and dozens of the
tiny, pale green points were to be seen
in cleared places, looking twice as
cheerful as they had looked before when
the grass and weeds had been smothering
them.

"I shall come back this afternoon," she
said, looking all round at her new
kingdom, and speaking to the trees and
the rose-bushes as if they heard her.

Then she ran lightly across the grass,
pushed open the slow old door and
slipped through it under the ivy. She
had such red cheeks and such bright eyes
and ate such a dinner that Martha was
delighted.

"Two pieces o' meat an' two helps o'
rice puddin'!" she said. "Eh! mother
will be pleased when I tell her what th'
skippin'-rope's done for thee."

In the course of her digging with her
pointed stick Mistress Mary had found
herself digging up a sort of white root
rather like an onion. She had put it
back in its place and patted the earth
carefully down on it and just now she
wondered if Martha could tell her what
it was.

"Martha," she said, "what are those
white roots that look like onions?"

"They're bulbs," answered Martha. "Lots
o' spring flowers grow from 'em. Th'
very little ones are snowdrops an'
crocuses an' th' big ones are
narcissuses an' jonquils and
daffydowndillys. Th' biggest of all is
lilies an' purple flags. Eh! they are
nice. Dickon's got a whole lot of 'em
planted in our bit o' garden."

"Does Dickon know all about them?" asked
Mary, a new idea taking possession of
her.

"Our Dickon can make a flower grow out
of a brick walk. Mother says he just
whispers things out o' th' ground."

"Do bulbs live a long time? Would they
live years and years if no one helped
them?" inquired Mary anxiously.

"They're things as helps themselves,"
said Martha. "That's why poor folk can
afford to have 'em. If you don't trouble
'em, most of 'em'll work away
underground for a lifetime an' spread
out an' have little 'uns. There's a
place in th' park woods here where
there's snowdrops by thousands. They're
the prettiest sight in Yorkshire when
th' spring comes. No one knows when they
was first planted."

"I wish the spring was here now," said
Mary. "I want to see all the things that
grow in England."

She had finished her dinner and gone to
her favorite seat on the hearth-rug.

"I wish--I wish I had a little spade,"
she said. "Whatever does tha' want a
spade for?" asked Martha, laughing. "Art
tha' goin' to take to diggin'? I must
tell mother that, too."

Mary looked at the fire and pondered a
little. She must be careful if she meant
to keep her secret kingdom. She wasn't
doing any harm, but if Mr. Craven found
out about the open door he would be
fearfully angry and get a new key and
lock it up forevermore. She really could
not bear that.

"This is such a big lonely place," she
said slowly, as if she were turning
matters over in her mind. "The house is
lonely, and the park is lonely, and the
gardens are lonely. So many places seem
shut up. I never did many things in
India, but there were more people to
look at--natives and soldiers marching
by--and sometimes bands playing, and my
Ayah told me stories. There is no one to
talk to here except you and Ben
Weatherstaff. And you have to do your
work and Ben Weatherstaff won't speak to
me often. I thought if I had a little
spade I could dig somewhere as he does,
and I might make a little garden if he
would give me some seeds."

Martha's face quite lighted up.

"There now!" she exclaimed, "if that
wasn't one of th' things mother said.
She says, 'There's such a lot o' room in
that big place, why don't they give her
a bit for herself, even if she doesn't
plant nothin' but parsley an' radishes?
She'd dig an' rake away an' be right
down happy over it.' Them was the very
words she said."

"Were they?" said Mary. "How many things
she knows, doesn't she?"

"Eh!" said Martha. "It's like she says:
'A woman as brings up twelve children
learns something besides her A B C.
Children's as good as 'rithmetic to set
you findin' out things.'"

"How much would a spade cost--a little
one?" Mary asked.

"Well," was Martha's reflective answer,
"at Thwaite village there's a shop or so
an' I saw little garden sets with a
spade an' a rake an' a fork all tied
together for two shillings. An' they was
stout enough to work with, too."

"I've got more than that in my purse,"
said Mary. "Mrs. Morrison gave me five
shillings and Mrs. Medlock gave me some
money from Mr. Craven."

"Did he remember thee that much?"
exclaimed Martha.

"Mrs. Medlock said I was to have a
shilling a week to spend. She gives me
one every Saturday. I didn't know what
to spend it on."

"My word! that's riches," said Martha.
"Tha' can buy anything in th' world tha'
wants. Th' rent of our cottage is only
one an' threepence an' it's like pullin'
eye-teeth to get it. Now I've just
thought of somethin'," putting her hands
on her hips.

"What?" said Mary eagerly.

"In the shop at Thwaite they sell
packages o' flower-seeds for a penny
each, and our Dickon he knows which is
th' prettiest ones an' how to make 'em
grow. He walks over to Thwaite many a
day just for th' fun of it. Does tha'
know how to print letters?" suddenly.

"I know how to write," Mary answered.

Martha shook her head.

"Our Dickon can only read printin'. If
tha' could print we could write a letter
to him an' ask him to go an' buy th'
garden tools an' th' seeds at th' same
time."

"Oh! you're a good girl!" Mary cried.
"You are, really! I didn't know you were
so nice. I know I can print letters if I
try. Let's ask Mrs. Medlock for a pen
and ink and some paper."

"I've got some of my own," said Martha.
"I bought 'em so I could print a bit of
a letter to mother of a Sunday. I'll go
and get it." She ran out of the room,
and Mary stood by the fire and twisted
her thin little hands together with
sheer pleasure.

"If I have a spade," she whispered, "I
can make the earth nice and soft and dig
up weeds. If I have seeds and can make
flowers grow the garden won't be dead at
all--it will come alive."

She did not go out again that afternoon
because when Martha returned with her
pen and ink and paper she was obliged to
clear the table and carry the plates and
dishes downstairs and when she got into
the kitchen Mrs. Medlock was there and
told her to do something, so Mary waited
for what seemed to her a long time
before she came back. Then it was a
serious piece of work to write to
Dickon. Mary had been taught very little
because her governesses had disliked her
too much to stay with her. She could not
spell particularly well but she found
that she could print letters when she
tried. This was the letter Martha
dictated to her: "My Dear Dickon:

This comes hoping to find you well as it
leaves me at present. Miss Mary has
plenty of money and will you go to
Thwaite and buy her some flower seeds
and a set of garden tools to make a
flower-bed. Pick the prettiest ones and
easy to grow because she has never done
it before and lived in India which is
different. Give my love to mother and
every one of you. Miss Mary is going to
tell me a lot more so that on my next
day out you can hear about elephants and
camels and gentlemen going hunting lions
and tigers.

 "Your loving sister, Martha Phoebe
Sowerby."

"We'll put the money in th' envelope an'
I'll get th' butcher boy to take it in
his cart. He's a great friend o'
Dickon's," said Martha.

"How shall I get the things when Dickon
buys them?"

"He'll bring 'em to you himself. He'll
like to walk over this way."

"Oh!" exclaimed Mary, "then I shall see
him! I never thought I should see
Dickon."

"Does tha' want to see him?" asked
Martha suddenly, for Mary had looked so
pleased.

"Yes, I do. I never saw a boy foxes and
crows loved. I want to see him very
much."

Martha gave a little start, as if she
remembered something. "Now to think,"
she broke out, "to think o' me
forgettin' that there; an' I thought I
was goin' to tell you first thing this
mornin'. I asked mother--and she said
she'd ask Mrs. Medlock her own self."

"Do you mean--" Mary began.

"What I said Tuesday. Ask her if you
might be driven over to our cottage some
day and have a bit o' mother's hot oat
cake, an' butter, an' a glass o'
milk."

It seemed as if all the interesting
things were happening in one day. To
think of going over the moor in the
daylight and when the sky was blue! To
think of going into the cottage which
held twelve children!

"Does she think Mrs. Medlock would let
me go?" she asked, quite anxiously.

"Aye, she thinks she would. She knows
what a tidy woman mother is and how
clean she keeps the cottage."

"If I went I should see your mother as
well as Dickon," said Mary, thinking it
over and liking the idea very much. "She
doesn't seem to be like the mothers in
India."

Her work in the garden and the
excitement of the afternoon ended by
making her feel quiet and thoughtful.
Martha stayed with her until tea-time,
but they sat in comfortable quiet and
talked very little. But just before
Martha went downstairs for the tea-tray,
Mary asked a question.

"Martha," she said, "has the
scullery-maid had the toothache again
today?"

Martha certainly started slightly.

"What makes thee ask that?" she said.

"Because when I waited so long for you
to come back I opened the door and
walked down the corridor to see if you
were coming. And I heard that far-off
crying again, just as we heard it the
other night. There isn't a wind today,
so you see it couldn't have been the
wind."

"Eh!" said Martha restlessly. "Tha'
mustn't go walkin' about in corridors
an' listenin'. Mr. Craven would be that
there angry there's no knowin' what he'd
do."

"I wasn't listening," said Mary. "I was
just waiting for you--and I heard it.
That's three times."

"My word! There's Mrs. Medlock's bell,"
said Martha, and she almost ran out of
the room.

"It's the strangest house any one ever
lived in," said Mary drowsily, as she
dropped her head on the cushioned seat
of the armchair near her. Fresh air, and
digging, and skipping-rope had made her
feel so comfortably tired that she fell
asleep.



CHAPTER X

DICKON

The sun shone down for nearly a week on
the secret garden. The Secret Garden was
what Mary called it when she was
thinking of it. She liked the name, and
she liked still more the feeling that
when its beautiful old walls shut her in
no one knew where she was. It seemed
almost like being shut out of the world
in some fairy place. The few books she
had read and liked had been fairy-story
books, and she had read of secret
gardens in some of the stories.
Sometimes people went to sleep in them
for a hundred years, which she had
thought must be rather stupid. She had
no intention of going to sleep, and, in
fact, she was becoming wider awake every
day which passed at Misselthwaite. She
was beginning to like to be out of
doors; she no longer hated the wind, but
enjoyed it. She could run faster, and
longer, and she could skip up to a
hundred. The bulbs in the secret garden
must have been much astonished. Such
nice clear places were made round them
that they had all the breathing space
they wanted, and really, if Mistress
Mary had known it, they began to cheer
up under the dark earth and work
tremendously. The sun could get at them
and warm them, and when the rain came
down it could reach them at once, so
they began to feel very much alive.

Mary was an odd, determined little
person, and now she had something
interesting to be determined about, she
was very much absorbed, indeed. She
worked and dug and pulled up weeds
steadily, only becoming more pleased
with her work every hour instead of
tiring of it. It seemed to her like a
fascinating sort of play. She found many
more of the sprouting pale green points
than she had ever hoped to find. They
seemed to be starting up everywhere and
each day she was sure she found tiny new
ones, some so tiny that they barely
peeped above the earth. There were so
many that she remembered what Martha had
said about the "snowdrops by the
thousands," and about bulbs spreading
and making new ones. These had been left
to themselves for ten years and perhaps
they had spread, like the snowdrops,
into thousands. She wondered how long it
would be before they showed that they
were flowers. Sometimes she stopped
digging to look at the garden and try to
imagine what it would be like when it
was covered with thousands of lovely
things in bloom. During that week of
sunshine, she became more intimate with
Ben Weatherstaff. She surprised him
several times by seeming to start up
beside him as if she sprang out of the
earth. The truth was that she was afraid
that he would pick up his tools and go
away if he saw her coming, so she always
walked toward him as silently as
possible. But, in fact, he did not
object to her as strongly as he had at
first. Perhaps he was secretly rather
flattered by her evident desire for his
elderly company. Then, also, she was
more civil than she had been. He did not
know that when she first saw him she
spoke to him as she would have spoken to
a native, and had not known that a
cross, sturdy old Yorkshire man was not
accustomed to salaam to his masters, and
be merely commanded by them to do
things.

"Tha'rt like th' robin," he said to her
one morning when he lifted his head and
saw her standing by him. "I never knows
when I shall see thee or which side
tha'll come from."

"He's friends with me now," said Mary.

"That's like him," snapped Ben
Weatherstaff. "Makin' up to th' women
folk just for vanity an' flightiness.
There's nothin' he wouldn't do for th'
sake o' showin' off an' flirtin' his
tail-feathers. He's as full o' pride as
an egg's full o' meat."

He very seldom talked much and sometimes
did not even answer Mary's questions
except by a grunt, but this morning he
said more than usual. He stood up and
rested one hobnailed boot on the top of
his spade while he looked her over.

"How long has tha' been here?" he jerked
out.

"I think it's about a month," she
answered.

"Tha's beginnin' to do Misselthwaite
credit," he said. "Tha's a bit fatter
than tha' was an' tha's not quite so
yeller. Tha' looked like a young plucked
crow when tha' first came into this
garden. Thinks I to myself I never set
eyes on an uglier, sourer faced young
'un."

Mary was not vain and as she had never
thought much of her looks she was not
greatly disturbed.

"I know I'm fatter," she said. "My
stockings are getting tighter. They used
to make wrinkles. There's the robin, Ben
Weatherstaff."

There, indeed, was the robin, and she
thought he looked nicer than ever. His
red waistcoat was as glossy as satin and
he flirted his wings and tail and tilted
his head and hopped about with all sorts
of lively graces. He seemed determined
to make Ben Weatherstaff admire him. But
Ben was sarcastic.

"Aye, there tha' art!" he said. "Tha'
can put up with me for a bit sometimes
when tha's got no one better. Tha's been
reddenin' up thy waistcoat an' polishin'
thy feathers this two weeks. I know what
tha's up to. Tha's courtin' some bold
young madam somewhere tellin' thy lies
to her about bein' th' finest cock robin
on Missel Moor an' ready to fight all
th' rest of 'em."

"Oh! look at him!" exclaimed Mary.

The robin was evidently in a
fascinating, bold mood. He hopped closer
and closer and looked at Ben
Weatherstaff more and more engagingly.
He flew on to the nearest currant bush
and tilted his head and sang a little
song right at him.

"Tha' thinks tha'll get over me by doin'
that," said Ben, wrinkling his face up
in such a way that Mary felt sure he was
trying not to look pleased. "Tha' thinks
no one can stand out against
thee--that's what tha' thinks."

The robin spread his wings--Mary could
scarcely believe her eyes. He flew right
up to the handle of Ben Weatherstaff's
spade and alighted on the top of it.
Then the old man's face wrinkled itself
slowly into a new expression. He stood
still as if he were afraid to
breathe--as if he would not have stirred
for the world, lest his robin should
start away. He spoke quite in a
whisper.

"Well, I'm danged!" he said as softly as
if he were saying something quite
different. "Tha' does know how to get at
a chap--tha' does! Tha's fair unearthly,
tha's so knowin'."

And he stood without stirring--almost
without drawing his breath--until the
robin gave another flirt to his wings
and flew away. Then he stood looking at
the handle of the spade as if there
might be Magic in it, and then he began
to dig again and said nothing for
several minutes.

But because he kept breaking into a slow
grin now and then, Mary was not afraid
to talk to him.

"Have you a garden of your own?" she
asked.

"No. I'm bachelder an' lodge with Martin
at th' gate."

"If you had one," said Mary, "what would
you plant?"

"Cabbages an' 'taters an' onions."

"But if you wanted to make a flower
garden," persisted Mary, "what would you
plant?"

"Bulbs an' sweet-smellin' things--but
mostly roses."

Mary's face lighted up.

"Do you like roses?" she said.

Ben Weatherstaff rooted up a weed and
threw it aside before he answered.

"Well, yes, I do. I was learned that by
a young lady I was gardener to. She had
a lot in a place she was fond of, an'
she loved 'em like they was children--or
robins. I've seen her bend over an' kiss
'em." He dragged out another weed and
scowled at it. "That were as much as ten
year' ago."

"Where is she now?" asked Mary, much
interested.

"Heaven," he answered, and drove his
spade deep into the soil, "'cording to
what parson says."

"What happened to the roses?" Mary asked
again, more interested than ever.

"They was left to themselves."

Mary was becoming quite excited.

"Did they quite die? Do roses quite die
when they are left to themselves?" she
ventured.

"Well, I'd got to like 'em--an' I liked
her--an' she liked 'em," Ben
Weatherstaff admitted reluctantly. "Once
or twice a year I'd go an' work at 'em a
bit--prune 'em an' dig about th' roots.
They run wild, but they was in rich
soil, so some of 'em lived."

"When they have no leaves and look gray
and brown and dry, how can you tell
whether they are dead or alive?"
inquired Mary.

"Wait till th' spring gets at 'em--wait
till th' sun shines on th' rain and th'
rain falls on th' sunshine an' then
tha'll find out."

"How--how?" cried Mary, forgetting to be
careful. "Look along th' twigs an'
branches an' if tha' see a bit of a
brown lump swelling here an' there,
watch it after th' warm rain an' see
what happens." He stopped suddenly and
looked curiously at her eager face. "Why
does tha' care so much about roses an'
such, all of a sudden?" he demanded.

Mistress Mary felt her face grow red.
She was almost afraid to answer.

"I--I want to play that--that I have a
garden of my own," she stammered.
"I--there is nothing for me to do. I
have nothing--and no one."

"Well," said Ben Weatherstaff slowly, as
he watched her, "that's true. Tha'
hasn't."

He said it in such an odd way that Mary
wondered if he was actually a little
sorry for her. She had never felt sorry
for herself; she had only felt tired and
cross, because she disliked people and
things so much. But now the world seemed
to be changing and getting nicer. If no
one found out about the secret garden,
she should enjoy herself always.

She stayed with him for ten or fifteen
minutes longer and asked him as many
questions as she dared. He answered
every one of them in his queer grunting
way and he did not seem really cross and
did not pick up his spade and leave her.
He said something about roses just as
she was going away and it reminded her
of the ones he had said he had been fond
of.

"Do you go and see those other roses
now?" she asked.

"Not been this year. My rheumatics has
made me too stiff in th' joints."

He said it in his grumbling voice, and
then quite suddenly he seemed to get
angry with her, though she did not see
why he should.

"Now look here!" he said sharply. "Don't
tha' ask so many questions. Tha'rt th'
worst wench for askin' questions I've
ever come a cross. Get thee gone an'
play thee. I've done talkin' for
today."

And he said it so crossly that she knew
there was not the least use in staying
another minute. She went skipping slowly
down the outside walk, thinking him over
and saying to herself that, queer as it
was, here was another person whom she
liked in spite of his crossness. She
liked old Ben Weatherstaff. Yes, she did
like him. She always wanted to try to
make him talk to her. Also she began to
believe that he knew everything in the
world about flowers.

There was a laurel-hedged walk which
curved round the secret garden and ended
at a gate which opened into a wood, in
the park. She thought she would slip
round this walk and look into the wood
and see if there were any rabbits
hopping about. She enjoyed the skipping
very much and when she reached the
little gate she opened it and went
through because she heard a low,
peculiar whistling sound and wanted to
find out what it was.

It was a very strange thing indeed. She
quite caught her breath as she stopped
to look at it. A boy was sitting under a
tree, with his back against it, playing
on a rough wooden pipe. He was a funny
looking boy about twelve. He looked very
clean and his nose turned up and his
cheeks were as red as poppies and never
had Mistress Mary seen such round and
such blue eyes in any boy's face. And on
the trunk of the tree he leaned against,
a brown squirrel was clinging and
watching him, and from behind a bush
nearby a cock pheasant was delicately
stretching his neck to peep out, and
quite near him were two rabbits sitting
up and sniffing with tremulous
noses--and actually it appeared as if
they were all drawing near to watch him
and listen to the strange low little
call his pipe seemed to make.

When he saw Mary he held up his hand and
spoke to her in a voice almost as low as
and rather like his piping.

"Don't tha' move," he said. "It'd flight
'em." Mary remained motionless. He
stopped playing his pipe and began to
rise from the ground. He moved so slowly
that it scarcely seemed as though he
were moving at all, but at last he stood
on his feet and then the squirrel
scampered back up into the branches of
his tree, the pheasant withdrew his head
and the rabbits dropped on all fours and
began to hop away, though not at all as
if they were frightened.

"I'm Dickon," the boy said. "I know
tha'rt Miss Mary."

Then Mary realized that somehow she had
known at first that he was Dickon. Who
else could have been charming rabbits
and pheasants as the natives charm
snakes in India? He had a wide, red,
curving mouth and his smile spread all
over his face.

"I got up slow," he explained, "because
if tha' makes a quick move it startles
'em. A body 'as to move gentle an' speak
low when wild things is about."

He did not speak to her as if they had
never seen each other before but as if
he knew her quite well. Mary knew
nothing about boys and she spoke to him
a little stiffly because she felt rather
shy.

"Did you get Martha's letter?" she
asked.

He nodded his curly, rust-colored head.
"That's why I come."

He stooped to pick up something which
had been lying on the ground beside him
when he piped.

"I've got th' garden tools. There's a
little spade an' rake an' a fork an'
hoe. Eh! they are good 'uns. There's a
trowel, too. An' th' woman in th' shop
threw in a packet o' white poppy an' one
o' blue larkspur when I bought th' other
seeds."

"Will you show the seeds to me?" Mary
said.

She wished she could talk as he did. His
speech was so quick and easy. It sounded
as if he liked her and was not the least
afraid she would not like him, though he
was only a common moor boy, in patched
clothes and with a funny face and a
rough, rusty-red head. As she came
closer to him she noticed that there was
a clean fresh scent of heather and grass
and leaves about him, almost as if he
were made of them. She liked it very
much and when she looked into his funny
face with the red cheeks and round blue
eyes she forgot that she had felt shy.

"Let us sit down on this log and look at
them," she said.

They sat down and he took a clumsy
little brown paper package out of his
coat pocket. He untied the string and
inside there were ever so many neater
and smaller packages with a picture of a
flower on each one.

"There's a lot o' mignonette an'
poppies," he said. "Mignonette's th'
sweetest smellin' thing as grows, an'
it'll grow wherever you cast it, same as
poppies will. Them as'll come up an'
bloom if you just whistle to 'em, them's
th' nicest of all." He stopped and
turned his head quickly, his
poppy-cheeked face lighting up.

"Where's that robin as is callin' us?"
he said.

The chirp came from a thick holly bush,
bright with scarlet berries, and Mary
thought she knew whose it was.

"Is it really calling us?" she asked.

"Aye," said Dickon, as if it was the
most natural thing in the world, "he's
callin' some one he's friends with.
That's same as sayin' 'Here I am. Look
at me. I wants a bit of a chat.' There
he is in the bush. Whose is he?"

"He's Ben Weatherstaff's, but I think he
knows me a little," answered Mary.

"Aye, he knows thee," said Dickon in his
low voice again. "An' he likes thee.
He's took thee on. He'll tell me all
about thee in a minute."

He moved quite close to the bush with
the slow movement Mary had noticed
before, and then he made a sound almost
like the robin's own twitter. The robin
listened a few seconds, intently, and
then answered quite as if he were
replying to a question.

"Aye, he's a friend o' yours," chuckled
Dickon.

"Do you think he is?" cried Mary
eagerly. She did so want to know. "Do
you think he really likes me?"

"He wouldn't come near thee if he
didn't," answered Dickon. "Birds is rare
choosers an' a robin can flout a body
worse than a man. See, he's making up to
thee now. 'Cannot tha' see a chap?' he's
sayin'."

And it really seemed as if it must be
true. He so sidled and twittered and
tilted as he hopped on his bush.

"Do you understand everything birds
say?" said Mary.

Dickon's grin spread until he seemed all
wide, red, curving mouth, and he rubbed
his rough head.

"I think I do, and they think I do," he
said. "I've lived on th' moor with 'em
so long. I've watched 'em break shell
an' come out an' fledge an' learn to fly
an' begin to sing, till I think I'm one
of 'em. Sometimes I think p'raps I'm a
bird, or a fox, or a rabbit, or a
squirrel, or even a beetle, an' I don't
know it."

He laughed and came back to the log and
began to talk about the flower seeds
again. He told her what they looked like
when they were flowers; he told her how
to plant them, and watch them, and feed
and water them.

"See here," he said suddenly, turning
round to look at her. "I'll plant them
for thee myself. Where is tha'
garden?"

Mary's thin hands clutched each other as
they lay on her lap. She did not know
what to say, so for a whole minute she
said nothing. She had never thought of
this. She felt miserable. And she felt
as if she went red and then pale.

"Tha's got a bit o' garden, hasn't
tha'?" Dickon said.

It was true that she had turned red and
then pale. Dickon saw her do it, and as
she still said nothing, he began to be
puzzled.

"Wouldn't they give thee a bit?" he
asked. "Hasn't tha' got any yet?"

She held her hands tighter and turned
her eyes toward him.

"I don't know anything about boys," she
said slowly. "Could you keep a secret,
if I told you one? It's a great secret.
I don't know what I should do if any one
found it out. I believe I should die!"
She said the last sentence quite
fiercely.

Dickon looked more puzzled than ever and
even rubbed his hand over his rough head
again, but he answered quite
good-humoredly. "I'm keepin' secrets all
th' time," he said. "If I couldn't keep
secrets from th' other lads, secrets
about foxes' cubs, an' birds' nests, an'
wild things' holes, there'd be naught
safe on th' moor. Aye, I can keep
secrets."

Mistress Mary did not mean to put out
her hand and clutch his sleeve but she
did it.

"I've stolen a garden," she said very
fast. "It isn't mine. It isn't
anybody's. Nobody wants it, nobody cares
for it, nobody ever goes into it.
Perhaps everything is dead in it
already. I don't know."

She began to feel hot and as contrary as
she had ever felt in her life.

"I don't care, I don't care! Nobody has
any right to take it from me when I care
about it and they don't. They're letting
it die, all shut in by itself," she
ended passionately, and she threw her
arms over her face and burst out
crying-poor little Mistress Mary.

Dickon's curious blue eyes grew rounder
and rounder. "Eh-h-h!" he said, drawing
his exclamation out slowly, and the way
he did it meant both wonder and
sympathy.

"I've nothing to do," said Mary.
"Nothing belongs to me. I found it
myself and I got into it myself. I was
only just like the robin, and they
wouldn't take it from the robin." "Where
is it?" asked Dickon in a dropped
voice.

Mistress Mary got up from the log at
once. She knew she felt contrary again,
and obstinate, and she did not care at
all. She was imperious and Indian, and
at the same time hot and sorrowful.

"Come with me and I'll show you," she
said.

She led him round the laurel path and to
the walk where the ivy grew so thickly.
Dickon followed her with a queer, almost
pitying, look on his face. He felt as if
he were being led to look at some
strange bird's nest and must move
softly. When she stepped to the wall and
lifted the hanging ivy he started. There
was a door and Mary pushed it slowly
open and they passed in together, and
then Mary stood and waved her hand round
defiantly.

"It's this," she said. "It's a secret
garden, and I'm the only one in the
world who wants it to be alive."

Dickon looked round and round about it,
and round and round again.

"Eh!" he almost whispered, "it is a
queer, pretty place! It's like as if a
body was in a dream."



CHAPTER XI

THE NEST OF THE MISSEL THRUSH

For two or three minutes he stood
looking round him, while Mary watched
him, and then he began to walk about
softly, even more lightly than Mary had
walked the first time she had found
herself inside the four walls. His eyes
seemed to be taking in everything--the
gray trees with the gray creepers
climbing over them and hanging from
their branches, the tangle on the walls
and among the grass, the evergreen
alcoves with the stone seats and tall
flower urns standing in them.

"I never thought I'd see this place," he
said at last, in a whisper.

"Did you know about it?" asked Mary.

She had spoken aloud and he made a sign
to her.

"We must talk low," he said, "or some
one'll hear us an' wonder what's to do
in here."

"Oh! I forgot!" said Mary, feeling
frightened and putting her hand quickly
against her mouth. "Did you know about
the garden?" she asked again when she
had recovered herself. Dickon nodded.

"Martha told me there was one as no one
ever went inside," he answered. "Us used
to wonder what it was like."

He stopped and looked round at the
lovely gray tangle about him, and his
round eyes looked queerly happy.

"Eh! the nests as'll be here come
springtime," he said. "It'd be th'
safest nestin' place in England. No one
never comin' near an' tangles o' trees
an' roses to build in. I wonder all th'
birds on th' moor don't build here."

Mistress Mary put her hand on his arm
again without knowing it.

"Will there be roses?" she whispered.
"Can you tell? I thought perhaps they
were all dead."

"Eh! No! Not them--not all of 'em!" he
answered. "Look here!"

He stepped over to the nearest tree--an
old, old one with gray lichen all over
its bark, but upholding a curtain of
tangled sprays and branches. He took a
thick knife out of his Pocket and opened
one of its blades.

"There's lots o' dead wood as ought to
be cut out," he said. "An' there's a lot
o' old wood, but it made some new last
year. This here's a new bit," and he
touched a shoot which looked brownish
green instead of hard, dry gray. Mary
touched it herself in an eager, reverent
way.

"That one?" she said. "Is that one quite
alive quite?"

Dickon curved his wide smiling mouth.

"It's as wick as you or me," he said;
and Mary remembered that Martha had told
her that "wick" meant "alive" or
"lively."

"I'm glad it's wick!" she cried out in
her whisper. "I want them all to be
wick. Let us go round the garden and
count how many wick ones there are."

She quite panted with eagerness, and
Dickon was as eager as she was. They
went from tree to tree and from bush to
bush. Dickon carried his knife in his
hand and showed her things which she
thought wonderful.

"They've run wild," he said, "but th'
strongest ones has fair thrived on it.
The delicatest ones has died out, but
th' others has growed an' growed, an'
spread an' spread, till they's a wonder.
See here!" and he pulled down a thick
gray, dry-looking branch. "A body might
think this was dead wood, but I don't
believe it is--down to th' root. I'll
cut it low down an' see."

He knelt and with his knife cut the
lifeless-looking branch through, not far
above the earth.

"There!" he said exultantly. "I told
thee so. There's green in that wood yet.
Look at it."

Mary was down on her knees before he
spoke, gazing with all her might.

"When it looks a bit greenish an' juicy
like that, it's wick," he explained.
"When th' inside is dry an' breaks easy,
like this here piece I've cut off, it's
done for. There's a big root here as all
this live wood sprung out of, an' if th'
old wood's cut off an' it's dug round,
and took care of there'll be--" he
stopped and lifted his face to look up
at the climbing and hanging sprays above
him--"there'll be a fountain o' roses
here this summer."

They went from bush to bush and from
tree to tree. He was very strong and
clever with his knife and knew how to
cut the dry and dead wood away, and
could tell when an unpromising bough or
twig had still green life in it. In the
course of half an hour Mary thought she
could tell too, and when he cut through
a lifeless-looking branch she would cry
out joyfully under her breath when she
caught sight of the least shade of moist
green. The spade, and hoe, and fork were
very useful. He showed her how to use
the fork while he dug about roots with
the spade and stirred the earth and let
the air in.

They were working industriously round
one of the biggest standard roses when
he caught sight of something which made
him utter an exclamation of surprise.

"Why!" he cried, pointing to the grass a
few feet away. "Who did that there?"

It was one of Mary's own little
clearings round the pale green points.

"I did it," said Mary.

"Why, I thought tha' didn't know nothin'
about gardenin'," he exclaimed.

"I don't," she answered, "but they were
so little, and the grass was so thick
and strong, and they looked as if they
had no room to breathe. So I made a
place for them. I don't even know what
they are."

Dickon went and knelt down by them,
smiling his wide smile.

"Tha' was right," he said. "A gardener
couldn't have told thee better. They'll
grow now like Jack's bean-stalk. They're
crocuses an' snowdrops, an' these here
is narcissuses," turning to another
patch, "an here's daffydowndillys. Eh!
they will be a sight."

He ran from one clearing to another.

"Tha' has done a lot o' work for such a
little wench," he said, looking her
over.

"I'm growing fatter," said Mary, "and
I'm growing stronger. I used always to
be tired. When I dig I'm not tired at
all. I like to smell the earth when it's
turned up."

"It's rare good for thee," he said,
nodding his head wisely. "There's naught
as nice as th' smell o' good clean
earth, except th' smell o' fresh growin'
things when th' rain falls on 'em. I get
out on th' moor many a day when it's
rainin' an' I lie under a bush an'
listen to th' soft swish o' drops on th'
heather an' I just sniff an' sniff. My
nose end fair quivers like a rabbit's,
mother says."

"Do you never catch cold?" inquired
Mary, gazing at him wonderingly. She had
never seen such a funny boy, or such a
nice one.

"Not me," he said, grinning. "I never
ketched cold since I was born. I wasn't
brought up nesh enough. I've chased
about th' moor in all weathers same as
th' rabbits does. Mother says I've
sniffed up too much fresh air for twelve
year' to ever get to sniffin' with cold.
I'm as tough as a white-thorn
knobstick."

He was working all the time he was
talking and Mary was following him and
helping him with her fork or the
trowel.

"There's a lot of work to do here!" he
said once, looking about quite
exultantly.

"Will you come again and help me to do
it?" Mary begged. "I'm sure I can help,
too. I can dig and pull up weeds, and do
whatever you tell me. Oh! do come,
Dickon!"

"I'll come every day if tha' wants me,
rain or shine," he answered stoutly.
"It's the best fun I ever had in my
life--shut in here an' wakenin' up a
garden."

"If you will come," said Mary, "if you
will help me to make it alive I'll--I
don't know what I'll do," she ended
helplessly. What could you do for a boy
like that?

"I'll tell thee what tha'll do," said
Dickon, with his happy grin. "Tha'll get
fat an' tha'll get as hungry as a young
fox an' tha'll learn how to talk to th'
robin same as I do. Eh! we'll have a lot
o' fun."

He began to walk about, looking up in
the trees and at the walls and bushes
with a thoughtful expression.

"I wouldn't want to make it look like a
gardener's garden, all clipped an' spick
an' span, would you?" he said. "It's
nicer like this with things runnin'
wild, an' swingin' an' catchin' hold of
each other."

"Don't let us make it tidy," said Mary
anxiously. "It wouldn't seem like a
secret garden if it was tidy."

Dickon stood rubbing his rusty-red head
with a rather puzzled look. "It's a
secret garden sure enough," he said,
"but seems like some one besides th'
robin must have been in it since it was
shut up ten year' ago."

"But the door was locked and the key was
buried," said Mary. "No one could get
in."

"That's true," he answered. "It's a
queer place. Seems to me as if there'd
been a bit o' prunin' done here an'
there, later than ten year' ago."

"But how could it have been done?" said
Mary.

He was examining a branch of a standard
rose and he shook his head.

"Aye! how could it!" he murmured. "With
th' door locked an' th' key buried."

Mistress Mary always felt that however
many years she lived she should never
forget that first morning when her
garden began to grow. Of course, it did
seem to begin to grow for her that
morning. When Dickon began to clear
places to plant seeds, she remembered
what Basil had sung at her when he
wanted to tease her.

"Are there any flowers that look like
bells?" she inquired.

"Lilies o' th' valley does," he
answered, digging away with the trowel,
"an' there's Canterbury bells, an'
campanulas."

"Let's plant some," said Mary. "There's
lilies o' th, valley here already; I saw
'em. They'll have growed too close an'
we'll have to separate 'em, but there's
plenty. Th' other ones takes two years
to bloom from seed, but I can bring you
some bits o' plants from our cottage
garden. Why does tha' want 'em?"

Then Mary told him about Basil and his
brothers and sisters in India and of how
she had hated them and of their calling
her "Mistress Mary Quite Contrary."

"They used to dance round and sing at
me. They sang--

 'Mistress Mary, quite contrary, How
does your garden grow? With silver
bells, and cockle shells, And marigolds
all in a row.'

I just remembered it and it made me
wonder if there were really flowers like
silver bells."

She frowned a little and gave her trowel
a rather spiteful dig into the earth.

"I wasn't as contrary as they were."

But Dickon laughed.

"Eh!" he said, and as he crumbled the
rich black soil she saw he was sniffing
up the scent of it. "There doesn't seem
to be no need for no one to be contrary
when there's flowers an' such like, an'
such lots o' friendly wild things
runnin' about makin' homes for
themselves, or buildin' nests an'
singin' an' whistlin', does there?"

Mary, kneeling by him holding the seeds,
looked at him and stopped frowning.

"Dickon," she said, "you are as nice as
Martha said you were. I like you, and
you make the fifth person. I never
thought I should like five people."

Dickon sat up on his heels as Martha did
when she was polishing the grate. He did
look funny and delightful, Mary thought,
with his round blue eyes and red cheeks
and happy looking turned-up nose.

"Only five folk as tha' likes?" he said.
"Who is th' other four?"

"Your mother and Martha," Mary checked
them off on her fingers, "and the robin
and Ben Weatherstaff."

Dickon laughed so that he was obliged to
stifle the sound by putting his arm over
his mouth.

"I know tha' thinks I'm a queer lad," he
said, "but I think tha' art th' queerest
little lass I ever saw."

Then Mary did a strange thing. She
leaned forward and asked him a question
she had never dreamed of asking any one
before. And she tried to ask it in
Yorkshire because that was his language,
and in India a native was always pleased
if you knew his speech.

"Does tha' like me?" she said.

"Eh!" he answered heartily, "that I
does. I likes thee wonderful, an' so
does th' robin, I do believe!"

"That's two, then," said Mary. "That's
two for me."

And then they began to work harder than
ever and more joyfully. Mary was
startled and sorry when she heard the
big clock in the courtyard strike the
hour of her midday dinner.

"I shall have to go," she said
mournfully. "And you will have to go
too, won't you?"

Dickon grinned.

"My dinner's easy to carry about with
me," he said. "Mother always lets me put
a bit o' somethin' in my pocket."

He picked up his coat from the grass and
brought out of a pocket a lumpy little
bundle tied up in a quite clean, coarse,
blue and white handkerchief. It held two
thick pieces of bread with a slice of
something laid between them.

"It's oftenest naught but bread," he
said, "but I've got a fine slice o' fat
bacon with it today."

Mary thought it looked a queer dinner,
but he seemed ready to enjoy it.

"Run on an' get thy victuals," he said.
"I'll be done with mine first. I'll get
some more work done before I start back
home."

He sat down with his back against a
tree.

"I'll call th' robin up," he said, "and
give him th' rind o' th' bacon to peck
at. They likes a bit o' fat
wonderful."

Mary could scarcely bear to leave him.
Suddenly it seemed as if he might be a
sort of wood fairy who might be gone
when she came into the garden again. He
seemed too good to be true. She went
slowly half-way to the door in the wall
and then she stopped and went back.

"Whatever happens, you--you never would
tell?" she said.

His poppy-colored cheeks were distended
with his first big bite of bread and
bacon, but he managed to smile
encouragingly.

"If tha' was a missel thrush an' showed
me where thy nest was, does tha' think
I'd tell any one? Not me," he said.
"Tha' art as safe as a missel thrush."

And she was quite sure she was.



CHAPTER XII

"MIGHT I HAVE A BIT OF EARTH?"

Mary ran so fast that she was rather out
of breath when she reached her room. Her
hair was ruffled on her forehead and her
cheeks were bright pink. Her dinner was
waiting on the table, and Martha was
waiting near it.

"Tha's a bit late," she said. "Where has
tha' been?"

"I've seen Dickon!" said Mary. "I've
seen Dickon!"

"I knew he'd come," said Martha
exultantly. "How does tha' like him?"

"I think--I think he's beautiful!" said
Mary in a determined voice.

Martha looked rather taken aback but she
looked pleased, too.

"Well," she said, "he's th' best lad as
ever was born, but us never thought he
was handsome. His nose turns up too
much."

"I like it to turn up," said Mary.

"An' his eyes is so round," said Martha,
a trifle doubtful. "Though they're a
nice color." "I like them round," said
Mary. "And they are exactly the color of
the sky over the moor."

Martha beamed with satisfaction.

"Mother says he made 'em that color with
always lookin' up at th' birds an' th'
clouds. But he has got a big mouth,
hasn't he, now?"

"I love his big mouth," said Mary
obstinately. "I wish mine were just like
it."

Martha chuckled delightedly.

"It'd look rare an' funny in thy bit of
a face," she said. "But I knowed it
would be that way when tha' saw him. How
did tha' like th' seeds an' th' garden
tools?"

"How did you know he brought them?"
asked Mary.

"Eh! I never thought of him not bringin'
'em. He'd be sure to bring 'em if they
was in Yorkshire. He's such a trusty
lad."

Mary was afraid that she might begin to
ask difficult questions, but she did
not. She was very much interested in the
seeds and gardening tools, and there was
only one moment when Mary was
frightened. This was when she began to
ask where the flowers were to be
planted.

"Who did tha' ask about it?" she
inquired.

"I haven't asked anybody yet," said
Mary, hesitating. "Well, I wouldn't ask
th' head gardener. He's too grand, Mr.
Roach is."

"I've never seen him," said Mary. "I've
only seen undergardeners and Ben
Weatherstaff."

"If I was you, I'd ask Ben
Weatherstaff," advised Martha. "He's not
half as bad as he looks, for all he's so
crabbed. Mr. Craven lets him do what he
likes because he was here when Mrs.
Craven was alive, an' he used to make
her laugh. She liked him. Perhaps he'd
find you a corner somewhere out o' the
way."

"If it was out of the way and no one
wanted it, no one could mind my having
it, could they?" Mary said anxiously.

"There wouldn't be no reason," answered
Martha. "You wouldn't do no harm."

Mary ate her dinner as quickly as she
could and when she rose from the table
she was going to run to her room to put
on her hat again, but Martha stopped
her.

"I've got somethin' to tell you," she
said. "I thought I'd let you eat your
dinner first. Mr. Craven came back this
mornin' and I think he wants to see
you."

Mary turned quite pale.

"Oh!" she said. "Why! Why! He didn't
want to see me when I came. I heard
Pitcher say he didn't." "Well,"
explained Martha, "Mrs. Medlock says
it's because o' mother. She was walkin'
to Thwaite village an' she met him.
She'd never spoke to him before, but
Mrs. Craven had been to our cottage two
or three times. He'd forgot, but mother
hadn't an' she made bold to stop him. I
don't know what she said to him about
you but she said somethin' as put him in
th' mind to see you before he goes away
again, tomorrow."

"Oh!" cried Mary, "is he going away
tomorrow? I am so glad!"

"He's goin' for a long time. He mayn't
come back till autumn or winter. He's
goin' to travel in foreign places. He's
always doin' it."

"Oh! I'm so glad--so glad!" said Mary
thankfully.

If he did not come back until winter, or
even autumn, there would be time to
watch the secret garden come alive. Even
if he found out then and took it away
from her she would have had that much at
least.

"When do you think he will want to
see--"

She did not finish the sentence, because
the door opened, and Mrs. Medlock walked
in. She had on her best black dress and
cap, and her collar was fastened with a
large brooch with a picture of a man's
face on it. It was a colored photograph
of Mr. Medlock who had died years ago,
and she always wore it when she was
dressed up. She looked nervous and
excited.

"Your hair's rough," she said quickly.
"Go and brush it. Martha, help her to
slip on her best dress. Mr. Craven sent
me to bring her to him in his study."

All the pink left Mary's cheeks. Her
heart began to thump and she felt
herself changing into a stiff, plain,
silent child again. She did not even
answer Mrs. Medlock, but turned and
walked into her bedroom, followed by
Martha. She said nothing while her dress
was changed, and her hair brushed, and
after she was quite tidy she followed
Mrs. Medlock down the corridors, in
silence. What was there for her to say?
She was obliged to go and see Mr. Craven
and he would not like her, and she would
not like him. She knew what he would
think of her.

She was taken to a part of the house she
had not been into before. At last Mrs.
Medlock knocked at a door, and when some
one said, "Come in," they entered the
room together. A man was sitting in an
armchair before the fire, and Mrs.
Medlock spoke to him.

"This is Miss Mary, sir," she said.

"You can go and leave her here. I will
ring for you when I want you to take her
away," said Mr. Craven.

When she went out and closed the door,
Mary could only stand waiting, a plain
little thing, twisting her thin hands
together. She could see that the man in
the chair was not so much a hunchback as
a man with high, rather crooked
shoulders, and he had black hair
streaked with white. He turned his head
over his high shoulders and spoke to
her.

"Come here!" he said.

Mary went to him.

He was not ugly. His face would have
been handsome if it had not been so
miserable. He looked as if the sight of
her worried and fretted him and as if he
did not know what in the world to do
with her.

"Are you well?" he asked.

"Yes," answered Mary.

"Do they take good care of you?"

"Yes."

He rubbed his forehead fretfully as he
looked her over.

"You are very thin," he said.

"I am getting fatter," Mary answered in
what she knew was her stiffest way.

What an unhappy face he had! His black
eyes seemed as if they scarcely saw her,
as if they were seeing something else,
and he could hardly keep his thoughts
upon her.

"I forgot you," he said. "How could I
remember you? I intended to send you a
governess or a nurse, or some one of
that sort, but I forgot."

"Please," began Mary. "Please--" and
then the lump in her throat choked
her.

"What do you want to say?" he
inquired.

"I am--I am too big for a nurse," said
Mary. "And please--please don't make me
have a governess yet."

He rubbed his forehead again and stared
at her.

"That was what the Sowerby woman said,"
he muttered absentmindedly.

Then Mary gathered a scrap of courage.

"Is she--is she Martha's mother?" she
stammered.

"Yes, I think so," he replied.

"She knows about children," said Mary.
"She has twelve. She knows."

He seemed to rouse himself.

"What do you want to do?"

"I want to play out of doors," Mary
answered, hoping that her voice did not
tremble. "I never liked it in India. It
makes me hungry here, and I am getting
fatter."

He was watching her.

"Mrs. Sowerby said it would do you good.
Perhaps it will," he said. "She thought
you had better get stronger before you
had a governess."

"It makes me feel strong when I play and
the wind comes over the moor," argued
Mary.

"Where do you play?" he asked next.

"Everywhere," gasped Mary. "Martha's
mother sent me a skipping-rope. I skip
and run--and I look about to see if
things are beginning to stick up out of
the earth. I don't do any harm."

"Don't look so frightened," he said in a
worried voice. "You could not do any
harm, a child like you! You may do what
you like."

Mary put her hand up to her throat
because she was afraid he might see the
excited lump which she felt jump into
it. She came a step nearer to him.

"May I?" she said tremulously.

Her anxious little face seemed to worry
him more than ever.

"Don't look so frightened," he
exclaimed. "Of course you may. I am your
guardian, though I am a poor one for any
child. I cannot give you time or
attention. I am too ill, and wretched
and distracted; but I wish you to be
happy and comfortable. I don't know
anything about children, but Mrs.
Medlock is to see that you have all you
need. I sent for you to-day because Mrs.
Sowerby said I ought to see you. Her
daughter had talked about you. She
thought you needed fresh air and freedom
and running about."

"She knows all about children," Mary
said again in spite of herself.

"She ought to," said Mr. Craven. "I
thought her rather bold to stop me on
the moor, but she said--Mrs. Craven had
been kind to her." It seemed hard for
him to speak his dead wife's name. "She
is a respectable woman. Now I have seen
you I think she said sensible things.
Play out of doors as much as you like.
It's a big place and you may go where
you like and amuse yourself as you like.
Is there anything you want?" as if a
sudden thought had struck him. "Do you
want toys, books, dolls?"

"Might I," quavered Mary, "might I have
a bit of earth?"

In her eagerness she did not realize how
queer the words would sound and that
they were not the ones she had meant to
say. Mr. Craven looked quite startled.

"Earth!" he repeated. "What do you
mean?"

"To plant seeds in--to make things
grow--to see them come alive," Mary
faltered.

He gazed at her a moment and then passed
his hand quickly over his eyes.

"Do you--care about gardens so much," he
said slowly.

"I didn't know about them in India,"
said Mary. "I was always ill and tired
and it was too hot. I sometimes made
little beds in the sand and stuck
flowers in them. But here it is
different."

Mr. Craven got up and began to walk
slowly across the room.

"A bit of earth," he said to himself,
and Mary thought that somehow she must
have reminded him of something. When he
stopped and spoke to her his dark eyes
looked almost soft and kind.

"You can have as much earth as you
want," he said. "You remind me of some
one else who loved the earth and things
that grow. When you see a bit of earth
you want," with something like a smile,
"take it, child, and make it come
alive."

"May I take it from anywhere--if it's
not wanted?"

"Anywhere," he answered. "There! You
must go now, I am tired." He touched the
bell to call Mrs. Medlock. "Good-by. I
shall be away all summer."

Mrs. Medlock came so quickly that Mary
thought she must have been waiting in
the corridor.

"Mrs. Medlock," Mr. Craven said to her,
"now I have seen the child I understand
what Mrs. Sowerby meant. She must be
less delicate before she begins lessons.
Give her simple, healthy food. Let her
run wild in the garden. Don't look after
her too much. She needs liberty and
fresh air and romping about. Mrs.
Sowerby is to come and see her now and
then and she may sometimes go to the
cottage."

Mrs. Medlock looked pleased. She was
relieved to hear that she need not "look
after" Mary too much. She had felt her a
tiresome charge and had indeed seen as
little of her as she dared. In addition
to this she was fond of Martha's
mother.

"Thank you, sir," she said. "Susan
Sowerby and me went to school together
and she's as sensible and good-hearted a
woman as you'd find in a day's walk. I
never had any children myself and she's
had twelve, and there never was
healthier or better ones. Miss Mary can
get no harm from them. I'd always take
Susan Sowerby's advice about children
myself. She's what you might call
healthy-minded--if you understand me."

"I understand," Mr. Craven answered.
"Take Miss Mary away now and send
Pitcher to me."

When Mrs. Medlock left her at the end of
her own corridor Mary flew back to her
room. She found Martha waiting there.
Martha had, in fact, hurried back after
she had removed the dinner service.

"I can have my garden!" cried Mary. "I
may have it where I like! I am not going
to have a governess for a long time!
Your mother is coming to see me and I
may go to your cottage! He says a little
girl like me could not do any harm and I
may do what I like--anywhere!"

"Eh!" said Martha delightedly, "that was
nice of him wasn't it?"

"Martha," said Mary solemnly, "he is
really a nice man, only his face is so
miserable and his forehead is all drawn
together."

She ran as quickly as she could to the
garden. She had been away so much longer
than she had thought she should and she
knew Dickon would have to set out early
on his five-mile walk. When she slipped
through the door under the ivy, she saw
he was not working where she had left
him. The gardening tools were laid
together under a tree. She ran to them,
looking all round the place, but there
was no Dickon to be seen. He had gone
away and the secret garden was
empty--except for the robin who had just
flown across the wall and sat on a
standard rose-bush watching her. "He's
gone," she said woefully. "Oh! was
he--was he--was he only a wood fairy?"

Something white fastened to the standard
rose-bush caught her eye. It was a piece
of paper, in fact, it was a piece of the
letter she had printed for Martha to
send to Dickon. It was fastened on the
bush with a long thorn, and in a minute
she knew Dickon had left it there. There
were some roughly printed letters on it
and a sort of picture. At first she
could not tell what it was. Then she saw
it was meant for a nest with a bird
sitting on it. Underneath were the
printed letters and they said:

"I will cum bak."



CHAPTER XIII

"I AM COLIN"

Mary took the picture back to the house
when she went to her supper and she
showed it to Martha.

"Eh!" said Martha with great pride. "I
never knew our Dickon was as clever as
that. That there's a picture of a missel
thrush on her nest, as large as life an'
twice as natural."

Then Mary knew Dickon had meant the
picture to be a message. He had meant
that she might be sure he would keep her
secret. Her garden was her nest and she
was like a missel thrush. Oh, how she
did like that queer, common boy!

She hoped he would come back the very
next day and she fell asleep looking
forward to the morning.

But you never know what the weather will
do in Yorkshire, particularly in the
springtime. She was awakened in the
night by the sound of rain beating with
heavy drops against her window. It was
pouring down in torrents and the wind
was "wuthering" round the corners and in
the chimneys of the huge old house. Mary
sat up in bed and felt miserable and
angry.

"The rain is as contrary as I ever was,"
she said. "It came because it knew I did
not want it."

She threw herself back on her pillow and
buried her face. She did not cry, but
she lay and hated the sound of the
heavily beating rain, she hated the wind
and its "wuthering." She could not go to
sleep again. The mournful sound kept her
awake because she felt mournful herself.
If she had felt happy it would probably
have lulled her to sleep. How it
"wuthered" and how the big raindrops
poured down and beat against the pane!

"It sounds just like a person lost on
the moor and wandering on and on
crying," she said.

She had been lying awake turning from
side to side for about an hour, when
suddenly something made her sit up in
bed and turn her head toward the door
listening. She listened and she
listened.

"It isn't the wind now," she said in a
loud whisper. "That isn't the wind. It
is different. It is that crying I heard
before."

The door of her room was ajar and the
sound came down the corridor, a far-off
faint sound of fretful crying. She
listened for a few minutes and each
minute she became more and more sure.
She felt as if she must find out what it
was. It seemed even stranger than the
secret garden and the buried key.
Perhaps the fact that she was in a
rebellious mood made her bold. She put
her foot out of bed and stood on the
floor.

"I am going to find out what it is," she
said. "Everybody is in bed and I don't
care about Mrs. Medlock--I don't
care!"

There was a candle by her bedside and
she took it up and went softly out of
the room. The corridor looked very long
and dark, but she was too excited to
mind that. She thought she remembered
the corners she must turn to find the
short corridor with the door covered
with tapestry--the one Mrs. Medlock had
come through the day she lost herself.
The sound had come up that passage. So
she went on with her dim light, almost
feeling her way, her heart beating so
loud that she fancied she could hear it.
The far-off faint crying went on and led
her. Sometimes it stopped for a moment
or so and then began again. Was this the
right corner to turn? She stopped and
thought. Yes it was. Down this passage
and then to the left, and then up two
broad steps, and then to the right
again. Yes, there was the tapestry
door.

She pushed it open very gently and
closed it behind her, and she stood in
the corridor and could hear the crying
quite plainly, though it was not loud.
It was on the other side of the wall at
her left and a few yards farther on
there was a door. She could see a
glimmer of light coming from beneath it.
The Someone was crying in that room, and
it was quite a young Someone.

So she walked to the door and pushed it
open, and there she was standing in the
room!

It was a big room with ancient, handsome
furniture in it. There was a low fire
glowing faintly on the hearth and a
night light burning by the side of a
carved four-posted bed hung with
brocade, and on the bed was lying a boy,
crying fretfully.

Mary wondered if she was in a real place
or if she had fallen asleep again and
was dreaming without knowing it.

The boy had a sharp, delicate face the
color of ivory and he seemed to have
eyes too big for it. He had also a lot
of hair which tumbled over his forehead
in heavy locks and made his thin face
seem smaller. He looked like a boy who
had been ill, but he was crying more as
if he were tired and cross than as if he
were in pain.

Mary stood near the door with her candle
in her hand, holding her breath. Then
she crept across the room, and, as she
drew nearer, the light attracted the
boy's attention and he turned his head
on his pillow and stared at her, his
gray eyes opening so wide that they
seemed immense.

"Who are you?" he said at last in a
half-frightened whisper. "Are you a
ghost?"

"No, I am not," Mary answered, her own
whisper sounding half frightened. "Are
you one?"

He stared and stared and stared. Mary
could not help noticing what strange
eyes he had. They were agate gray and
they looked too big for his face because
they had black lashes all round them.

"No," he replied after waiting a moment
or so. "I am Colin."

"Who is Colin?" she faltered.

"I am Colin Craven. Who are you?"

"I am Mary Lennox. Mr. Craven is my
uncle."

"He is my father," said the boy.

"Your father!" gasped Mary. "No one ever
told me he had a boy! Why didn't
they?"

"Come here," he said, still keeping his
strange eyes fixed on her with an
anxious expression.

She came close to the bed and he put out
his hand and touched her.

"You are real, aren't you?" he said. "I
have such real dreams very often. You
might be one of them."

Mary had slipped on a woolen wrapper
before she left her room and she put a
piece of it between his fingers.

"Rub that and see how thick and warm it
is," she said. "I will pinch you a
little if you like, to show you how real
I am. For a minute I thought you might
be a dream too."

"Where did you come from?" he asked.

"From my own room. The wind wuthered so
I couldn't go to sleep and I heard some
one crying and wanted to find out who it
was. What were you crying for?"

"Because I couldn't go to sleep either
and my head ached. Tell me your name
again."

"Mary Lennox. Did no one ever tell you I
had come to live here?"

He was still fingering the fold of her
wrapper, but he began to look a little
more as if he believed in her reality.

"No," he answered. "They daren't."

"Why?" asked Mary.

"Because I should have been afraid you
would see me. I won't let people see me
and talk me over."

"Why?" Mary asked again, feeling more
mystified every moment.

"Because I am like this always, ill and
having to lie down. My father won't let
people talk me over either. The servants
are not allowed to speak about me. If I
live I may be a hunchback, but I shan't
live. My father hates to think I may be
like him."

"Oh, what a queer house this is!" Mary
said. "What a queer house! Everything is
a kind of secret. Rooms are locked up
and gardens are locked up--and you! Have
you been locked up?"

"No. I stay in this room because I don't
want to be moved out of it. It tires me
too much."

"Does your father come and see you?"
Mary ventured.

"Sometimes. Generally when I am asleep.
He doesn't want to see me."

"Why?" Mary could not help asking
again.

A sort of angry shadow passed over the
boy's face.

"My mother died when I was born and it
makes him wretched to look at me. He
thinks I don't know, but I've heard
people talking. He almost hates me."

"He hates the garden, because she died,"
said Mary half speaking to herself.

"What garden?" the boy asked.

"Oh! just--just a garden she used to
like," Mary stammered. "Have you been
here always?" "Nearly always. Sometimes
I have been taken to places at the
seaside, but I won't stay because people
stare at me. I used to wear an iron
thing to keep my back straight, but a
grand doctor came from London to see me
and said it was stupid. He told them to
take it off and keep me out in the fresh
air. I hate fresh air and I don't want
to go out."

"I didn't when first I came here," said
Mary. "Why do you keep looking at me
like that?"

"Because of the dreams that are so
real," he answered rather fretfully.
"Sometimes when I open my eyes I don't
believe I'm awake."

"We're both awake," said Mary. She
glanced round the room with its high
ceiling and shadowy corners and dim
fire-light. "It looks quite like a
dream, and it's the middle of the night,
and everybody in the house is
asleep--everybody but us. We are wide
awake."

"I don't want it to be a dream," the boy
said restlessly.

Mary thought of something all at once.

"If you don't like people to see you,"
she began, "do you want me to go
away?"

He still held the fold of her wrapper
and he gave it a little pull.

"No," he said. "I should be sure you
were a dream if you went. If you are
real, sit down on that big footstool and
talk. I want to hear about you."

Mary put down her candle on the table
near the bed and sat down on the
cushioned stool. She did not want to go
away at all. She wanted to stay in the
mysterious hidden-away room and talk to
the mysterious boy.

"What do you want me to tell you?" she
said.

He wanted to know how long she had been
at Misselthwaite; he wanted to know
which corridor her room was on; he
wanted to know what she had been doing;
if she disliked the moor as he disliked
it; where she had lived before she came
to Yorkshire. She answered all these
questions and many more and he lay back
on his pillow and listened. He made her
tell him a great deal about India and
about her voyage across the ocean. She
found out that because he had been an
invalid he had not learned things as
other children had. One of his nurses
had taught him to read when he was quite
little and he was always reading and
looking at pictures in splendid books.

Though his father rarely saw him when he
was awake, he was given all sorts of
wonderful things to amuse himself with.
He never seemed to have been amused,
however. He could have anything he asked
for and was never made to do anything he
did not like to do. "Everyone is obliged
to do what pleases me," he said
indifferently. "It makes me ill to be
angry. No one believes I shall live to
grow up."

He said it as if he was so accustomed to
the idea that it had ceased to matter to
him at all. He seemed to like the sound
of Mary's voice. As she went on talking
he listened in a drowsy, interested way.
Once or twice she wondered if he were
not gradually falling into a doze. But
at last he asked a question which opened
up a new subject.

"How old are you?" he asked.

"I am ten," answered Mary, forgetting
herself for the moment, "and so are
you."

"How do you know that?" he demanded in a
surprised voice.

"Because when you were born the garden
door was locked and the key was buried.
And it has been locked for ten years."

Colin half sat up, turning toward her,
leaning on his elbows.

"What garden door was locked? Who did
it? Where was the key buried?" he
exclaimed as if he were suddenly very
much interested.

"It--it was the garden Mr. Craven
hates," said Mary nervously. "He locked
the door. No one--no one knew where he
buried the key." "What sort of a garden
is it?" Colin persisted eagerly.

"No one has been allowed to go into it
for ten years," was Mary's careful
answer.

But it was too late to be careful. He
was too much like herself. He too had
had nothing to think about and the idea
of a hidden garden attracted him as it
had attracted her. He asked question
after question. Where was it? Had she
never looked for the door? Had she never
asked the gardeners?

"They won't talk about it," said Mary.
"I think they have been told not to
answer questions."

"I would make them," said Colin.

"Could you?" Mary faltered, beginning to
feel frightened. If he could make people
answer questions, who knew what might
happen!

"Everyone is obliged to please me. I
told you that," he said. "If I were to
live, this place would sometime belong
to me. They all know that. I would make
them tell me."

Mary had not known that she herself had
been spoiled, but she could see quite
plainly that this mysterious boy had
been. He thought that the whole world
belonged to him. How peculiar he was and
how coolly he spoke of not living.

"Do you think you won't live?" she
asked, partly because she was curious
and partly in hope of making him forget
the garden.

"I don't suppose I shall," he answered
as indifferently as he had spoken
before. "Ever since I remember anything
I have heard people say I shan't. At
first they thought I was too little to
understand and now they think I don't
hear. But I do. My doctor is my father's
cousin. He is quite poor and if I die he
will have all Misselthwaite when my
father is dead. I should think he
wouldn't want me to live."

"Do you want to live?" inquired Mary.

"No," he answered, in a cross, tired
fashion. "But I don't want to die. When
I feel ill I lie here and think about it
until I cry and cry."

"I have heard you crying three times,"
Mary said, "but I did not know who it
was. Were you crying about that?" She
did so want him to forget the garden.

"I dare say," he answered. "Let us talk
about something else. Talk about that
garden. Don't you want to see it?"

"Yes," answered Mary, in quite a low
voice.

"I do," he went on persistently. "I
don't think I ever really wanted to see
anything before, but I want to see that
garden. I want the key dug up. I want
the door unlocked. I would let them take
me there in my chair. That would be
getting fresh air. I am going to make
them open the door."

He had become quite excited and his
strange eyes began to shine like stars
and looked more immense than ever.

"They have to please me," he said. "I
will make them take me there and I will
let you go, too."

Mary's hands clutched each other.
Everything would be spoiled--everything!
Dickon would never come back. She would
never again feel like a missel thrush
with a safe-hidden nest.

"Oh, don't--don't--don't--don't do
that!" she cried out.

He stared as if he thought she had gone
crazy!

"Why?" he exclaimed. "You said you
wanted to see it."

"I do," she answered almost with a sob
in her throat, "but if you make them
open the door and take you in like that
it will never be a secret again."

He leaned still farther forward.

"A secret," he said. "What do you mean?
Tell me."

Mary's words almost tumbled over one
another.

"You see--you see," she panted, "if no
one knows but ourselves--if there was a
door, hidden somewhere under the ivy--if
there was--and we could find it; and if
we could slip through it together and
shut it behind us, and no one knew any
one was inside and we called it our
garden and pretended that--that we were
missel thrushes and it was our nest, and
if we played there almost every day and
dug and planted seeds and made it all
come alive--"

"Is it dead?" he interrupted her.

"It soon will be if no one cares for
it," she went on. "The bulbs will live
but the roses--"

He stopped her again as excited as she
was herself.

"What are bulbs?" he put in quickly.

"They are daffodils and lilies and
snowdrops. They are working in the earth
now--pushing up pale green points
because the spring is coming."

"Is the spring coming?" he said. "What
is it like? You don't see it in rooms if
you are ill."

"It is the sun shining on the rain and
the rain falling on the sunshine, and
things pushing up and working under the
earth," said Mary. "If the garden was a
secret and we could get into it we could
watch the things grow bigger every day,
and see how many roses are alive. Don't
you see? Oh, don't you see how much
nicer it would be if it was a secret?"

He dropped back on his pillow and lay
there with an odd expression on his
face.

"I never had a secret," he said, "except
that one about not living to grow up.
They don't know I know that, so it is a
sort of secret. But I like this kind
better."

"If you won't make them take you to the
garden," pleaded Mary, "perhaps--I feel
almost sure I can find out how to get in
sometime. And then--if the doctor wants
you to go out in your chair, and if you
can always do what you want to do,
perhaps--perhaps we might find some boy
who would push you, and we could go
alone and it would always be a secret
garden."

"I should--like--that," he said very
slowly, his eyes looking dreamy. "I
should like that. I should not mind
fresh air in a secret garden."

Mary began to recover her breath and
feel safer because the idea of keeping
the secret seemed to please him. She
felt almost sure that if she kept on
talking and could make him see the
garden in his mind as she had seen it he
would like it so much that he could not
bear to think that everybody might tramp
in to it when they chose.

"I'll tell you what I think it would be
like, if we could go into it," she said.
"It has been shut up so long things have
grown into a tangle perhaps."

He lay quite still and listened while
she went on talking about the roses
which might have clambered from tree to
tree and hung down--about the many birds
which might have built their nests there
because it was so safe. And then she
told him about the robin and Ben
Weatherstaff, and there was so much to
tell about the robin and it was so easy
and safe to talk about it that she
ceased to be afraid. The robin pleased
him so much that he smiled until he
looked almost beautiful, and at first
Mary had thought that he was even
plainer than herself, with his big eyes
and heavy locks of hair.

"I did not know birds could be like
that," he said. "But if you stay in a
room you never see things. What a lot of
things you know. I feel as if you had
been inside that garden."

She did not know what to say, so she did
not say anything. He evidently did not
expect an answer and the next moment he
gave her a surprise.

"I am going to let you look at
something," he said. "Do you see that
rose-colored silk curtain hanging on the
wall over the mantel-piece?"

Mary had not noticed it before, but she
looked up and saw it. It was a curtain
of soft silk hanging over what seemed to
be some picture.

"Yes," she answered.

"There is a cord hanging from it," said
Colin. "Go and pull it."

Mary got up, much mystified, and found
the cord. When she pulled it the silk
curtain ran back on rings and when it
ran back it uncovered a picture. It was
the picture of a girl with a laughing
face. She had bright hair tied up with a
blue ribbon and her gay, lovely eyes
were exactly like Colin's unhappy ones,
agate gray and looking twice as big as
they really were because of the black
lashes all round them.

"She is my mother," said Colin
complainingly. "I don't see why she
died. Sometimes I hate her for doing
it."

"How queer!" said Mary.

"If she had lived I believe I should not
have been ill always," he grumbled. "I
dare say I should have lived, too. And
my father would not have hated to look
at me. I dare say I should have had a
strong back. Draw the curtain again."

Mary did as she was told and returned to
her footstool.

"She is much prettier than you," she
said, "but her eyes are just like
yours--at least they are the same shape
and color. Why is the curtain drawn over
her?"

He moved uncomfortably.

"I made them do it," he said. "Sometimes
I don't like to see her looking at me.
She smiles too much when I am ill and
miserable. Besides, she is mine and I
don't want everyone to see her." There
were a few moments of silence and then
Mary spoke.

"What would Mrs. Medlock do if she found
out that I had been here?" she
inquired.

"She would do as I told her to do," he
answered. "And I should tell her that I
wanted you to come here and talk to me
every day. I am glad you came."

"So am I," said Mary. "I will come as
often as I can, but"--she hesitated--"I
shall have to look every day for the
garden door."

"Yes, you must," said Colin, "and you
can tell me about it afterward."

He lay thinking a few minutes, as he had
done before, and then he spoke again.

"I think you shall be a secret, too," he
said. "I will not tell them until they
find out. I can always send the nurse
out of the room and say that I want to
be by myself. Do you know Martha?"

"Yes, I know her very well," said Mary.
"She waits on me."

He nodded his head toward the outer
corridor.

"She is the one who is asleep in the
other room. The nurse went away
yesterday to stay all night with her
sister and she always makes Martha
attend to me when she wants to go out.
Martha shall tell you when to come
here."

Then Mary understood Martha's troubled
look when she had asked questions about
the crying.

"Martha knew about you all the time?"
she said.

"Yes; she often attends to me. The nurse
likes to get away from me and then
Martha comes."

"I have been here a long time," said
Mary. "Shall I go away now? Your eyes
look sleepy."

"I wish I could go to sleep before you
leave me," he said rather shyly.

"Shut your eyes," said Mary, drawing her
footstool closer, "and I will do what my
Ayah used to do in India. I will pat
your hand and stroke it and sing
something quite low."

"I should like that perhaps," he said
drowsily.

Somehow she was sorry for him and did
not want him to lie awake, so she leaned
against the bed and began to stroke and
pat his hand and sing a very low little
chanting song in Hindustani.

"That is nice," he said more drowsily
still, and she went on chanting and
stroking, but when she looked at him
again his black lashes were lying close
against his cheeks, for his eyes were
shut and he was fast asleep. So she got
up softly, took her candle and crept
away without making a sound.



CHAPTER XIV

A YOUNG RAJAH

The moor was hidden in mist when the
morning came, and the rain had not
stopped pouring down. There could be no
going out of doors. Martha was so busy
that Mary had no opportunity of talking
to her, but in the afternoon she asked
her to come and sit with her in the
nursery. She came bringing the stocking
she was always knitting when she was
doing nothing else.

"What's the matter with thee?" she asked
as soon as they sat down. "Tha' looks as
if tha'd somethin' to say."

"I have. I have found out what the
crying was," said Mary.

Martha let her knitting drop on her knee
and gazed at her with startled eyes.

"Tha' hasn't!" she exclaimed. "Never!"

"I heard it in the night," Mary went on.
"And I got up and went to see where it
came from. It was Colin. I found him."

Martha's face became red with fright.

"Eh! Miss Mary!" she said half crying.
"Tha' shouldn't have done it--tha'
shouldn't! Tha'll get me in trouble. I
never told thee nothin' about him--but
tha'll get me in trouble. I shall lose
my place and what'll mother do!"

"You won't lose your place," said Mary.
"He was glad I came. We talked and
talked and he said he was glad I
came."

"Was he?" cried Martha. "Art tha' sure?
Tha' doesn't know what he's like when
anything vexes him. He's a big lad to
cry like a baby, but when he's in a
passion he'll fair scream just to
frighten us. He knows us daren't call
our souls our own."

"He wasn't vexed," said Mary. "I asked
him if I should go away and he made me
stay. He asked me questions and I sat on
a big footstool and talked to him about
India and about the robin and gardens.
He wouldn't let me go. He let me see his
mother's picture. Before I left him I
sang him to sleep."

Martha fairly gasped with amazement.

"I can scarcely believe thee!" she
protested. "It's as if tha'd walked
straight into a lion's den. If he'd been
like he is most times he'd have throwed
himself into one of his tantrums and
roused th' house. He won't let strangers
look at him."

"He let me look at him. I looked at him
all the time and he looked at me. We
stared!" said Mary.

"I don't know what to do!" cried
agitated Martha. "If Mrs. Medlock finds
out, she'll think I broke orders and
told thee and I shall be packed back to
mother."

"He is not going to tell Mrs. Medlock
anything about it yet. It's to be a sort
of secret just at first," said Mary
firmly. "And he says everybody is
obliged to do as he pleases."

"Aye, that's true enough--th' bad lad!"
sighed Martha, wiping her forehead with
her apron.

"He says Mrs. Medlock must. And he wants
me to come and talk to him every day.
And you are to tell me when he wants
me."

"Me!" said Martha; "I shall lose my
place--I shall for sure!"

"You can't if you are doing what he
wants you to do and everybody is ordered
to obey him," Mary argued.

"Does tha' mean to say," cried Martha
with wide open eyes, "that he was nice
to thee!"

"I think he almost liked me," Mary
answered.

"Then tha' must have bewitched him!"
decided Martha, drawing a long breath.

"Do you mean Magic?" inquired Mary.
"I've heard about Magic in India, but I
can't make it. I just went into his room
and I was so surprised to see him I
stood and stared. And then he turned
round and stared at me. And he thought I
was a ghost or a dream and I thought
perhaps he was. And it was so queer
being there alone together in the middle
of the night and not knowing about each
other. And we began to ask each other
questions. And when I asked him if I
must go away he said I must not."

"Th' world's comin' to a end!" gasped
Martha.

"What is the matter with him?" asked
Mary.

"Nobody knows for sure and certain,"
said Martha. "Mr. Craven went off his
head like when he was born. Th' doctors
thought he'd have to be put in a 'sylum.
It was because Mrs. Craven died like I
told you. He wouldn't set eyes on th'
baby. He just raved and said it'd be
another hunchback like him and it'd
better die."

"Is Colin a hunchback?" Mary asked. "He
didn't look like one."

"He isn't yet," said Martha. "But he
began all wrong. Mother said that there
was enough trouble and raging in th'
house to set any child wrong. They was
afraid his back was weak an' they've
always been takin' care of it--keepin'
him lyin' down and not lettin' him walk.
Once they made him wear a brace but he
fretted so he was downright ill. Then a
big doctor came to see him an' made them
take it off. He talked to th' other
doctor quite rough--in a polite way. He
said there'd been too much medicine and
too much lettin' him have his own
way."

"I think he's a very spoiled boy," said
Mary.

"He's th' worst young nowt as ever was!"
said Martha. "I won't say as he hasn't
been ill a good bit. He's had coughs an'
colds that's nearly killed him two or
three times. Once he had rheumatic fever
an' once he had typhoid. Eh! Mrs.
Medlock did get a fright then. He'd been
out of his head an' she was talkin' to
th' nurse, thinkin' he didn't know
nothin', an' she said, 'He'll die this
time sure enough, an' best thing for him
an' for everybody.' An' she looked at
him an' there he was with his big eyes
open, starin' at her as sensible as she
was herself. She didn't know wha'd
happen but he just stared at her an'
says, 'You give me some water an' stop
talkin'.'"

"Do you think he will die?" asked
Mary.

"Mother says there's no reason why any
child should live that gets no fresh air
an' doesn't do nothin' but lie on his
back an' read picture-books an' take
medicine. He's weak and hates th'
trouble o' bein' taken out o' doors, an'
he gets cold so easy he says it makes
him ill."

Mary sat and looked at the fire. "I
wonder," she said slowly, "if it would
not do him good to go out into a garden
and watch things growing. It did me
good."

"One of th' worst fits he ever had,"
said Martha, "was one time they took him
out where the roses is by the fountain.
He'd been readin' in a paper about
people gettin' somethin' he called 'rose
cold' an' he began to sneeze an' said
he'd got it an' then a new gardener as
didn't know th' rules passed by an'
looked at him curious. He threw himself
into a passion an' he said he'd looked
at him because he was going to be a
hunchback. He cried himself into a fever
an' was ill all night."

"If he ever gets angry at me, I'll never
go and see him again," said Mary.

"He'll have thee if he wants thee," said
Martha. "Tha' may as well know that at
th' start."

Very soon afterward a bell rang and she
rolled up her knitting.

"I dare say th' nurse wants me to stay
with him a bit," she said. "I hope he's
in a good temper."

She was out of the room about ten
minutes and then she came back with a
puzzled expression.

"Well, tha' has bewitched him," she
said. "He's up on his sofa with his
picture-books. He's told the nurse to
stay away until six o'clock. I'm to wait
in the next room. Th' minute she was
gone he called me to him an' says, 'I
want Mary Lennox to come and talk to me,
and remember you're not to tell any
one.' You'd better go as quick as you
can."

Mary was quite willing to go quickly.
She did not want to see Colin as much as
she wanted to see Dickon; but she wanted
to see him very much.

There was a bright fire on the hearth
when she entered his room, and in the
daylight she saw it was a very beautiful
room indeed. There were rich colors in
the rugs and hangings and pictures and
books on the walls which made it look
glowing and comfortable even in spite of
the gray sky and falling rain. Colin
looked rather like a picture himself. He
was wrapped in a velvet dressing-gown
and sat against a big brocaded cushion.
He had a red spot on each cheek.

"Come in," he said. "I've been thinking
about you all morning."

"I've been thinking about you, too,"
answered Mary. "You don't know how
frightened Martha is. She says Mrs.
Medlock will think she told me about you
and then she will be sent away."

He frowned.

"Go and tell her to come here," he said.
"She is in the next room."

Mary went and brought her back. Poor
Martha was shaking in her shoes. Colin
was still frowning.

"Have you to do what I please or have
you not?" he demanded.

"I have to do what you please, sir,"
Martha faltered, turning quite red.

"Has Medlock to do what I please?"

"Everybody has, sir," said Martha.

"Well, then, if I order you to bring
Miss Mary to me, how can Medlock send
you away if she finds it out?"

"Please don't let her, sir," pleaded
Martha.

"I'll send her away if she dares to say
a word about such a thing," said Master
Craven grandly. "She wouldn't like that,
I can tell you."

"Thank you, sir," bobbing a curtsy, "I
want to do my duty, sir."

"What I want is your duty" said Colin
more grandly still. "I'll take care of
you. Now go away."

When the door closed behind Martha,
Colin found Mistress Mary gazing at him
as if he had set her wondering.

"Why do you look at me like that?" he
asked her. "What are you thinking
about?"

"I am thinking about two things."

"What are they? Sit down and tell me."

"This is the first one," said Mary,
seating herself on the big stool. "Once
in India I saw a boy who was a Rajah. He
had rubies and emeralds and diamonds
stuck all over him. He spoke to his
people just as you spoke to Martha.
Everybody had to do everything he told
them--in a minute. I think they would
have been killed if they hadn't."

"I shall make you tell me about Rajahs
presently," he said, "but first tell me
what the second thing was."

"I was thinking," said Mary, "how
different you are from Dickon."

"Who is Dickon?" he said. "What a queer
name!"

She might as well tell him, she thought
she could talk about Dickon without
mentioning the secret garden. She had
liked to hear Martha talk about him.
Besides, she longed to talk about him.
It would seem to bring him nearer.

"He is Martha's brother. He is twelve
years old," she explained. "He is not
like any one else in the world. He can
charm foxes and squirrels and birds just
as the natives in India charm snakes. He
plays a very soft tune on a pipe and
they come and listen."

There were some big books on a table at
his side and he dragged one suddenly
toward him. "There is a picture of a
snake-charmer in this," he exclaimed.
"Come and look at it."

The book was a beautiful one with superb
colored illustrations and he turned to
one of them.

"Can he do that?" he asked eagerly.

"He played on his pipe and they
listened," Mary explained. "But he
doesn't call it Magic. He says it's
because he lives on the moor so much and
he knows their ways. He says he feels
sometimes as if he was a bird or a
rabbit himself, he likes them so. I
think he asked the robin questions. It
seemed as if they talked to each other
in soft chirps."

Colin lay back on his cushion and his
eyes grew larger and larger and the
spots on his cheeks burned.

"Tell me some more about him," he
said.

"He knows all about eggs and nests,"
Mary went on. "And he knows where foxes
and badgers and otters live. He keeps
them secret so that other boys won't
find their holes and frighten them. He
knows about everything that grows or
lives on the moor."

"Does he like the moor?" said Colin.
"How can he when it's such a great,
bare, dreary place?"

"It's the most beautiful place,"
protested Mary. "Thousands of lovely
things grow on it and there are
thousands of little creatures all busy
building nests and making holes and
burrows and chippering or singing or
squeaking to each other. They are so
busy and having such fun under the earth
or in the trees or heather. It's their
world."

"How do you know all that?" said Colin,
turning on his elbow to look at her.

"I have never been there once, really,"
said Mary suddenly remembering. "I only
drove over it in the dark. I thought it
was hideous. Martha told me about it
first and then Dickon. When Dickon talks
about it you feel as if you saw things
and heard them and as if you were
standing in the heather with the sun
shining and the gorse smelling like
honey--and all full of bees and
butterflies."

"You never see anything if you are ill,"
said Colin restlessly. He looked like a
person listening to a new sound in the
distance and wondering what it was.

"You can't if you stay in a room," said
Mary.

"I couldn't go on the moor," he said in
a resentful tone.

Mary was silent for a minute and then
she said something bold.

"You might--sometime."

He moved as if he were startled.

"Go on the moor! How could I? I am going
to die." "How do you know?" said Mary
unsympathetically. She didn't like the
way he had of talking about dying. She
did not feel very sympathetic. She felt
rather as if he almost boasted about
it.

"Oh, I've heard it ever since I
remember," he answered crossly. "They
are always whispering about it and
thinking I don't notice. They wish I
would, too."

Mistress Mary felt quite contrary. She
pinched her lips together.

"If they wished I would," she said, "I
wouldn't. Who wishes you would?"

"The servants--and of course Dr. Craven
because he would get Misselthwaite and
be rich instead of poor. He daren't say
so, but he always looks cheerful when I
am worse. When I had typhoid fever his
face got quite fat. I think my father
wishes it, too."

"I don't believe he does," said Mary
quite obstinately.

That made Colin turn and look at her
again.

"Don't you?" he said.

And then he lay back on his cushion and
was still, as if he were thinking. And
there was quite a long silence. Perhaps
they were both of them thinking strange
things children do not usually think. "I
like the grand doctor from London,
because he made them take the iron thing
off," said Mary at last "Did he say you
were going to die?"

"No.".

"What did he say?"

"He didn't whisper," Colin answered.
"Perhaps he knew I hated whispering. I
heard him say one thing quite aloud. He
said, 'The lad might live if he would
make up his mind to it. Put him in the
humor.' It sounded as if he was in a
temper."

"I'll tell you who would put you in the
humor, perhaps," said Mary reflecting.
She felt as if she would like this thing
to be settled one way or the other. "I
believe Dickon would. He's always
talking about live things. He never
talks about dead things or things that
are ill. He's always looking up in the
sky to watch birds flying--or looking
down at the earth to see something
growing. He has such round blue eyes and
they are so wide open with looking
about. And he laughs such a big laugh
with his wide mouth--and his cheeks are
as red--as red as cherries." She pulled
her stool nearer to the sofa and her
expression quite changed at the
remembrance of the wide curving mouth
and wide open eyes.

"See here," she said. "Don't let us talk
about dying; I don't like it. Let us
talk about living. Let us talk and talk
about Dickon. And then we will look at
your pictures."

It was the best thing she could have
said. To talk about Dickon meant to talk
about the moor and about the cottage and
the fourteen people who lived in it on
sixteen shillings a week--and the
children who got fat on the moor grass
like the wild ponies. And about Dickon's
mother--and the skipping-rope--and the
moor with the sun on it--and about pale
green points sticking up out of the
black sod. And it was all so alive that
Mary talked more than she had ever
talked before--and Colin both talked and
listened as he had never done either
before. And they both began to laugh
over nothings as children will when they
are happy together. And they laughed so
that in the end they were making as much
noise as if they had been two ordinary
healthy natural ten-year-old
creatures--instead of a hard, little,
unloving girl and a sickly boy who
believed that he was going to die.

They enjoyed themselves so much that
they forgot the pictures and they forgot
about the time. They had been laughing
quite loudly over Ben Weatherstaff and
his robin, and Colin was actually
sitting up as if he had forgotten about
his weak back, when he suddenly
remembered something. "Do you know there
is one thing we have never once thought
of," he said. "We are cousins."

It seemed so queer that they had talked
so much and never remembered this simple
thing that they laughed more than ever,
because they had got into the humor to
laugh at anything. And in the midst of
the fun the door opened and in walked
Dr. Craven and Mrs. Medlock.

Dr. Craven started in actual alarm and
Mrs. Medlock almost fell back because he
had accidentally bumped against her.

"Good Lord!" exclaimed poor Mrs. Medlock
with her eyes almost starting out of her
head. "Good Lord!"

"What is this?" said Dr. Craven, coming
forward. "What does it mean?"

Then Mary was reminded of the boy Rajah
again. Colin answered as if neither the
doctor's alarm nor Mrs. Medlock's terror
were of the slightest consequence. He
was as little disturbed or frightened as
if an elderly cat and dog had walked
into the room.

"This is my cousin, Mary Lennox," he
said. "I asked her to come and talk to
me. I like her. She must come and talk
to me whenever I send for her."

Dr. Craven turned reproachfully to Mrs.
Medlock. "Oh, sir" she panted. "I don't
know how it's happened. There's not a
servant on the place tha'd dare to
talk--they all have their orders."

"Nobody told her anything," said Colin.
"She heard me crying and found me
herself. I am glad she came. Don't be
silly, Medlock."

Mary saw that Dr. Craven did not look
pleased, but it was quite plain that he
dare not oppose his patient. He sat down
by Colin and felt his pulse.

"I am afraid there has been too much
excitement. Excitement is not good for
you, my boy," he said.

"I should be excited if she kept away,"
answered Colin, his eyes beginning to
look dangerously sparkling. "I am
better. She makes me better. The nurse
must bring up her tea with mine. We will
have tea together."

Mrs. Medlock and Dr. Craven looked at
each other in a troubled way, but there
was evidently nothing to be done.

"He does look rather better, sir,"
ventured Mrs. Medlock. "But"--thinking
the matter over--"he looked better this
morning before she came into the
room."

"She came into the room last night. She
stayed with me a long time. She sang a
Hindustani song to me and it made me go
to sleep," said Colin. "I was better
when I wakened up. I wanted my
breakfast. I want my tea now. Tell
nurse, Medlock."

Dr. Craven did not stay very long. He
talked to the nurse for a few minutes
when she came into the room and said a
few words of warning to Colin. He must
not talk too much; he must not forget
that he was ill; he must not forget that
he was very easily tired. Mary thought
that there seemed to be a number of
uncomfortable things he was not to
forget.

Colin looked fretful and kept his
strange black-lashed eyes fixed on Dr.
Craven's face.

"I want to forget it," he said at last.
"She makes me forget it. That is why I
want her."

Dr. Craven did not look happy when he
left the room. He gave a puzzled glance
at the little girl sitting on the large
stool. She had become a stiff, silent
child again as soon as he entered and he
could not see what the attraction was.
The boy actually did look brighter,
however--and he sighed rather heavily as
he went down the corridor.

"They are always wanting me to eat
things when I don't want to," said
Colin, as the nurse brought in the tea
and put it on the table by the sofa.
"Now, if you'll eat I will. Those
muffins look so nice and hot. Tell me
about Rajahs."



CHAPTER XV

NEST BUILDING

After another week of rain the high arch
of blue sky appeared again and the sun
which poured down was quite hot. Though
there had been no chance to see either
the secret garden or Dickon, Mistress
Mary had enjoyed herself very much. The
week had not seemed long. She had spent
hours of every day with Colin in his
room, talking about Rajahs or gardens or
Dickon and the cottage on the moor. They
had looked at the splendid books and
pictures and sometimes Mary had read
things to Colin, and sometimes he had
read a little to her. When he was amused
and interested she thought he scarcely
looked like an invalid at all, except
that his face was so colorless and he
was always on the sofa.

"You are a sly young one to listen and
get out of your bed to go following
things up like you did that night," Mrs.
Medlock said once. "But there's no
saying it's not been a sort of blessing
to the lot of us. He's not had a tantrum
or a whining fit since you made friends.
The nurse was just going to give up the
case because she was so sick of him, but
she says she doesn't mind staying now
you've gone on duty with her," laughing
a little.

In her talks with Colin, Mary had tried
to be very cautious about the secret
garden. There were certain things she
wanted to find out from him, but she
felt that she must find them out without
asking him direct questions. In the
first place, as she began to like to be
with him, she wanted to discover whether
he was the kind of boy you could tell a
secret to. He was not in the least like
Dickon, but he was evidently so pleased
with the idea of a garden no one knew
anything about that she thought perhaps
he could be trusted. But she had not
known him long enough to be sure. The
second thing she wanted to find out was
this: If he could be trusted--if he
really could--wouldn't it be possible to
take him to the garden without having
any one find it out? The grand doctor
had said that he must have fresh air and
Colin had said that he would not mind
fresh air in a secret garden. Perhaps if
he had a great deal of fresh air and
knew Dickon and the robin and saw things
growing he might not think so much about
dying. Mary had seen herself in the
glass sometimes lately when she had
realized that she looked quite a
different creature from the child she
had seen when she arrived from India.
This child looked nicer. Even Martha had
seen a change in her.

"Th' air from th' moor has done thee
good already," she had said. "Tha'rt not
nigh so yeller and tha'rt not nigh so
scrawny. Even tha' hair doesn't slamp
down on tha' head so flat. It's got some
life in it so as it sticks out a bit."

"It's like me," said Mary. "It's growing
stronger and fatter. I'm sure there's
more of it."

"It looks it, for sure," said Martha,
ruffling it up a little round her face.
"Tha'rt not half so ugly when it's that
way an' there's a bit o' red in tha'
cheeks."

If gardens and fresh air had been good
for her perhaps they would be good for
Colin. But then, if he hated people to
look at him, perhaps he would not like
to see Dickon.

"Why does it make you angry when you are
looked at?" she inquired one day.

"I always hated it," he answered, "even
when I was very little. Then when they
took me to the seaside and I used to lie
in my carriage everybody used to stare
and ladies would stop and talk to my
nurse and then they would begin to
whisper and I knew then they were saying
I shouldn't live to grow up. Then
sometimes the ladies would pat my cheeks
and say 'Poor child!' Once when a lady
did that I screamed out loud and bit her
hand. She was so frightened she ran
away."

"She thought you had gone mad like a
dog," said Mary, not at all
admiringly.

"I don't care what she thought," said
Colin, frowning.

"I wonder why you didn't scream and bite
me when I came into your room?" said
Mary. Then she began to smile slowly.

"I thought you were a ghost or a dream,"
he said. "You can't bite a ghost or a
dream, and if you scream they don't
care."

"Would you hate it if--if a boy looked
at you?" Mary asked uncertainly.

He lay back on his cushion and paused
thoughtfully.

"There's one boy," he said quite slowly,
as if he were thinking over every word,
"there's one boy I believe I shouldn't
mind. It's that boy who knows where the
foxes live--Dickon."

"I'm sure you wouldn't mind him," said
Mary.

"The birds don't and other animals," he
said, still thinking it over, "perhaps
that's why I shouldn't. He's a sort of
animal charmer and I am a boy animal."

Then he laughed and she laughed too; in
fact it ended in their both laughing a
great deal and finding the idea of a boy
animal hiding in his hole very funny
indeed.

What Mary felt afterward was that she
need not fear about Dickon.

On that first morning when the sky was
blue again Mary wakened very early. The
sun was pouring in slanting rays through
the blinds and there was something so
joyous in the sight of it that she
jumped out of bed and ran to the window.
She drew up the blinds and opened the
window itself and a great waft of fresh,
scented air blew in upon her. The moor
was blue and the whole world looked as
if something Magic had happened to it.
There were tender little fluting sounds
here and there and everywhere, as if
scores of birds were beginning to tune
up for a concert. Mary put her hand out
of the window and held it in the sun.

"It's warm--warm!" she said. "It will
make the green points push up and up and
up, and it will make the bulbs and roots
work and struggle with all their might
under the earth."

She kneeled down and leaned out of the
window as far as she could, breathing
big breaths and sniffing the air until
she laughed because she remembered what
Dickon's mother had said about the end
of his nose quivering like a rabbit's.
"It must be very early," she said. "The
little clouds are all pink and I've
never seen the sky look like this. No
one is up. I don't even hear the stable
boys."

A sudden thought made her scramble to
her feet.

"I can't wait! I am going to see the
garden!"

She had learned to dress herself by this
time and she put on her clothes in five
minutes. She knew a small side door
which she could unbolt herself and she
flew downstairs in her stocking feet and
put on her shoes in the hall. She
unchained and unbolted and unlocked and
when the door was open she sprang across
the step with one bound, and there she
was standing on the grass, which seemed
to have turned green, and with the sun
pouring down on her and warm sweet wafts
about her and the fluting and twittering
and singing coming from every bush and
tree. She clasped her hands for pure joy
and looked up in the sky and it was so
blue and pink and pearly and white and
flooded with springtime light that she
felt as if she must flute and sing aloud
herself and knew that thrushes and
robins and skylarks could not possibly
help it. She ran around the shrubs and
paths towards the secret garden.

"It is all different already," she said.
"The grass is greener and things are
sticking up everywhere and things are
uncurling and green buds of leaves are
showing. This afternoon I am sure Dickon
will come."

The long warm rain had done strange
things to the herbaceous beds which
bordered the walk by the lower wall.
There were things sprouting and pushing
out from the roots of clumps of plants
and there were actually here and there
glimpses of royal purple and yellow
unfurling among the stems of crocuses.
Six months before Mistress Mary would
not have seen how the world was waking
up, but now she missed nothing.

When she had reached the place where the
door hid itself under the ivy, she was
startled by a curious loud sound. It was
the caw--caw of a crow and it came from
the top of the wall, and when she looked
up, there sat a big glossy-plumaged
blue-black bird, looking down at her
very wisely indeed. She had never seen a
crow so close before and he made her a
little nervous, but the next moment he
spread his wings and flapped away across
the garden. She hoped he was not going
to stay inside and she pushed the door
open wondering if he would. When she got
fairly into the garden she saw that he
probably did intend to stay because he
had alighted on a dwarf apple-tree and
under the apple-tree was lying a little
reddish animal with a Bushy tail, and
both of them were watching the stooping
body and rust-red head of Dickon, who
was kneeling on the grass working
hard.

Mary flew across the grass to him.

"Oh, Dickon! Dickon!" she cried out.
"How could you get here so early! How
could you! The sun has only just got
up!"

He got up himself, laughing and glowing,
and tousled; his eyes like a bit of the
sky.

"Eh!" he said. "I was up long before
him. How could I have stayed abed! Th'
world's all fair begun again this
mornin', it has. An' it's workin' an'
hummin' an' scratchin' an' pipin' an'
nest-buildin' an' breathin' out scents,
till you've got to be out on it 'stead
o' lyin' on your back. When th' sun did
jump up, th' moor went mad for joy, an'
I was in the midst of th' heather, an' I
run like mad myself, shoutin' an'
singin'. An' I come straight here. I
couldn't have stayed away. Why, th'
garden was lyin' here waitin'!"

Mary put her hands on her chest,
panting, as if she had been running
herself.

"Oh, Dickon! Dickon!" she said. "I'm so
happy I can scarcely breathe!"

Seeing him talking to a stranger, the
little bushy-tailed animal rose from its
place under the tree and came to him,
and the rook, cawing once, flew down
from its branch and settled quietly on
his shoulder.

"This is th' little fox cub," he said,
rubbing the little reddish animal's
head. "It's named Captain. An' this
here's Soot. Soot he flew across th'
moor with me an' Captain he run same as
if th' hounds had been after him. They
both felt same as I did."

Neither of the creatures looked as if he
were the least afraid of Mary. When
Dickon began to walk about, Soot stayed
on his shoulder and Captain trotted
quietly close to his side.

"See here!" said Dickon. "See how these
has pushed up, an' these an' these! An'
Eh! Look at these here!"

He threw himself upon his knees and Mary
went down beside him. They had come upon
a whole clump of crocuses burst into
purple and orange and gold. Mary bent
her face down and kissed and kissed
them.

"You never kiss a person in that way,"
she said when she lifted her head.
"Flowers are so different."

He looked puzzled but smiled.

"Eh!" he said, "I've kissed mother many
a time that way when I come in from th'
moor after a day's roamin' an' she stood
there at th' door in th' sun, lookin' so
glad an' comfortable." They ran from one
part of the garden to another and found
so many wonders that they were obliged
to remind themselves that they must
whisper or speak low. He showed her
swelling leafbuds on rose branches which
had seemed dead. He showed her ten
thousand new green points pushing
through the mould. They put their eager
young noses close to the earth and
sniffed its warmed springtime breathing;
they dug and pulled and laughed low with
rapture until Mistress Mary's hair was
as tumbled as Dickon's and her cheeks
were almost as poppy red as his.

There was every joy on earth in the
secret garden that morning, and in the
midst of them came a delight more
delightful than all, because it was more
wonderful. Swiftly something flew across
the wall and darted through the trees to
a close grown corner, a little flare of
red-breasted bird with something hanging
from its beak. Dickon stood quite still
and put his hand on Mary almost as if
they had suddenly found themselves
laughing in a church.

"We munnot stir," he whispered in broad
Yorkshire. "We munnot scarce breathe. I
knowed he was mate-huntin' when I seed
him last. It's Ben Weatherstaff's robin.
He's buildin' his nest. He'll stay here
if us don't fight him." They settled
down softly upon the grass and sat there
without moving.

"Us mustn't seem as if us was watchin'
him too close," said Dickon. "He'd be
out with us for good if he got th'
notion us was interferin' now. He'll be
a good bit different till all this is
over. He's settin' up housekeepin'.
He'll be shyer an' readier to take
things ill. He's got no time for
visitin' an' gossipin'. Us must keep
still a bit an' try to look as if us was
grass an' trees an' bushes. Then when
he's got used to seein' us I'll chirp a
bit an' he'll know us'll not be in his
way."

Mistress Mary was not at all sure that
she knew, as Dickon seemed to, how to
try to look like grass and trees and
bushes. But he had said the queer thing
as if it were the simplest and most
natural thing in the world, and she felt
it must be quite easy to him, and indeed
she watched him for a few minutes
carefully, wondering if it was possible
for him to quietly turn green and put
out branches and leaves. But he only sat
wonderfully still, and when he spoke
dropped his voice to such a softness
that it was curious that she could hear
him, but she could.

"It's part o' th' springtime, this
nest-buildin' is," he said. "I warrant
it's been goin' on in th' same way every
year since th' world was begun. They've
got their way o' thinkin' and doin'
things an' a body had better not meddle.
You can lose a friend in springtime
easier than any other season if you're
too curious."

"If we talk about him I can't help
looking at him," Mary said as softly as
possible. "We must talk of something
else. There is something I want to tell
you."

"He'll like it better if us talks o'
somethin' else," said Dickon. "What is
it tha's got to tell me?"

"Well--do you know about Colin?" she
whispered.

He turned his head to look at her.

"What does tha' know about him?" he
asked.

"I've seen him. I have been to talk to
him every day this week. He wants me to
come. He says I'm making him forget
about being ill and dying," answered
Mary.

Dickon looked actually relieved as soon
as the surprise died away from his round
face.

"I am glad o' that," he exclaimed. "I'm
right down glad. It makes me easier. I
knowed I must say nothin' about him an'
I don't like havin' to hide things."

"Don't you like hiding the garden?" said
Mary.

"I'll never tell about it," he answered.
"But I says to mother, 'Mother,' I says,
'I got a secret to keep. It's not a bad
'un, tha' knows that. It's no worse than
hidin' where a bird's nest is. Tha'
doesn't mind it, does tha'?'"

Mary always wanted to hear about
mother.

"What did she say?" she asked, not at
all afraid to hear.

Dickon grinned sweet-temperedly.

"It was just like her, what she said,"
he answered. "She give my head a bit of
a rub an' laughed an' she says, 'Eh,
lad, tha' can have all th' secrets tha'
likes. I've knowed thee twelve
year'.'"

"How did you know about Colin?" asked
Mary.

"Everybody as knowed about Mester Craven
knowed there was a little lad as was
like to be a cripple, an' they knowed
Mester Craven didn't like him to be
talked about. Folks is sorry for Mester
Craven because Mrs. Craven was such a
pretty young lady an' they was so fond
of each other. Mrs. Medlock stops in our
cottage whenever she goes to Thwaite an'
she doesn't mind talkin' to mother
before us children, because she knows us
has been brought up to be trusty. How
did tha' find out about him? Martha was
in fine trouble th' last time she came
home. She said tha'd heard him frettin'
an' tha' was askin' questions an' she
didn't know what to say."

Mary told him her story about the
midnight wuthering of the wind which had
wakened her and about the faint far-off
sounds of the complaining voice which
had led her down the dark corridors with
her candle and had ended with her
opening of the door of the dimly lighted
room with the carven four-posted bed in
the corner. When she described the small
ivory-white face and the strange
black-rimmed eyes Dickon shook his
head.

"Them's just like his mother's eyes,
only hers was always laughin', they
say," he said. "They say as Mr. Craven
can't bear to see him when he's awake
an' it's because his eyes is so like his
mother's an' yet looks so different in
his miserable bit of a face."

"Do you think he wants to die?"
whispered Mary.

"No, but he wishes he'd never been born.
Mother she says that's th' worst thing
on earth for a child. Them as is not
wanted scarce ever thrives. Mester
Craven he'd buy anythin' as money could
buy for th' poor lad but he'd like to
forget as he's on earth. For one thing,
he's afraid he'll look at him some day
and find he's growed hunchback."

"Colin's so afraid of it himself that he
won't sit up," said Mary. "He says he's
always thinking that if he should feel a
lump coming he should go crazy and
scream himself to death."

"Eh! he oughtn't to lie there thinkin'
things like that," said Dickon. "No lad
could get well as thought them sort o'
things."

The fox was lying on the grass close by
him, looking up to ask for a pat now and
then, and Dickon bent down and rubbed
his neck softly and thought a few
minutes in silence. Presently he lifted
his head and looked round the garden.

"When first we got in here," he said,
"it seemed like everything was gray.
Look round now and tell me if tha'
doesn't see a difference."

Mary looked and caught her breath a
little.

"Why!" she cried, "the gray wall is
changing. It is as if a green mist were
creeping over it. It's almost like a
green gauze veil."

"Aye," said Dickon. "An' it'll be
greener and greener till th' gray's all
gone. Can tha' guess what I was
thinkin'?"

"I know it was something nice," said
Mary eagerly. "I believe it was
something about Colin."

"I was thinkin' that if he was out here
he wouldn't be watchin' for lumps to
grow on his back; he'd be watchin' for
buds to break on th' rose-bushes, an'
he'd likely be healthier," explained
Dickon. "I was wonderin' if us could
ever get him in th' humor to come out
here an' lie under th' trees in his
carriage."

"I've been wondering that myself. I've
thought of it almost every time I've
talked to him," said Mary. "I've
wondered if he could keep a secret and
I've wondered if we could bring him here
without any one seeing us. I thought
perhaps you could push his carriage. The
doctor said he must have fresh air and
if he wants us to take him out no one
dare disobey him. He won't go out for
other people and perhaps they will be
glad if he will go out with us. He could
order the gardeners to keep away so they
wouldn't find out."

Dickon was thinking very hard as he
scratched Captain's back.

"It'd be good for him, I'll warrant," he
said. "Us'd not be thinkin' he'd better
never been born. Us'd be just two
children watchin' a garden grow, an'
he'd be another. Two lads an' a little
lass just lookin' on at th' springtime.
I warrant it'd be better than doctor's
stuff."

"He's been lying in his room so long and
he's always been so afraid of his back
that it has made him queer," said Mary.
"He knows a good many things out of
books but he doesn't know anything else.
He says he has been too ill to notice
things and he hates going out of doors
and hates gardens and gardeners. But he
likes to hear about this garden because
it is a secret. I daren't tell him much
but he said he wanted to see it."

"Us'll have him out here sometime for
sure," said Dickon. "I could push his
carriage well enough. Has tha' noticed
how th' robin an' his mate has been
workin' while we've been sittin' here?
Look at him perched on that branch
wonderin' where it'd be best to put that
twig he's got in his beak."

He made one of his low whistling calls
and the robin turned his head and looked
at him inquiringly, still holding his
twig. Dickon spoke to him as Ben
Weatherstaff did, but Dickon's tone was
one of friendly advice.

"Wheres'ever tha' puts it," he said,
"it'll be all right. Tha' knew how to
build tha' nest before tha' came out o'
th' egg. Get on with thee, lad. Tha'st
got no time to lose."

"Oh, I do like to hear you talk to him!"
Mary said, laughing delightedly. "Ben
Weatherstaff scolds him and makes fun of
him, and he hops about and looks as if
he understood every word, and I know he
likes it. Ben Weatherstaff says he is so
conceited he would rather have stones
thrown at him than not be noticed."

Dickon laughed too and went on
talking.

"Tha' knows us won't trouble thee," he
said to the robin. "Us is near bein'
wild things ourselves. Us is
nest-buildin' too, bless thee. Look out
tha' doesn't tell on us."

And though the robin did not answer,
because his beak was occupied, Mary knew
that when he flew away with his twig to
his own corner of the garden the
darkness of his dew-bright eye meant
that he would not tell their secret for
the world.



CHAPTER XVI

"I WON'T!" SAID MARY

They found a great deal to do that
morning and Mary was late in returning
to the house and was also in such a
hurry to get back to her work that she
quite forgot Colin until the last
moment.

"Tell Colin that I can't come and see
him yet," she said to Martha. "I'm very
busy in the garden."

Martha looked rather frightened.

"Eh! Miss Mary," she said, "it may put
him all out of humor when I tell him
that."

But Mary was not as afraid of him as
other people were and she was not a
self-sacrificing person.

"I can't stay," she answered. "Dickon's
waiting for me;" and she ran away.

The afternoon was even lovelier and
busier than the morning had been.
Already nearly all the weeds were
cleared out of the garden and most of
the roses and trees had been pruned or
dug about. Dickon had brought a spade of
his own and he had taught Mary to use
all her tools, so that by this time it
was plain that though the lovely wild
place was not likely to become a
"gardener's garden" it would be a
wilderness of growing things before the
springtime was over.

"There'll be apple blossoms an' cherry
blossoms overhead," Dickon said, working
away with all his might. "An' there'll
be peach an' plum trees in bloom against
th' walls, an' th' grass'll be a carpet
o' flowers."

The little fox and the rook were as
happy and busy as they were, and the
robin and his mate flew backward and
forward like tiny streaks of lightning.
Sometimes the rook flapped his black
wings and soared away over the tree-tops
in the park. Each time he came back and
perched near Dickon and cawed several
times as if he were relating his
adventures, and Dickon talked to him
just as he had talked to the robin. Once
when Dickon was so busy that he did not
answer him at first, Soot flew on to his
shoulders and gently tweaked his ear
with his large beak. When Mary wanted to
rest a little Dickon sat down with her
under a tree and once he took his pipe
out of his pocket and played the soft
strange little notes and two squirrels
appeared on the wall and looked and
listened.

"Tha's a good bit stronger than tha'
was," Dickon said, looking at her as she
was digging. "Tha's beginning to look
different, for sure."

Mary was glowing with exercise and good
spirits.

"I'm getting fatter and fatter every
day," she said quite exultantly. "Mrs.
Medlock will have to get me some bigger
dresses. Martha says my hair is growing
thicker. It isn't so flat and
stringy."

The sun was beginning to set and sending
deep gold-colored rays slanting under
the trees when they parted.

"It'll be fine tomorrow," said Dickon.
"I'll be at work by sunrise."

"So will I," said Mary.

She ran back to the house as quickly as
her feet would carry her. She wanted to
tell Colin about Dickon's fox cub and
the rook and about what the springtime
had been doing. She felt sure he would
like to hear. So it was not very
pleasant when she opened the door of her
room, to see Martha standing waiting for
her with a doleful face.

"What is the matter?" she asked. "What
did Colin say when you told him I
couldn't come?"

"Eh!" said Martha, "I wish tha'd gone.
He was nigh goin' into one o' his
tantrums. There's been a nice to do all
afternoon to keep him quiet. He would
watch the clock all th' time."

Mary's lips pinched themselves together.
She was no more used to considering
other people than Colin was and she saw
no reason why an ill-tempered boy should
interfere with the thing she liked best.
She knew nothing about the pitifulness
of people who had been ill and nervous
and who did not know that they could
control their tempers and need not make
other people ill and nervous, too. When
she had had a headache in India she had
done her best to see that everybody else
also had a headache or something quite
as bad. And she felt she was quite
right; but of course now she felt that
Colin was quite wrong.

He was not on his sofa when she went
into his room. He was lying flat on his
back in bed and he did not turn his head
toward her as she came in. This was a
bad beginning and Mary marched up to him
with her stiff manner.

"Why didn't you get up?" she said.

"I did get up this morning when I
thought you were coming," he answered,
without looking at her. "I made them put
me back in bed this afternoon. My back
ached and my head ached and I was tired.
Why didn't you come?" "I was working in
the garden with Dickon," said Mary.

Colin frowned and condescended to look
at her.

"I won't let that boy come here if you
go and stay with him instead of coming
to talk to me," he said.

Mary flew into a fine passion. She could
fly into a passion without making a
noise. She just grew sour and obstinate
and did not care what happened.

"If you send Dickon away, I'll never
come into this room again!" she
retorted.

"You'll have to if I want you," said
Colin.

"I won't!" said Mary.

"I'll make you," said Colin. "They shall
drag you in."

"Shall they, Mr. Rajah!" said Mary
fiercely. "They may drag me in but they
can't make me talk when they get me
here. I'll sit and clench my teeth and
never tell you one thing. I won't even
look at you. I'll stare at the floor!"

They were a nice agreeable pair as they
glared at each other. If they had been
two little street boys they would have
sprung at each other and had a
rough-and-tumble fight. As it was, they
did the next thing to it.

"You are a selfish thing!" cried
Colin.

"What are you?" said Mary. "Selfish
people always say that. Any one is
selfish who doesn't do what they want.
You're more selfish than I am. You're
the most selfish boy I ever saw."

"I'm not!" snapped Colin. "I'm not as
selfish as your fine Dickon is! He keeps
you playing in the dirt when he knows I
am all by myself. He's selfish, if you
like!"

Mary's eyes flashed fire.

"He's nicer than any other boy that ever
lived!" she said. "He's--he's like an
angel!" It might sound rather silly to
say that but she did not care.

"A nice angel!" Colin sneered
ferociously. "He's a common cottage boy
off the moor!"

"He's better than a common Rajah!"
retorted Mary. "He's a thousand times
better!"

Because she was the stronger of the two
she was beginning to get the better of
him. The truth was that he had never had
a fight with any one like himself in his
life and, upon the whole, it was rather
good for him, though neither he nor Mary
knew anything about that. He turned his
head on his pillow and shut his eyes and
a big tear was squeezed out and ran down
his cheek. He was beginning to feel
pathetic and sorry for himself--not for
any one else.

"I'm not as selfish as you, because I'm
always ill, and I'm sure there is a lump
coming on my back," he said. "And I am
going to die besides."

"You're not!" contradicted Mary
unsympathetically.

He opened his eyes quite wide with
indignation. He had never heard such a
thing said before. He was at once
furious and slightly pleased, if a
person could be both at one time.

"I'm not?" he cried. "I am! You know I
am! Everybody says so."

"I don't believe it!" said Mary sourly.
"You just say that to make people sorry.
I believe you're proud of it. I don't
believe it! If you were a nice boy it
might be true--but you're too nasty!"

In spite of his invalid back Colin sat
up in bed in quite a healthy rage.

"Get out of the room!" he shouted and he
caught hold of his pillow and threw it
at her. He was not strong enough to
throw it far and it only fell at her
feet, but Mary's face looked as pinched
as a nutcracker.

"I'm going," she said. "And I won't come
back!" She walked to the door and when
she reached it she turned round and
spoke again.

"I was going to tell you all sorts of
nice things," she said. "Dickon brought
his fox and his rook and I was going to
tell you all about them. Now I won't
tell you a single thing!"

She marched out of the door and closed
it behind her, and there to her great
astonishment she found the trained nurse
standing as if she had been listening
and, more amazing still--she was
laughing. She was a big handsome young
woman who ought not to have been a
trained nurse at all, as she could not
bear invalids and she was always making
excuses to leave Colin to Martha or any
one else who would take her place. Mary
had never liked her, and she simply
stood and gazed up at her as she stood
giggling into her handkerchief..

"What are you laughing at?" she asked
her.

"At you two young ones," said the nurse.
"It's the best thing that could happen
to the sickly pampered thing to have
some one to stand up to him that's as
spoiled as himself;" and she laughed
into her handkerchief again. "If he'd
had a young vixen of a sister to fight
with it would have been the saving of
him."

"Is he going to die?"

"I don't know and I don't care," said
the nurse. "Hysterics and temper are
half what ails him."

"What are hysterics?" asked Mary.

"You'll find out if you work him into a
tantrum after this--but at any rate
you've given him something to have
hysterics about, and I'm glad of it."

Mary went back to her room not feeling
at all as she had felt when she had come
in from the garden. She was cross and
disappointed but not at all sorry for
Colin. She had looked forward to telling
him a great many things and she had
meant to try to make up her mind whether
it would be safe to trust him with the
great secret. She had been beginning to
think it would be, but now she had
changed her mind entirely. She would
never tell him and he could stay in his
room and never get any fresh air and die
if he liked! It would serve him right!
She felt so sour and unrelenting that
for a few minutes she almost forgot
about Dickon and the green veil creeping
over the world and the soft wind blowing
down from the moor.

Martha was waiting for her and the
trouble in her face had been temporarily
replaced by interest and curiosity.
There was a wooden box on the table and
its cover had been removed and revealed
that it was full of neat packages.

"Mr. Craven sent it to you," said
Martha. "It looks as if it had
picture-books in it."

Mary remembered what he had asked her
the day she had gone to his room. "Do
you want anything--dolls--toys--books?"
She opened the package wondering if he
had sent a doll, and also wondering what
she should do with it if he had. But he
had not sent one. There were several
beautiful books such as Colin had, and
two of them were about gardens and were
full of pictures. There were two or
three games and there was a beautiful
little writing-case with a gold monogram
on it and a gold pen and inkstand.

Everything was so nice that her pleasure
began to crowd her anger out of her
mind. She had not expected him to
remember her at all and her hard little
heart grew quite warm.

"I can write better than I can print,"
she said, "and the first thing I shall
write with that pen will be a letter to
tell him I am much obliged."

If she had been friends with Colin she
would have run to show him her presents
at once, and they would have looked at
the pictures and read some of the
gardening books and perhaps tried
playing the games, and he would have
enjoyed himself so much he would never
once have thought he was going to die or
have put his hand on his spine to see if
there was a lump coming. He had a way of
doing that which she could not bear. It
gave her an uncomfortable frightened
feeling because he always looked so
frightened himself. He said that if he
felt even quite a little lump some day
he should know his hunch had begun to
grow. Something he had heard Mrs.
Medlock whispering to the nurse had
given him the idea and he had thought
over it in secret until it was quite
firmly fixed in his mind. Mrs. Medlock
had said his father's back had begun to
show its crookedness in that way when he
was a child. He had never told any one
but Mary that most of his "tantrums" as
they called them grew out of his
hysterical hidden fear. Mary had been
sorry for him when he had told her.

"He always began to think about it when
he was cross or tired," she said to
herself. "And he has been cross today.
Perhaps--perhaps he has been thinking
about it all afternoon."

She stood still, looking down at the
carpet and thinking.

"I said I would never go back again--"
she hesitated, knitting her brows--"but
perhaps, just perhaps, I will go and
see--if he wants me--in the morning.
Perhaps he'll try to throw his pillow at
me again, but--I think--I'll go."



CHAPTER XVII

A TANTRUM

She had got up very early in the morning
and had worked hard in the garden and
she was tired and sleepy, so as soon as
Martha had brought her supper and she
had eaten it, she was glad to go to bed.
As she laid her head on the pillow she
murmured to herself:

"I'll go out before breakfast and work
with Dickon and then afterward--I
believe--I'll go to see him."

She thought it was the middle of the
night when she was awakened by such
dreadful sounds that she jumped out of
bed in an instant. What was it--what was
it? The next minute she felt quite sure
she knew. Doors were opened and shut and
there were hurrying feet in the
corridors and some one was crying and
screaming at the same time, screaming
and crying in a horrible way.

"It's Colin," she said. "He's having one
of those tantrums the nurse called
hysterics. How awful it sounds."

As she listened to the sobbing screams
she did not wonder that people were so
frightened that they gave him his own
way in everything rather than hear them.
She put her hands over her ears and felt
sick and shivering.

"I don't know what to do. I don't know
what to do," she kept saying. "I can't
bear it."

Once she wondered if he would stop if
she dared go to him and then she
remembered how he had driven her out of
the room and thought that perhaps the
sight of her might make him worse. Even
when she pressed her hands more tightly
over her ears she could not keep the
awful sounds out. She hated them so and
was so terrified by them that suddenly
they began to make her angry and she
felt as if she should like to fly into a
tantrum herself and frighten him as he
was frightening her. She was not used to
any one's tempers but her own. She took
her hands from her ears and sprang up
and stamped her foot.

"He ought to be stopped! Somebody ought
to make him stop! Somebody ought to beat
him!" she cried out.

Just then she heard feet almost running
down the corridor and her door opened
and the nurse came in. She was not
laughing now by any means. She even
looked rather pale.

"He's worked himself into hysterics,"
she said in a great hurry. "He'll do
himself harm. No one can do anything
with him. You come and try, like a good
child. He likes you."

"He turned me out of the room this
morning," said Mary, stamping her foot
with excitement.

The stamp rather pleased the nurse. The
truth was that she had been afraid she
might find Mary crying and hiding her
head under the bed-clothes.

"That's right," she said. "You're in the
right humor. You go and scold him. Give
him something new to think of. Do go,
child, as quick as ever you can."

It was not until afterward that Mary
realized that the thing had been funny
as well as dreadful--that it was funny
that all the grown-up people were so
frightened that they came to a little
girl just because they guessed she was
almost as bad as Colin himself.

She flew along the corridor and the
nearer she got to the screams the higher
her temper mounted. She felt quite
wicked by the time she reached the door.
She slapped it open with her hand and
ran across the room to the four-posted
bed.

"You stop!" she almost shouted. "You
stop! I hate you! Everybody hates you! I
wish everybody would run out of the
house and let you scream yourself to
death! You will scream yourself to death
in a minute, and I wish you would!" A
nice sympathetic child could neither
have thought nor said such things, but
it just happened that the shock of
hearing them was the best possible thing
for this hysterical boy whom no one had
ever dared to restrain or contradict.

He had been lying on his face beating
his pillow with his hands and he
actually almost jumped around, he turned
so quickly at the sound of the furious
little voice. His face looked dreadful,
white and red and swollen, and he was
gasping and choking; but savage little
Mary did not care an atom.

"If you scream another scream," she
said, "I'll scream too--and I can scream
louder than you can and I'll frighten
you, I'll frighten you!"

He actually had stopped screaming
because she had startled him so. The
scream which had been coming almost
choked him. The tears were streaming
down his face and he shook all over.

"I can't stop!" he gasped and sobbed. "I
can't--I can't!"

"You can!" shouted Mary. "Half that ails
you is hysterics and temper--just
hysterics--hysterics--hysterics!" and
she stamped each time she said it.

"I felt the lump--I felt it," choked out
Colin. "I knew I should. I shall have a
hunch on my back and then I shall die,"
and he began to writhe again and turned
on his face and sobbed and wailed but he
didn't scream.

"You didn't feel a lump!" contradicted
Mary fiercely. "If you did it was only a
hysterical lump. Hysterics makes lumps.
There's nothing the matter with your
horrid back--nothing but hysterics! Turn
over and let me look at it!"

She liked the word "hysterics" and felt
somehow as if it had an effect on him.
He was probably like herself and had
never heard it before.

"Nurse," she commanded, "come here and
show me his back this minute!"

The nurse, Mrs. Medlock and Martha had
been standing huddled together near the
door staring at her, their mouths half
open. All three had gasped with fright
more than once. The nurse came forward
as if she were half afraid. Colin was
heaving with great breathless sobs.

"Perhaps he--he won't let me," she
hesitated in a low voice.

Colin heard her, however, and he gasped
out between two sobs:

"Sh-show her! She-she'll see then!"

It was a poor thin back to look at when
it was bared. Every rib could be counted
and every joint of the spine, though
Mistress Mary did not count them as she
bent over and examined them with a
solemn savage little face. She looked so
sour and old-fashioned that the nurse
turned her head aside to hide the
twitching of her mouth. There was just a
minute's silence, for even Colin tried
to hold his breath while Mary looked up
and down his spine, and down and up, as
intently as if she had been the great
doctor from London.

"There's not a single lump there!" she
said at last. "There's not a lump as big
as a pin--except backbone lumps, and you
can only feel them because you're thin.
I've got backbone lumps myself, and they
used to stick out as much as yours do,
until I began to get fatter, and I am
not fat enough yet to hide them. There's
not a lump as big as a pin! If you ever
say there is again, I shall laugh!"

No one but Colin himself knew what
effect those crossly spoken childish
words had on him. If he had ever had any
one to talk to about his secret
terrors--if he had ever dared to let
himself ask questions--if he had had
childish companions and had not lain on
his back in the huge closed house,
breathing an atmosphere heavy with the
fears of people who were most of them
ignorant and tired of him, he would have
found out that most of his fright and
illness was created by himself. But he
had lain and thought of himself and his
aches and weariness for hours and days
and months and years. And now that an
angry unsympathetic little girl insisted
obstinately that he was not as ill as he
thought he was he actually felt as if
she might be speaking the truth.

"I didn't know," ventured the nurse,
"that he thought he had a lump on his
spine. His back is weak because he won't
try to sit up. I could have told him
there was no lump there." Colin gulped
and turned his face a little to look at
her.

"C-could you?" he said pathetically.

"Yes, sir."

"There!" said Mary, and she gulped
too.

Colin turned on his face again and but
for his long-drawn broken breaths, which
were the dying down of his storm of
sobbing, he lay still for a minute,
though great tears streamed down his
face and wet the pillow. Actually the
tears meant that a curious great relief
had come to him. Presently he turned and
looked at the nurse again and strangely
enough he was not like a Rajah at all as
he spoke to her.

"Do you think--I could--live to grow
up?" he said.

The nurse was neither clever nor
soft-hearted but she could repeat some
of the London doctor's words.

"You probably will if you will do what
you are told to do and not give way to
your temper, and stay out a great deal
in the fresh air."

Colin's tantrum had passed and he was
weak and worn out with crying and this
perhaps made him feel gentle. He put out
his hand a little toward Mary, and I am
glad to say that, her own tantum having
passed, she was softened too and met him
half-way with her hand, so that it was a
sort of making up.

"I'll--I'll go out with you, Mary," he
said. "I shan't hate fresh air if we can
find--" He remembered just in time to
stop himself from saying "if we can find
the secret garden" and he ended, "I
shall like to go out with you if Dickon
will come and push my chair. I do so
want to see Dickon and the fox and the
crow."

The nurse remade the tumbled bed and
shook and straightened the pillows. Then
she made Colin a cup of beef tea and
gave a cup to Mary, who really was very
glad to get it after her excitement.
Mrs. Medlock and Martha gladly slipped
away, and after everything was neat and
calm and in order the nurse looked as if
she would very gladly slip away also.
She was a healthy young woman who
resented being robbed of her sleep and
she yawned quite openly as she looked at
Mary, who had pushed her big footstool
close to the four-posted bed and was
holding Colin's hand.

"You must go back and get your sleep
out," she said. "He'll drop off after a
while--if he's not too upset. Then I'll
lie down myself in the next room."

"Would you like me to sing you that song
I learned from my Ayah?" Mary whispered
to Colin.

His hand pulled hers gently and he
turned his tired eyes on her
appealingly.

"Oh, yes!" he answered. "It's such a
soft song. I shall go to sleep in a
minute."

"I will put him to sleep," Mary said to
the yawning nurse. "You can go if you
like."

"Well," said the nurse, with an attempt
at reluctance. "If he doesn't go to
sleep in half an hour you must call
me."

"Very well," answered Mary.

The nurse was out of the room in a
minute and as soon as she was gone Colin
pulled Mary's hand again.

"I almost told," he said; "but I stopped
myself in time. I won't talk and I'll go
to sleep, but you said you had a whole
lot of nice things to tell me. Have
you--do you think you have found out
anything at all about the way into the
secret garden?"

Mary looked at his poor little tired
face and swollen eyes and her heart
relented.

"Ye-es," she answered, "I think I have.
And if you will go to sleep I will tell
you tomorrow." His hand quite
trembled.

"Oh, Mary!" he said. "Oh, Mary! If I
could get into it I think I should live
to grow up! Do you suppose that instead
of singing the Ayah song--you could just
tell me softly as you did that first day
what you imagine it looks like inside? I
am sure it will make me go to sleep."

"Yes," answered Mary. "Shut your
eyes."

He closed his eyes and lay quite still
and she held his hand and began to speak
very slowly and in a very low voice.

"I think it has been left alone so
long--that it has grown all into a
lovely tangle. I think the roses have
climbed and climbed and climbed until
they hang from the branches and walls
and creep over the ground--almost like a
strange gray mist. Some of them have
died but many--are alive and when the
summer comes there will be curtains and
fountains of roses. I think the ground
is full of daffodils and snowdrops and
lilies and iris working their way out of
the dark. Now the spring has
begun--perhaps--perhaps--"

The soft drone of her voice was making
him stiller and stiller and she saw it
and went on.

"Perhaps they are coming up through the
grass--perhaps there are clusters of
purple crocuses and gold ones--even now.
Perhaps the leaves are beginning to
break out and uncurl--and perhaps--the
gray is changing and a green gauze veil
is creeping--and creeping
over--everything. And the birds are
coming to look at it--because it is--so
safe and still. And
perhaps--perhaps--perhaps--" very softly
and slowly indeed, "the robin has found
a mate--and is building a nest."

And Colin was asleep.



CHAPTER XVIII

"THA' MUNNOT WASTE NO TIME"

Of course Mary did not waken early the
next morning. She slept late because she
was tired, and when Martha brought her
breakfast she told her that though.
Colin was quite quiet he was ill and
feverish as he always was after he had
worn himself out with a fit of crying.
Mary ate her breakfast slowly as she
listened.

"He says he wishes tha' would please go
and see him as soon as tha' can," Martha
said. "It's queer what a fancy he's took
to thee. Tha' did give it him last night
for sure--didn't tha? Nobody else would
have dared to do it. Eh! poor lad! He's
been spoiled till salt won't save him.
Mother says as th' two worst things as
can happen to a child is never to have
his own way--or always to have it. She
doesn't know which is th' worst. Tha'
was in a fine temper tha'self, too. But
he says to me when I went into his room,
'Please ask Miss Mary if she'll please
come an' talk to me?' Think o' him
saying please! Will you go, Miss?" "I'll
run and see Dickon first," said Mary.
"No, I'll go and see Colin first and
tell him--I know what I'll tell him,"
with a sudden inspiration.

She had her hat on when she appeared in
Colin's room and for a second he looked
disappointed. He was in bed. His face
was pitifully white and there were dark
circles round his eyes.

"I'm glad you came," he said. "My head
aches and I ache all over because I'm so
tired. Are you going somewhere?"

Mary went and leaned against his bed.

"I won't be long," she said. "I'm going
to Dickon, but I'll come back. Colin,
it's--it's something about the
garden."

His whole face brightened and a little
color came into it.

"Oh! is it?" he cried out. "I dreamed
about it all night I heard you say
something about gray changing into
green, and I dreamed I was standing in a
place all filled with trembling little
green leaves--and there were birds on
nests everywhere and they looked so soft
and still. I'll lie and think about it
until you come back."

In five minutes Mary was with Dickon in
their garden. The fox and the crow were
with him again and this time he had
brought two tame squirrels. "I came over
on the pony this mornin'," he said. "Eh!
he is a good little chap--Jump is! I
brought these two in my pockets. This
here one he's called Nut an' this here
other one's called Shell."

When he said "Nut" one squirrel leaped
on to his right shoulder and when he
said "Shell" the other one leaped on to
his left shoulder.

When they sat down on the grass with
Captain curled at their feet, Soot
solemnly listening on a tree and Nut and
Shell nosing about close to them, it
seemed to Mary that it would be scarcely
bearable to leave such delightfulness,
but when she began to tell her story
somehow the look in Dickon's funny face
gradually changed her mind. She could
see he felt sorrier for Colin than she
did. He looked up at the sky and all
about him.

"Just listen to them birds--th' world
seems full of 'em--all whistlin' an'
pipin'," he said. "Look at 'em dartin'
about, an' hearken at 'em callin' to
each other. Come springtime seems like
as if all th' world's callin'. The
leaves is uncurlin' so you can see
'em--an', my word, th' nice smells there
is about!" sniffing with his happy
turned-up nose. "An' that poor lad lyin'
shut up an' seein' so little that he
gets to thinkin' o' things as sets him
screamin'. Eh! my! we mun get him out
here--we mun get him watchin' an
listenin' an' sniffin' up th' air an'
get him just soaked through wi'
sunshine. An' we munnot lose no time
about it."

When he was very much interested he
often spoke quite broad Yorkshire though
at other times he tried to modify his
dialect so that Mary could better
understand. But she loved his broad
Yorkshire and had in fact been trying to
learn to speak it herself. So she spoke
a little now.

"Aye, that we mun," she said (which
meant "Yes, indeed, we must"). "I'll
tell thee what us'll do first," she
proceeded, and Dickon grinned, because
when the little wench tried to twist her
tongue into speaking Yorkshire it amused
him very much. "He's took a graidely
fancy to thee. He wants to see thee and
he wants to see Soot an' Captain. When I
go back to the house to talk to him I'll
ax him if tha' canna' come an' see him
tomorrow mornin'--an'. bring tha'
creatures wi' thee--an' then--in a bit,
when there's more leaves out, an' happen
a bud or two, we'll get him to come out
an' tha' shall push him in his chair an'
we'll bring him here an' show him
everything."

When she stopped she was quite proud of
herself. She had never made a long
speech in Yorkshire before and she had
remembered very well.

"Tha' mun talk a bit o' Yorkshire like
that to Mester Colin," Dickon chuckled.
"Tha'll make him laugh an' there's nowt
as good for ill folk as laughin' is.
Mother says she believes as half a
hour's good laugh every mornin' 'ud cure
a chap as was makin' ready for typhus
fever."

"I'm going to talk Yorkshire to him this
very day," said Mary, chuckling
herself.

The garden had reached the time when
every day and every night it seemed as
if Magicians were passing through it
drawing loveliness out of the earth and
the boughs with wands. It was hard to go
away and leave it all, particularly as
Nut had actually crept on to her dress
and Shell had scrambled down the trunk
of the apple-tree they sat under and
stayed there looking at her with
inquiring eyes. But she went back to the
house and when she sat down close to
Colin's bed he began to sniff as Dickon
did though not in such an experienced
way.

"You smell like flowers and--and fresh
things," he cried out quite joyously.
"What is it you smell of? It's cool and
warm and sweet all at the same time."

"It's th' wind from th' moor," said
Mary. "It comes o' sittin' on th' grass
under a tree wi' Dickon an' wi' Captain
an' Soot an' Nut an' Shell. It's th'
springtime an' out o' doors an' sunshine
as smells so graidely."

She said it as broadly as she could, and
you do not know how broadly Yorkshire
sounds until you have heard some one
speak it. Colin began to laugh.

"What are you doing?" he said. "I never
heard you talk like that before. How
funny it sounds."

"I'm givin' thee a bit o' Yorkshire,"
answered Mary triumphantly. "I canna'
talk as graidely as Dickon an' Martha
can but tha' sees I can shape a bit.
Doesn't tha' understand a bit o'
Yorkshire when tha' hears it? An' tha' a
Yorkshire lad thysel' bred an' born! Eh!
I wonder tha'rt not ashamed o' thy
face."

And then she began to laugh too and they
both laughed until they could not stop
themselves and they laughed until the
room echoed and Mrs. Medlock opening the
door to come in drew back into the
corridor and stood listening amazed.

"Well, upon my word!" she said, speaking
rather broad Yorkshire herself because
there was no one to hear her and she was
so astonished. "Whoever heard th' like!
Whoever on earth would ha' thought
it!"

There was so much to talk about. It
seemed as if Colin could never hear
enough of Dickon and Captain and Soot
and Nut and Shell and the pony whose
name was Jump. Mary had run round into
the wood with Dickon to see Jump. He was
a tiny little shaggy moor pony with
thick locks hanging over his eyes and
with a pretty face and a nuzzling velvet
nose. He was rather thin with living on
moor grass but he was as tough and wiry
as if the muscle in his little legs had
been made of steel springs. He had
lifted his head and whinnied softly the
moment he saw Dickon and he had trotted
up to him and put his head across his
shoulder and then Dickon had talked into
his ear and Jump had talked back in odd
little whinnies and puffs and snorts.
Dickon had made him give Mary his small
front hoof and kiss her on her cheek
with his velvet muzzle.

"Does he really understand everything
Dickon says?" Colin asked.

"It seems as if he does," answered Mary.
"Dickon says anything will understand if
you're friends with it for sure, but you
have to be friends for sure."

Colin lay quiet a little while and his
strange gray eyes seemed to be staring
at the wall, but Mary saw he was
thinking.

"I wish I was friends with things," he
said at last, "but I'm not. I never had
anything to be friends with, and I can't
bear people."

"Can't you bear me?" asked Mary.

"Yes, I can," he answered. "It's funny
but I even like you."

"Ben Weatherstaff said I was like him,"
said Mary. "He said he'd warrant we'd
both got the same nasty tempers. I think
you are like him too. We are all three
alike--you and I and Ben Weatherstaff.
He said we were neither of us much to
look at and we were as sour as we
looked. But I don't feel as sour as I
used to before I knew the robin and
Dickon."

"Did you feel as if you hated people?"

"Yes," answered Mary without any
affectation. "I should have detested you
if I had seen you before I saw the robin
and Dickon."

Colin put out his thin hand and touched
her.

"Mary," he said, "I wish I hadn't said
what I did about sending Dickon away. I
hated you when you said he was like an
angel and I laughed at you but--but
perhaps he is."

"Well, it was rather funny to say it,"
she admitted frankly, "because his nose
does turn up and he has a big mouth and
his clothes have patches all over them
and he talks broad Yorkshire, but--but
if an angel did come to Yorkshire and
live on the moor--if there was a
Yorkshire angel--I believe he'd
understand the green things and know how
to make them grow and he would know how
to talk to the wild creatures as Dickon
does and they'd know he was friends for
sure."

"I shouldn't mind Dickon looking at me,"
said Colin; "I want to see him."

"I'm glad you said that," answered Mary,
"because--because--"

Quite suddenly it came into her mind
that this was the minute to tell him.
Colin knew something new was coming.

"Because what?" he cried eagerly.

Mary was so anxious that she got up from
her stool and came to him and caught
hold of both his hands.

"Can I trust you? I trusted Dickon
because birds trusted him. Can I trust
you--for sure--for sure?" she
implored.

Her face was so solemn that he almost
whispered his answer.

"Yes--yes!"

"Well, Dickon will come to see you
tomorrow morning, and he'll bring his
creatures with him."

"Oh! Oh!" Colin cried out in delight.

"But that's not all," Mary went on,
almost pale with solemn excitement. "The
rest is better. There is a door into the
garden. I found it. It is under the ivy
on the wall."

If he had been a strong healthy boy
Colin would probably have shouted
"Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!" but he was
weak and rather hysterical; his eyes
grew bigger and bigger and he gasped for
breath.

"Oh! Mary!" he cried out with a half
sob. "Shall I see it? Shall I get into
it? Shall I live to get into it?" and he
clutched her hands and dragged her
toward him.

"Of course you'll see it!" snapped Mary
indignantly. "Of course you'll live to
get into it! Don't be silly!"

And she was so un-hysterical and natural
and childish that she brought him to his
senses and he began to laugh at himself
and a few minutes afterward she was
sitting on her stool again telling him
not what she imagined the secret garden
to be like but what it really was, and
Colin's aches and tiredness were
forgotten and he was listening
enraptured.

"It is just what you thought it would
be," he said at last. "It sounds just as
if you had really seen it. You know I
said that when you told me first."

Mary hesitated about two minutes and
then boldly spoke the truth.

"I had seen it--and I had been in," she
said. "I found the key and got in weeks
ago. But I daren't tell you--I daren't
because I was so afraid I couldn't trust
you--for sure!"



CHAPTER XIX

"IT HAS COME!"

Of course Dr. Craven had been sent for
the morning after Colin had had his
tantrum. He was always sent for at once
when such a thing occurred and he always
found, when he arrived, a white shaken
boy lying on his bed, sulky and still so
hysterical that he was ready to break
into fresh sobbing at the least word. In
fact, Dr. Craven dreaded and detested
the difficulties of these visits. On
this occasion he was away from
Misselthwaite Manor until afternoon.

"How is he?" he asked Mrs. Medlock
rather irritably when he arrived. "He
will break a blood-vessel in one of
those fits some day. The boy is half
insane with hysteria and
self-indulgence."

"Well, sir," answered Mrs. Medlock,
"you'll scarcely believe your eyes when
you see him. That plain sour-faced child
that's almost as bad as himself has just
bewitched him. How she's done it there's
no telling. The Lord knows she's nothing
to look at and you scarcely ever hear
her speak, but she did what none of us
dare do. She just flew at him like a
little cat last night, and stamped her
feet and ordered him to stop screaming,
and somehow she startled him so that he
actually did stop, and this
afternoon--well just come up and see,
sir. It's past crediting."

The scene which Dr. Craven beheld when
he entered his patient's room was indeed
rather astonishing to him. As Mrs.
Medlock opened the door he heard
laughing and chattering. Colin was on
his sofa in his dressing-gown and he was
sitting up quite straight looking at a
picture in one of the garden books and
talking to the plain child who at that
moment could scarcely be called plain at
all because her face was so glowing with
enjoyment.

"Those long spires of blue ones--we'll
have a lot of those," Colin was
announcing. "They're called
Del-phin-iums."

"Dickon says they're larkspurs made big
and grand," cried Mistress Mary. "There
are clumps there already."

Then they saw Dr. Craven and stopped.
Mary became quite still and Colin looked
fretful.

"I am sorry to hear you were ill last
night, my boy," Dr. Craven said a trifle
nervously. He was rather a nervous
man.

"I'm better now--much better," Colin
answered, rather like a Rajah. "I'm
going out in my chair in a day or two if
it is fine. I want some fresh air."

Dr. Craven sat down by him and felt his
pulse and looked at him curiously.

"It must be a very fine day," he said,
"and you must be very careful not to
tire yourself."

"Fresh air won't tire me," said the
young Rajah.

As there had been occasions when this
same young gentleman had shrieked aloud
with rage and had insisted that fresh
air would give him cold and kill him, it
is not to be wondered at that his doctor
felt somewhat startled.

"I thought you did not like fresh air,"
he said.

"I don't when I am by myself," replied
the Rajah; "but my cousin is going out
with me."

"And the nurse, of course?" suggested
Dr. Craven.

"No, I will not have the nurse," so
magnificently that Mary could not help
remembering how the young native Prince
had looked with his diamonds and
emeralds and pearls stuck all over him
and the great rubies on the small dark
hand he had waved to command his
servants to approach with salaams and
receive his orders.

"My cousin knows how to take care of me.
I am always better when she is with me.
She made me better last night. A very
strong boy I know will push my
carriage."

Dr. Craven felt rather alarmed. If this
tiresome hysterical boy should chance to
get well he himself would lose all
chance of inheriting Misselthwaite; but
he was not an unscrupulous man, though
he was a weak one, and he did not intend
to let him run into actual danger.

"He must be a strong boy and a steady
boy," he said. "And I must know
something about him. Who is he? What is
his name?"

"It's Dickon," Mary spoke up suddenly.
She felt somehow that everybody who knew
the moor must know Dickon. And she was
right, too. She saw that in a moment Dr.
Craven's serious face relaxed into a
relieved smile.

"Oh, Dickon," he said. "If it is Dickon
you will be safe enough. He's as strong
as a moor pony, is Dickon."

"And he's trusty," said Mary. "He's th'
trustiest lad i' Yorkshire." She had
been talking Yorkshire to Colin and she
forgot herself.

"Did Dickon teach you that?" asked Dr.
Craven, laughing outright.

"I'm learning it as if it was French,"
said Mary rather coldly. "It's like a
native dialect in India. Very clever
people try to learn them. I like it and
so does Colin." "Well, well," he said.
"If it amuses you perhaps it won't do
you any harm. Did you take your bromide
last night, Colin?"

"No," Colin answered. "I wouldn't take
it at first and after Mary made me quiet
she talked me to sleep--in a low
voice--about the spring creeping into a
garden."

"That sounds soothing," said Dr. Craven,
more perplexed than ever and glancing
sideways at Mistress Mary sitting on her
stool and looking down silently at the
carpet. "You are evidently better, but
you must remember--"

"I don't want to remember," interrupted
the Rajah, appearing again. "When I lie
by myself and remember I begin to have
pains everywhere and I think of things
that make me begin to scream because I
hate them so. If there was a doctor
anywhere who could make you forget you
were ill instead of remembering it I
would have him brought here." And he
waved a thin hand which ought really to
have been covered with royal signet
rings made of rubies. "It is because my
cousin makes me forget that she makes me
better."

Dr. Craven had never made such a short
stay after a "tantrum"; usually he was
obliged to remain a very long time and
do a great many things. This afternoon
he did not give any medicine or leave
any new orders and he was spared any
disagreeable scenes. When he went
downstairs he looked very thoughtful and
when he talked to Mrs. Medlock in the
library she felt that he was a much
puzzled man.

"Well, sir," she ventured, "could you
have believed it?"

"It is certainly a new state of
affairs," said the doctor. "And there's
no denying it is better than the old
one."

"I believe Susan Sowerby's right--I do
that," said Mrs. Medlock. "I stopped in
her cottage on my way to Thwaite
yesterday and had a bit of talk with
her. And she says to me, 'Well, Sarah
Ann, she mayn't be a good child, an' she
mayn't be a pretty one, but she's a
child, an' children needs children.' We
went to school together, Susan Sowerby
and me."

"She's the best sick nurse I know," said
Dr. Craven. "When I find her in a
cottage I know the chances are that I
shall save my patient."

Mrs. Medlock smiled. She was fond of
Susan Sowerby.

"She's got a way with her, has Susan,"
she went on quite volubly. "I've been
thinking all morning of one thing she
said yesterday. She says, 'Once when I
was givin' th' children a bit of a
preach after they'd been fightin' I ses
to 'em all, "When I was at school my
jography told as th' world was shaped
like a orange an' I found out before I
was ten that th' whole orange doesn't
belong to nobody. No one owns more than
his bit of a quarter an' there's times
it seems like there's not enow quarters
to go round. But don't you--none o'
you--think as you own th' whole orange
or you'll find out you're mistaken, an'
you won't find it out without hard
knocks." 'What children learns from
children,' she says, 'is that there's no
sense in grabbin' at th' whole
orange--peel an' all. If you do you'll
likely not get even th' pips, an' them's
too bitter to eat.'"

"She's a shrewd woman," said Dr. Craven,
putting on his coat.

"Well, she's got a way of saying
things," ended Mrs. Medlock, much
pleased. "Sometimes I've said to her,
'Eh! Susan, if you was a different woman
an' didn't talk such broad Yorkshire
I've seen the times when I should have
said you was clever.'"

That night Colin slept without once
awakening and when he opened his eyes in
the morning he lay still and smiled
without knowing it--smiled because he
felt so curiously comfortable. It was
actually nice to be awake, and he turned
over and stretched his limbs
luxuriously. He felt as if tight strings
which had held him had loosened
themselves and let him go. He did not
know that Dr. Craven would have said
that his nerves had relaxed and rested
themselves. Instead of lying and staring
at the wall and wishing he had not
awakened, his mind was full of the plans
he and Mary had made yesterday, of
pictures of the garden and of Dickon and
his wild creatures. It was so nice to
have things to think about. And he had
not been awake more than ten minutes
when he heard feet running along the
corridor and Mary was at the door. The
next minute she was in the room and had
run across to his bed, bringing with her
a waft of fresh air full of the scent of
the morning.

"You've been out! You've been out!
There's that nice smell of leaves!" he
cried.

She had been running and her hair was
loose and blown and she was bright with
the air and pink-cheeked, though he
could not see it.

"It's so beautiful!" she said, a little
breathless with her speed. "You never
saw anything so beautiful! It has come!
I thought it had come that other
morning, but it was only coming. It is
here now! It has come, the Spring!
Dickon says so!"

"Has it?" cried Colin, and though he
really knew nothing about it he felt his
heart beat. He actually sat up in bed.

"Open the window!" he added, laughing
half with joyful excitement and half at
his own fancy. "Perhaps we may hear
golden trumpets!"

And though he laughed, Mary was at the
window in a moment and in a moment more
it was opened wide and freshness and
softness and scents and birds' songs
were pouring through.

"That's fresh air," she said. "Lie on
your back and draw in long breaths of
it. That's what Dickon does when he's
lying on the moor. He says he feels it
in his veins and it makes him strong and
he feels as if he could live forever and
ever. Breathe it and breathe it."

She was only repeating what Dickon had
told her, but she caught Colin's
fancy.

"'Forever and ever'! Does it make him
feel like that?" he said, and he did as
she told him, drawing in long deep
breaths over and over again until he
felt that something quite new and
delightful was happening to him.

Mary was at his bedside again.

"Things are crowding up out of the
earth," she ran on in a hurry. "And
there are flowers uncurling and buds on
everything and the green veil has
covered nearly all the gray and the
birds are in such a hurry about their
nests for fear they may be too late that
some of them are even fighting for
places in the secret garden. And the
rose-bushes look as wick as wick can be,
and there are primroses in the lanes and
woods, and the seeds we planted are up,
and Dickon has brought the fox and the
crow and the squirrels and a new-born
lamb."

And then she paused for breath. The
new-born lamb Dickon had found three
days before lying by its dead mother
among the gorse bushes on the moor. It
was not the first motherless lamb he had
found and he knew what to do with it. He
had taken it to the cottage wrapped in
his jacket and he had let it lie near
the fire and had fed it with warm milk.
It was a soft thing with a darling silly
baby face and legs rather long for its
body. Dickon had carried it over the
moor in his arms and its feeding bottle
was in his pocket with a squirrel, and
when Mary had sat under a tree with its
limp warmness huddled on her lap she had
felt as if she were too full of strange
joy to speak. A lamb--a lamb! A living
lamb who lay on your lap like a baby!

She was describing it with great joy and
Colin was listening and drawing in long
breaths of air when the nurse entered.
She started a little at the sight of the
open window. She had sat stifling in the
room many a warm day because her patient
was sure that open windows gave people
cold.

"Are you sure you are not chilly, Master
Colin?" she inquired.

"No," was the answer. "I am breathing
long breaths of fresh air. It makes you
strong. I am going to get up to the sofa
for breakfast. My cousin will have
breakfast with me."

The nurse went away, concealing a smile,
to give the order for two breakfasts.
She found the servants' hall a more
amusing place than the invalid's chamber
and just now everybody wanted to hear
the news from upstairs. There was a
great deal of joking about the unpopular
young recluse who, as the cook said,
"had found his master, and good for
him." The servants' hall had been very
tired of the tantrums, and the butler,
who was a man with a family, had more
than once expressed his opinion that the
invalid would be all the better "for a
good hiding."

When Colin was on his sofa and the
breakfast for two was put upon the table
he made an announcement to the nurse in
his most Rajah-like manner.

"A boy, and a fox, and a crow, and two
squirrels, and a new-born lamb, are
coming to see me this morning. I want
them brought upstairs as soon as they
come," he said. "You are not to begin
playing with the animals in the
servants' hall and keep them there. I
want them here." The nurse gave a slight
gasp and tried to conceal it with a
cough.

"Yes, sir," she answered.

"I'll tell you what you can do," added
Colin, waving his hand. "You can tell
Martha to bring them here. The boy is
Martha's brother. His name is Dickon and
he is an animal charmer."

"I hope the animals won't bite, Master
Colin," said the nurse.

"I told you he was a charmer," said
Colin austerely. "Charmers' animals
never bite."

"There are snake-charmers in India,"
said Mary. "And they can put their
snakes' heads in their mouths."

"Goodness!" shuddered the nurse.

They ate their breakfast with the
morning air pouring in upon them.
Colin's breakfast was a very good one
and Mary watched him with serious
interest.

"You will begin to get fatter just as I
did," she said. "I never wanted my
breakfast when I was in India and now I
always want it."

"I wanted mine this morning," said
Colin. "Perhaps it was the fresh air.
When do you think Dickon will come?"

He was not long in coming. In about ten
minutes Mary held up her hand.

"Listen!" she said. "Did you hear a
caw?"

Colin listened and heard it, the oddest
sound in the world to hear inside a
house, a hoarse "caw-caw."

"Yes," he answered.

"That's Soot," said Mary. "Listen again.
Do you hear a bleat--a tiny one?"

"Oh, yes!" cried Colin, quite
flushing.

"That's the new-born lamb," said Mary.
"He's coming."

Dickon's moorland boots were thick and
clumsy and though he tried to walk
quietly they made a clumping sound as he
walked through the long corridors. Mary
and Colin heard him marching--marching,
until he passed through the tapestry
door on to the soft carpet of Colin's
own passage.

"If you please, sir," announced Martha,
opening the door, "if you please, sir,
here's Dickon an' his creatures."

Dickon came in smiling his nicest wide
smile. The new-born lamb was in his arms
and the little red fox trotted by his
side. Nut sat on his left shoulder and
Soot on his right and Shell's head and
paws peeped out of his coat pocket.

Colin slowly sat up and stared and
stared--as he had stared when he first
saw Mary; but this was a stare of wonder
and delight. The truth was that in spite
of all he had heard he had not in the
least understood what this boy would be
like and that his fox and his crow and
his squirrels and his lamb were so near
to him and his friendliness that they
seemed almost to be part of himself.
Colin had never talked to a boy in his
life and he was so overwhelmed by his
own pleasure and curiosity that he did
not even think of speaking.

But Dickon did not feel the least shy or
awkward. He had not felt embarrassed
because the crow had not known his
language and had only stared and had not
spoken to him the first time they met.
Creatures were always like that until
they found out about you. He walked over
to Colin's sofa and put the new-born
lamb quietly on his lap, and immediately
the little creature turned to the warm
velvet dressing-gown and began to nuzzle
and nuzzle into its folds and butt its
tight-curled head with soft impatience
against his side. Of course no boy could
have helped speaking then.

"What is it doing?" cried Colin. "What
does it want?"

"It wants its mother," said Dickon,
smiling more and more. "I brought it to
thee a bit hungry because I knowed tha'd
like to see it feed."

He knelt down by the sofa and took a
feeding-bottle from his pocket.

"Come on, little 'un," he said, turning
the small woolly white head with a
gentle brown hand. "This is what tha's
after. Tha'll get more out o' this than
tha' will out o' silk velvet coats.
There now," and he pushed the rubber tip
of the bottle into the nuzzling mouth
and the lamb began to suck it with
ravenous ecstasy.

After that there was no wondering what
to say. By the time the lamb fell asleep
questions poured forth and Dickon
answered them all. He told them how he
had found the lamb just as the sun was
rising three mornings ago. He had been
standing on the moor listening to a
skylark and watching him swing higher
and higher into the sky until he was
only a speck in the heights of blue.

"I'd almost lost him but for his song
an' I was wonderin' how a chap could
hear it when it seemed as if he'd get
out o' th' world in a minute--an' just
then I heard somethin' else far off
among th' gorse bushes. It was a weak
bleatin' an' I knowed it was a new lamb
as was hungry an' I knowed it wouldn't
be hungry if it hadn't lost its mother
somehow, so I set off searchin'. Eh! I
did have a look for it. I went in an'
out among th' gorse bushes an' round an'
round an' I always seemed to take th'
wrong turnin'. But at last I seed a bit
o' white by a rock on top o' th' moor
an' I climbed up an' found th' little
'un half dead wi' cold an' clemmin'."
While he talked, Soot flew solemnly in
and out of the open window and cawed
remarks about the scenery while Nut and
Shell made excursions into the big trees
outside and ran up and down trunks and
explored branches. Captain curled up
near Dickon, who sat on the hearth-rug
from preference.

They looked at the pictures in the
gardening books and Dickon knew all the
flowers by their country names and knew
exactly which ones were already growing
in the secret garden.

"I couldna' say that there name," he
said, pointing to one under which was
written "Aquilegia," "but us calls that
a columbine, an' that there one it's a
snapdragon and they both grow wild in
hedges, but these is garden ones an'
they're bigger an' grander. There's some
big clumps o' columbine in th' garden.
They'll look like a bed o' blue an'
white butterflies flutterin' when
they're out."

"I'm going to see them," cried Colin. "I
am going to see them!"

"Aye, that tha' mun," said Mary quite
seriously. "An' tha' munnot lose no time
about it."



CHAPTER XX

"I SHALL LIVE FOREVER--AND EVER--AND
EVER!"

But they were obliged to wait more than
a week because first there came some
very windy days and then Colin was
threatened with a cold, which two things
happening one after the other would no
doubt have thrown him into a rage but
that there was so much careful and
mysterious planning to do and almost
every day Dickon came in, if only for a
few minutes, to talk about what was
happening on the moor and in the lanes
and hedges and on the borders of
streams. The things he had to tell about
otters' and badgers' and water-rats'
houses, not to mention birds' nests and
field-mice and their burrows, were
enough to make you almost tremble with
excitement when you heard all the
intimate details from an animal charmer
and realized with what thrilling
eagerness and anxiety the whole busy
underworld was working.

"They're same as us," said Dickon, "only
they have to build their homes every
year. An' it keeps 'em so busy they fair
scuffle to get 'em done."

The most absorbing thing, however, was
the preparations to be made before Colin
could be transported with sufficient
secrecy to the garden. No one must see
the chair-carriage and Dickon and Mary
after they turned a certain corner of
the shrubbery and entered upon the walk
outside the ivied walls. As each day
passed, Colin had become more and more
fixed in his feeling that the mystery
surrounding the garden was one of its
greatest charms. Nothing must spoil
that. No one must ever suspect that they
had a secret. People must think that he
was simply going out with Mary and
Dickon because he liked them and did not
object to their looking at him. They had
long and quite delightful talks about
their route. They would go up this path
and down that one and cross the other
and go round among the fountain
flower-beds as if they were looking at
the "bedding-out plants" the head
gardener, Mr. Roach, had been having
arranged. That would seem such a
rational thing to do that no one would
think it at all mysterious. They would
turn into the shrubbery walks and lose
themselves until they came to the long
walls. It was almost as serious and
elaborately thought out as the plans of
march made by great generals in time of
war.

Rumors of the new and curious things
which were occurring in the invalid's
apartments had of course filtered
through the servants' hall into the
stable yards and out among the
gardeners, but notwithstanding this, Mr.
Roach was startled one day when he
received orders from Master Colin's room
to the effect that he must report
himself in the apartment no outsider had
ever seen, as the invalid himself
desired to speak to him.

"Well, well," he said to himself as he
hurriedly changed his coat, "what's to
do now? His Royal Highness that wasn't
to be looked at calling up a man he's
never set eyes on."

Mr. Roach was not without curiosity. He
had never caught even a glimpse of the
boy and had heard a dozen exaggerated
stories about his uncanny looks and ways
and his insane tempers. The thing he had
heard oftenest was that he might die at
any moment and there had been numerous
fanciful descriptions of a humped back
and helpless limbs, given by people who
had never seen him.

"Things are changing in this house, Mr.
Roach," said Mrs. Medlock, as she led
him up the back staircase to the
corridor on to which opened the hitherto
mysterious chamber.

"Let's hope they're changing for the
better, Mrs. Medlock," he answered.

"They couldn't well change for the
worse," she continued; "and queer as it
all is there's them as finds their
duties made a lot easier to stand up
under. Don't you be surprised, Mr.
Roach, if you find yourself in the
middle of a menagerie and Martha
Sowerby's Dickon more at home than you
or me could ever be."

There really was a sort of Magic about
Dickon, as Mary always privately
believed. When Mr. Roach heard his name
he smiled quite leniently.

"He'd be at home in Buckingham Palace or
at the bottom of a coal mine," he said.
"And yet it's not impudence, either.
He's just fine, is that lad."

It was perhaps well he had been prepared
or he might have been startled. When the
bedroom door was opened a large crow,
which seemed quite at home perched on
the high back of a carven chair,
announced the entrance of a visitor by
saying "Caw--Caw" quite loudly. In spite
of Mrs. Medlock's warning, Mr. Roach
only just escaped being sufficiently
undignified to jump backward.

The young Rajah was neither in bed nor
on his sofa. He was sitting in an
armchair and a young lamb was standing
by him shaking its tail in feeding-lamb
fashion as Dickon knelt giving it milk
from its bottle. A squirrel was perched
on Dickon's bent back attentively
nibbling a nut. The little girl from
India was sitting on a big footstool
looking on.

"Here is Mr. Roach, Master Colin," said
Mrs. Medlock.

The young Rajah turned and looked his
servitor over--at least that was what
the head gardener felt happened.

"Oh, you are Roach, are you?" he said.
"I sent for you to give you some very
important orders."

"Very good, sir," answered Roach,
wondering if he was to receive
instructions to fell all the oaks in the
park or to transform the orchards into
water-gardens.

"I am going out in my chair this
afternoon," said Colin. "If the fresh
air agrees with me I may go out every
day. When I go, none of the gardeners
are to be anywhere near the Long Walk by
the garden walls. No one is to be there.
I shall go out about two o'clock and
everyone must keep away until I send
word that they may go back to their
work."

"Very good, sir," replied Mr. Roach,
much relieved to hear that the oaks
might remain and that the orchards were
safe. "Mary," said Colin, turning to
her, "what is that thing you say in
India when you have finished talking and
want people to go?"

"You say, 'You have my permission to
go,'" answered Mary.

The Rajah waved his hand.

"You have my permission to go, Roach,"
he said. "But, remember, this is very
important."

"Caw--Caw!" remarked the crow hoarsely
but not impolitely.

"Very good, sir. Thank you, sir," said
Mr. Roach, and Mrs. Medlock took him out
of the room.

Outside in the corridor, being a rather
good-natured man, he smiled until he
almost laughed.

"My word!" he said, "he's got a fine
lordly way with him, hasn't he? You'd
think he was a whole Royal Family rolled
into one--Prince Consort and all.".

"Eh!" protested Mrs. Medlock, "we've had
to let him trample all over every one of
us ever since he had feet and he thinks
that's what folks was born for."

"Perhaps he'll grow out of it, if he
lives," suggested Mr. Roach.

"Well, there's one thing pretty sure,"
said Mrs. Medlock. "If he does live and
that Indian child stays here I'll
warrant she teaches him that the whole
orange does not belong to him, as Susan
Sowerby says. And he'll be likely to
find out the size of his own quarter."

Inside the room Colin was leaning back
on his cushions.

"It's all safe now," he said. "And this
afternoon I shall see it--this afternoon
I shall be in it!"

Dickon went back to the garden with his
creatures and Mary stayed with Colin.
She did not think he looked tired but he
was very quiet before their lunch came
and he was quiet while they were eating
it. She wondered why and asked him about
it.

"What big eyes you've got, Colin," she
said. "When you are thinking they get as
big as saucers. What are you thinking
about now?"

"I can't help thinking about what it
will look like," he answered.

"The garden?" asked Mary.

"The springtime," he said. "I was
thinking that I've really never seen it
before. I scarcely ever went out and
when I did go I never looked at it. I
didn't even think about it."

"I never saw it in India because there
wasn't any," said Mary.

Shut in and morbid as his life had been,
Colin had more imagination than she had
and at least he had spent a good deal of
time looking at wonderful books and
pictures.

"That morning when you ran in and said
'It's come! It's come!', you made me
feel quite queer. It sounded as if
things were coming with a great
procession and big bursts and wafts of
music. I've a picture like it in one of
my books--crowds of lovely people and
children with garlands and branches with
blossoms on them, everyone laughing and
dancing and crowding and playing on
pipes. That was why I said, 'Perhaps we
shall hear golden trumpets' and told you
to throw open the window."

"How funny!" said Mary. "That's really
just what it feels like. And if all the
flowers and leaves and green things and
birds and wild creatures danced past at
once, what a crowd it would be! I'm sure
they'd dance and sing and flute and that
would be the wafts of music."

They both laughed but it was not because
the idea was laughable but because they
both so liked it.

A little later the nurse made Colin
ready. She noticed that instead of lying
like a log while his clothes were put on
he sat up and made some efforts to help
himself, and he talked and laughed with
Mary all the time.

"This is one of his good days, sir," she
said to Dr. Craven, who dropped in to
inspect him. "He's in such good spirits
that it makes him stronger."

"I'll call in again later in the
afternoon, after he has come in," said
Dr. Craven. "I must see how the going
out agrees with him. I wish," in a very
low voice, "that he would let you go
with him."

"I'd rather give up the case this
moment, sir, than even stay here while
it's suggested," answered the nurse.
With sudden firmness.

"I hadn't really decided to suggest it,"
said the doctor, with his slight
nervousness. "We'll try the experiment.
Dickon's a lad I'd trust with a new-born
child."

The strongest footman in the house
carried Colin down stairs and put him in
his wheeled chair near which Dickon
waited outside. After the manservant had
arranged his rugs and cushions the Rajah
waved his hand to him and to the
nurse.

"You have my permission to go," he said,
and they both disappeared quickly and it
must be confessed giggled when they were
safely inside the house.

Dickon began to push the wheeled chair
slowly and steadily. Mistress Mary
walked beside it and Colin leaned back
and lifted his face to the sky. The arch
of it looked very high and the small
snowy clouds seemed like white birds
floating on outspread wings below its
crystal blueness. The wind swept in soft
big breaths down from the moor and was
strange with a wild clear scented
sweetness. Colin kept lifting his thin
chest to draw it in, and his big eyes
looked as if it were they which were
listening--listening, instead of his
ears.

"There are so many sounds of singing and
humming and calling out," he said. "What
is that scent the puffs of wind
bring?"

"It's gorse on th' moor that's openin'
out," answered Dickon. "Eh! th' bees are
at it wonderful today."

Not a human creature was to be caught
sight of in the paths they took. In fact
every gardener or gardener's lad had
been witched away. But they wound in and
out among the shrubbery and out and
round the fountain beds, following their
carefully planned route for the mere
mysterious pleasure of it. But when at
last they turned into the Long Walk by
the ivied walls the excited sense of an
approaching thrill made them, for some
curious reason they could not have
explained, begin to speak in whispers.

"This is it," breathed Mary. "This is
where I used to walk up and down and
wonder and wonder." "Is it?" cried
Colin, and his eyes began to search the
ivy with eager curiousness. "But I can
see nothing," he whispered. "There is no
door."

"That's what I thought," said Mary.

Then there was a lovely breathless
silence and the chair wheeled on.

"That is the garden where Ben
Weatherstaff works," said Mary.

"Is it?" said Colin.

A few yards more and Mary whispered
again.

"This is where the robin flew over the
wall," she said.

"Is it?" cried Colin. "Oh! I wish he'd
come again!"

"And that," said Mary with solemn
delight, pointing under a big lilac
bush, "is where he perched on the little
heap of earth and showed me the key."

Then Colin sat up.

"Where? Where? There?" he cried, and his
eyes were as big as the wolf's in Red
Riding-Hood, when Red Riding-Hood felt
called upon to remark on them. Dickon
stood still and the wheeled chair
stopped.

"And this," said Mary, stepping on to
the bed close to the ivy, "is where I
went to talk to him when he chirped at
me from the top of the wall. And this is
the ivy the wind blew back," and she
took hold of the hanging green
curtain.

"Oh! is it--is it!" gasped Colin.

"And here is the handle, and here is the
door. Dickon push him in--push him in
quickly!"

And Dickon did it with one strong,
steady, splendid push.

But Colin had actually dropped back
against his cushions, even though he
gasped with delight, and he had covered
his eyes with his hands and held them
there shutting out everything until they
were inside and the chair stopped as if
by magic and the door was closed. Not
till then did he take them away and look
round and round and round as Dickon and
Mary had done. And over walls and earth
and trees and swinging sprays and
tendrils the fair green veil of tender
little leaves had crept, and in the
grass under the trees and the gray urns
in the alcoves and here and there
everywhere were touches or splashes of
gold and purple and white and the trees
were showing pink and snow above his
head and there were fluttering of wings
and faint sweet pipes and humming and
scents and scents. And the sun fell warm
upon his face like a hand with a lovely
touch. And in wonder Mary and Dickon
stood and stared at him. He looked so
strange and different because a pink
glow of color had actually crept all
over him--ivory face and neck and hands
and all.

"I shall get well! I shall get well!" he
cried out. "Mary! Dickon! I shall get
well! And I shall live forever and ever
and ever!"



CHAPTER XXI

BEN WEATHERSTAFF

One of the strange things about living
in the world is that it is only now and
then one is quite sure one is going to
live forever and ever and ever. One
knows it sometimes when one gets up at
the tender solemn dawn-time and goes out
and stands alone and throws one's head
far back and looks up and up and watches
the pale sky slowly changing and
flushing and marvelous unknown things
happening until the East almost makes
one cry out and one's heart stands still
at the strange unchanging majesty of the
rising of the sun--which has been
happening every morning for thousands
and thousands and thousands of years.
One knows it then for a moment or so.
And one knows it sometimes when one
stands by oneself in a wood at sunset
and the mysterious deep gold stillness
slanting through and under the branches
seems to be saying slowly again and
again something one cannot quite hear,
however much one tries. Then sometimes
the immense quiet of the dark blue at
night with millions of stars waiting and
watching makes one sure; and sometimes a
sound of far-off music makes it true;
and sometimes a look in some one's
eyes.

And it was like that with Colin when he
first saw and heard and felt the
Springtime inside the four high walls of
a hidden garden. That afternoon the
whole world seemed to devote itself to
being perfect and radiantly beautiful
and kind to one boy. Perhaps out of pure
heavenly goodness the spring came and
crowned everything it possibly could
into that one place. More than once
Dickon paused in what he was doing and
stood still with a sort of growing
wonder in his eyes, shaking his head
softly.

"Eh! it is graidely," he said. "I'm
twelve goin' on thirteen an' there's a
lot o' afternoons in thirteen years, but
seems to me like I never seed one as
graidely as this 'ere."

"Aye, it is a graidely one," said Mary,
and she sighed for mere joy. "I'll
warrant it's the graidelest one as ever
was in this world."

"Does tha' think," said Colin with
dreamy carefulness, "as happen it was
made loike this 'ere all o' purpose for
me?"

"My word!" cried Mary admiringly, "that
there is a bit o' good Yorkshire. Tha'rt
shapin' first-rate--that tha' art."

And delight reigned. They drew the chair
under the plum-tree, which was
snow-white with blossoms and musical
with bees. It was like a king's canopy,
a fairy king's. There were flowering
cherry-trees near and apple-trees whose
buds were pink and white, and here and
there one had burst open wide. Between
the blossoming branches of the canopy
bits of blue sky looked down like
wonderful eyes.

Mary and Dickon worked a little here and
there and Colin watched them. They
brought him things to look at--buds
which were opening, buds which were
tight closed, bits of twig whose leaves
were just showing green, the feather of
a woodpecker which had dropped on the
grass, the empty shell of some bird
early hatched. Dickon pushed the chair
slowly round and round the garden,
stopping every other moment to let him
look at wonders springing out of the
earth or trailing down from trees. It
was like being taken in state round the
country of a magic king and queen and
shown all the mysterious riches it
contained.

"I wonder if we shall see the robin?"
said Colin.

"Tha'll see him often enow after a bit,"
answered Dickon. "When th' eggs hatches
out th' little chap he'll be kep' so
busy it'll make his head swim. Tha'll
see him flyin' backward an' for'ard
carryin' worms nigh as big as himsel'
an' that much noise goin' on in th' nest
when he gets there as fair flusters him
so as he scarce knows which big mouth to
drop th' first piece in. An' gapin'
beaks an' squawks on every side. Mother
says as when she sees th' work a robin
has to keep them gapin' beaks filled,
she feels like she was a lady with
nothin' to do. She says she's seen th'
little chaps when it seemed like th'
sweat must be droppin' off 'em, though
folk can't see it."

This made them giggle so delightedly
that they were obliged to cover their
mouths with their hands, remembering
that they must not be heard. Colin had
been instructed as to the law of
whispers and low voices several days
before. He liked the mysteriousness of
it and did his best, but in the midst of
excited enjoyment it is rather difficult
never to laugh above a whisper.

Every moment of the afternoon was full
of new things and every hour the
sunshine grew more golden. The wheeled
chair had been drawn back under the
canopy and Dickon had sat down on the
grass and had just drawn out his pipe
when Colin saw something he had not had
time to notice before.

"That's a very old tree over there,
isn't it?" he said. Dickon looked across
the grass at the tree and Mary looked
and there was a brief moment of
stillness.

"Yes," answered Dickon, after it, and
his low voice had a very gentle sound.

Mary gazed at the tree and thought.

"The branches are quite gray and there's
not a single leaf anywhere," Colin went
on. "It's quite dead, isn't it?"

"Aye," admitted Dickon. "But them roses
as has climbed all over it will near
hide every bit o' th' dead wood when
they're full o' leaves an' flowers. It
won't look dead then. It'll be th'
prettiest of all."

Mary still gazed at the tree and
thought.

"It looks as if a big branch had been
broken off," said Colin. "I wonder how
it was done."

"It's been done many a year," answered
Dickon. "Eh!" with a sudden relieved
start and laying his hand on Colin.
"Look at that robin! There he is! He's
been foragin' for his mate."

Colin was almost too late but he just
caught sight of him, the flash of
red-breasted bird with something in his
beak. He darted through the greenness
and into the close-grown corner and was
out of sight. Colin leaned back on his
cushion again, laughing a little. "He's
taking her tea to her. Perhaps it's five
o'clock. I think I'd like some tea
myself."

And so they were safe.

"It was Magic which sent the robin,"
said Mary secretly to Dickon afterward.
"I know it was Magic." For both she and
Dickon had been afraid Colin might ask
something about the tree whose branch
had broken off ten years ago and they
had talked it over together and Dickon
had stood and rubbed his head in a
troubled way.

"We mun look as if it wasn't no
different from th' other trees," he had
said. "We couldn't never tell him how it
broke, poor lad. If he says anything
about it we mun--we mun try to look
cheerful."

"Aye, that we mun," had answered Mary.

But she had not felt as if she looked
cheerful when she gazed at the tree. She
wondered and wondered in those few
moments if there was any reality in that
other thing Dickon had said. He had gone
on rubbing his rust-red hair in a
puzzled way, but a nice comforted look
had begun to grow in his blue eyes.

"Mrs. Craven was a very lovely young
lady," he had gone on rather
hesitatingly. "An' mother she thinks
maybe she's about Misselthwaite many a
time lookin' after Mester Colin, same as
all mothers do when they're took out o'
th' world. They have to come back, tha'
sees. Happen she's been in the garden
an' happen it was her set us to work,
an' told us to bring him here."

Mary had thought he meant something
about Magic. She was a great believer in
Magic. Secretly she quite believed that
Dickon worked Magic, of course good
Magic, on everything near him and that
was why people liked him so much and
wild creatures knew he was their friend.
She wondered, indeed, if it were not
possible that his gift had brought the
robin just at the right moment when
Colin asked that dangerous question. She
felt that his Magic was working all the
afternoon and making Colin look like an
entirely different boy. It did not seem
possible that he could be the crazy
creature who had screamed and beaten and
bitten his pillow. Even his ivory
whiteness seemed to change. The faint
glow of color which had shown on his
face and neck and hands when he first
got inside the garden really never quite
died away. He looked as if he were made
of flesh instead of ivory or wax.

They saw the robin carry food to his
mate two or three times, and it was so
suggestive of afternoon tea that Colin
felt they must have some.

"Go and make one of the men servants
bring some in a basket to the
rhododendron walk," he said. "And then
you and Dickon can bring it here."

It was an agreeable idea, easily carried
out, and when the white cloth was spread
upon the grass, with hot tea and
buttered toast and crumpets, a
delightfully hungry meal was eaten, and
several birds on domestic errands paused
to inquire what was going on and were
led into investigating crumbs with great
activity. Nut and Shell whisked up trees
with pieces of cake and Soot took the
entire half of a buttered crumpet into a
corner and pecked at and examined and
turned it over and made hoarse remarks
about it until he decided to swallow it
all joyfully in one gulp.

The afternoon was dragging towards its
mellow hour. The sun was deepening the
gold of its lances, the bees were going
home and the birds were flying past less
often. Dickon and Mary were sitting on
the grass, the tea-basket was repacked
ready to be taken back to the house, and
Colin was lying against his cushions
with his heavy locks pushed back from
his forehead and his face looking quite
a natural color.

"I don't want this afternoon to go," he
said; "but I shall come back tomorrow,
and the day after, and the day after,
and the day after."

"You'll get plenty of fresh air, won't
you?" said Mary. "I'm going to get
nothing else," he answered. "I've seen
the spring now and I'm going to see the
summer. I'm going to see everything grow
here. I'm going to grow here myself."

"That tha' will," said Dickon. "Us'll
have thee walkin' about here an' diggin'
same as other folk afore long."

Colin flushed tremendously.

"Walk!" he said. "Dig! Shall I?"

Dickon's glance at him was delicately
cautious. Neither he nor Mary had ever
asked if anything was the matter with
his legs.

"For sure tha' will," he said stoutly.
"Tha--tha's got legs o' thine own, same
as other folks!"

Mary was rather frightened until she
heard Colin's answer.

"Nothing really ails them," he said,
"but they are so thin and weak. They
shake so that I'm afraid to try to stand
on them."

Both Mary and Dickon drew a relieved
breath.

"When tha' stops bein' afraid tha'lt
stand on 'em," Dickon said with renewed
cheer. "An' tha'lt stop bein' afraid in
a bit."

"I shall?" said Colin, and he lay still
as if he were wondering about things.

They were really very quiet for a little
while. The sun was dropping lower. It
was that hour when everything stills
itself, and they really had had a busy
and exciting afternoon. Colin looked as
if he were resting luxuriously. Even the
creatures had ceased moving about and
had drawn together and were resting near
them. Soot had perched on a low branch
and drawn up one leg and dropped the
gray film drowsily over his eyes. Mary
privately thought he looked as if he
might snore in a minute.

In the midst of this stillness it was
rather startling when Colin half lifted
his head and exclaimed in a loud
suddenly alarmed whisper:

"Who is that man?" Dickon and Mary
scrambled to their feet.

"Man!" they both cried in low quick
voices.

Colin pointed to the high wall. "Look!"
he whispered excitedly. "Just look!"

Mary and Dickon wheeled about and
looked. There was Ben Weatherstaff's
indignant face glaring at them over the
wall from the top of a ladder! He
actually shook his fist at Mary.

"If I wasn't a bachelder, an' tha' was a
wench o' mine," he cried, "I'd give thee
a hidin'!"

He mounted another step threateningly as
if it were his energetic intention to
jump down and deal with her; but as she
came toward him he evidently thought
better of it and stood on the top step
of his ladder shaking his fist down at
her.

"I never thowt much o' thee!" he
harangued. "I couldna' abide thee th'
first time I set eyes on thee. A scrawny
buttermilk-faced young besom, allus
askin' questions an' pokin' tha' nose
where it wasna, wanted. I never knowed
how tha' got so thick wi' me. If it
hadna' been for th' robin-- Drat
him--"

"Ben Weatherstaff," called out Mary,
finding her breath. She stood below him
and called up to him with a sort of
gasp. "Ben Weatherstaff, it was the
robin who showed me the way!"

Then it did seem as if Ben really would
scramble down on her side of the wall,
he was so outraged.

"Tha' young bad 'un!" he called down at
her. "Layin' tha' badness on a
robin--not but what he's impidint enow
for anythin'. Him showin' thee th' way!
Him! Eh! tha' young nowt"--she could see
his next words burst out because he was
overpowered by curiosity--"however i'
this world did tha' get in?"

"It was the robin who showed me the
way," she protested obstinately. "He
didn't know he was doing it but he did.
And I can't tell you from here while
you're shaking your fist at me."

He stopped shaking his fist very
suddenly at that very moment and his jaw
actually dropped as he stared over her
head at something he saw coming over the
grass toward him.

At the first sound of his torrent of
words Colin had been so surprised that
he had only sat up and listened as if he
were spellbound. But in the midst of it
he had recovered himself and beckoned
imperiously to Dickon.

"Wheel me over there!" he commanded.
"Wheel me quite close and stop right in
front of him!"

And this, if you please, this is what
Ben Weatherstaff beheld and which made
his jaw drop. A wheeled chair with
luxurious cushions and robes which came
toward him looking rather like some sort
of State Coach because a young Rajah
leaned back in it with royal command in
his great black-rimmed eyes and a thin
white hand extended haughtily toward
him. And it stopped right under Ben
Weatherstaff's nose. It was really no
wonder his mouth dropped open.

"Do you know who I am?" demanded the
Rajah.

How Ben Weatherstaff stared! His red old
eyes fixed themselves on what was before
him as if he were seeing a ghost. He
gazed and gazed and gulped a lump down
his throat and did not say a word. "Do
you know who I am?" demanded Colin still
more imperiously. "Answer!"

Ben Weatherstaff put his gnarled hand up
and passed it over his eyes and over his
forehead and then he did answer in a
queer shaky voice.

"Who tha' art?" he said. "Aye, that I
do--wi' tha' mother's eyes starin' at me
out o' tha' face. Lord knows how tha'
come here. But tha'rt th' poor
cripple."

Colin forgot that he had ever had a
back. His face flushed scarlet and he
sat bolt upright.

"I'm not a cripple!" he cried out
furiously. "I'm not!"

"He's not!" cried Mary, almost shouting
up the wall in her fierce indignation.
"He's not got a lump as big as a pin! I
looked and there was none there--not
one!"

Ben Weatherstaff passed his hand over
his forehead again and gazed as if he
could never gaze enough. His hand shook
and his mouth shook and his voice shook.
He was an ignorant old man and a
tactless old man and he could only
remember the things he had heard.

"Tha'--tha' hasn't got a crooked back?"
he said hoarsely.

"No!" shouted Colin.

"Tha'--tha' hasn't got crooked legs?"
quavered Ben more hoarsely yet. It was
too much. The strength which Colin
usually threw into his tantrums rushed
through him now in a new way. Never yet
had he been accused of crooked
legs--even in whispers--and the
perfectly simple belief in their
existence which was revealed by Ben
Weatherstaff's voice was more than Rajah
flesh and blood could endure. His anger
and insulted pride made him forget
everything but this one moment and
filled him with a power he had never
known before, an almost unnatural
strength.

"Come here!" he shouted to Dickon, and
he actually began to tear the coverings
off his lower limbs and disentangle
himself. "Come here! Come here! This
minute!"

Dickon was by his side in a second. Mary
caught her breath in a short gasp and
felt herself turn pale.

"He can do it! He can do it! He can do
it! He can!" she gabbled over to herself
under her breath as fast as ever she
could.

There was a brief fierce scramble, the
rugs were tossed on the ground, Dickon
held Colin's arm, the thin legs were
out, the thin feet were on the grass.
Colin was standing upright--upright--as
straight as an arrow and looking
strangely tall--his head thrown back and
his strange eyes flashing lightning.
"Look at me!" he flung up at Ben
Weatherstaff. "Just look at me--you!
Just look at me!"

"He's as straight as I am!" cried
Dickon. "He's as straight as any lad i'
Yorkshire!"

What Ben Weatherstaff did Mary thought
queer beyond measure. He choked and
gulped and suddenly tears ran down his
weather-wrinkled cheeks as he struck his
old hands together.

"Eh!" he burst forth, "th' lies folk
tells! Tha'rt as thin as a lath an' as
white as a wraith, but there's not a
knob on thee. Tha'lt make a mon yet. God
bless thee!"

Dickon held Colin's arm strongly but the
boy had not begun to falter. He stood
straighter and straighter and looked Ben
Weatherstaff in the face.

"I'm your master," he said, "when my
father is away. And you are to obey me.
This is my garden. Don't dare to say a
word about it! You get down from that
ladder and go out to the Long Walk and
Miss Mary will meet you and bring you
here. I want to talk to you. We did not
want you, but now you will have to be in
the secret. Be quick!"

Ben Weatherstaff's crabbed old face was
still wet with that one queer rush of
tears. It seemed as if he could not take
his eyes from thin straight Colin
standing on his feet with his head
thrown back.

"Eh! lad," he almost whispered. "Eh! my
lad!" And then remembering himself he
suddenly touched his hat gardener
fashion and said, "Yes, sir! Yes, sir!"
and obediently disappeared as he
descended the ladder.



CHAPTER XXII

WHEN THE SUN WENT DOWN

When his head was out of sight Colin
turned to Mary.

"Go and meet him," he said; and Mary
flew across the grass to the door under
the ivy.

Dickon was watching him with sharp eyes.
There were scarlet spots on his cheeks
and he looked amazing, but he showed no
signs of falling.

"I can stand," he said, and his head was
still held up and he said it quite
grandly.

"I told thee tha' could as soon as tha'
stopped bein' afraid," answered Dickon.
"An' tha's stopped."

"Yes, I've stopped," said Colin.

Then suddenly he remembered something
Mary had said.

"Are you making Magic?" he asked
sharply.

Dickon's curly mouth spread in a
cheerful grin.

"Tha's doin' Magic thysel'," he said.
"It's same Magic as made these 'ere work
out o' th' earth," and he touched with
his thick boot a clump of crocuses in
the grass. Colin looked down at them.

"Aye," he said slowly, "there couldna'
be bigger Magic than that there--there
couldna' be."

He drew himself up straighter than
ever.

"I'm going to walk to that tree," he
said, pointing to one a few feet away
from him. "I'm going to be standing when
Weatherstaff comes here. I can rest
against the tree if I like. When I want
to sit down I will sit down, but not
before. Bring a rug from the chair."

He walked to the tree and though Dickon
held his arm he was wonderfully steady.
When he stood against the tree trunk it
was not too plain that he supported
himself against it, and he still held
himself so straight that he looked
tall.

When Ben Weatherstaff came through the
door in the wall he saw him standing
there and he heard Mary muttering
something under her breath.

"What art sayin'?" he asked rather
testily because he did not want his
attention distracted from the long thin
straight boy figure and proud face.

But she did not tell him. What she was
saying was this:

"You can do it! You can do it! I told
you you could! You can do it! You can do
it! You can!" She was saying it to Colin
because she wanted to make Magic and
keep him on his feet looking like that.
She could not bear that he should give
in before Ben Weatherstaff. He did not
give in. She was uplifted by a sudden
feeling that he looked quite beautiful
in spite of his thinness. He fixed his
eyes on Ben Weatherstaff in his funny
imperious way.

"Look at me!" he commanded. "Look at me
all over! Am I a hunchback? Have I got
crooked legs?"

Ben Weatherstaff had not quite got over
his emotion, but he had recovered a
little and answered almost in his usual
way.

"Not tha'," he said. "Nowt o' th' sort.
What's tha' been doin' with
thysel'--hidin' out o' sight an' lettin'
folk think tha' was cripple an'
half-witted?"

"Half-witted!" said Colin angrily. "Who
thought that?"

"Lots o' fools," said Ben. "Th' world's
full o' jackasses brayin' an' they never
bray nowt but lies. What did tha' shut
thysel' up for?"

"Everyone thought I was going to die,"
said Colin shortly. "I'm not!"

And he said it with such decision Ben
Weatherstaff looked him over, up and
down, down and up.

"Tha' die!" he said with dry exultation.
"Nowt o' th' sort! Tha's got too much
pluck in thee. When I seed thee put tha'
legs on th' ground in such a hurry I
knowed tha' was all right. Sit thee down
on th' rug a bit young Mester an' give
me thy orders."

There was a queer mixture of crabbed
tenderness and shrewd understanding in
his manner. Mary had poured out speech
as rapidly as she could as they had come
down the Long Walk. The chief thing to
be remembered, she had told him, was
that Colin was getting well--getting
well. The garden was doing it. No one
must let him remember about having humps
and dying.

The Rajah condescended to seat himself
on a rug under the tree.

"What work do you do in the gardens,
Weatherstaff?" he inquired.

"Anythin' I'm told to do," answered old
Ben. "I'm kep' on by favor--because she
liked me."

"She?" said Colin.

"Tha' mother," answered Ben
Weatherstaff.

"My mother?" said Colin, and he looked
about him quietly. "This was her garden,
wasn't it?"

"Aye, it was that!" and Ben Weatherstaff
looked about him too. "She were main
fond of it."

"It is my garden now. I am fond of it. I
shall come here every day," announced
Colin. "But it is to be a secret. My
orders are that no one is to know that
we come here. Dickon and my cousin have
worked and made it come alive. I shall
send for you sometimes to help--but you
must come when no one can see you."

Ben Weatherstaff's face twisted itself
in a dry old smile.

"I've come here before when no one saw
me," he said.

"What!" exclaimed Colin.

"When?"

"Th' last time I was here," rubbing his
chin and looking round, "was about two
year' ago."

"But no one has been in it for ten
years!" cried Colin.

"There was no door!"

"I'm no one," said old Ben dryly. "An' I
didn't come through th' door. I come
over th' wall. Th' rheumatics held me
back th' last two year'."

"Tha' come an' did a bit o' prunin'!"
cried Dickon. "I couldn't make out how
it had been done."

"She was so fond of it--she was!" said
Ben Weatherstaff slowly. "An' she was
such a pretty young thing. She says to
me once, 'Ben,' says she laughin', 'if
ever I'm ill or if I go away you must
take care of my roses.' When she did go
away th' orders was no one was ever to
come nigh. But I come," with grumpy
obstinacy. "Over th' wall I come--until
th' rheumatics stopped me--an' I did a
bit o' work once a year. She'd gave her
order first."

"It wouldn't have been as wick as it is
if tha' hadn't done it," said Dickon. "I
did wonder."

"I'm glad you did it, Weatherstaff,"
said Colin. "You'll know how to keep the
secret."

"Aye, I'll know, sir," answered Ben.
"An' it'll be easier for a man wi'
rheumatics to come in at th' door."

On the grass near the tree Mary had
dropped her trowel. Colin stretched out
his hand and took it up. An odd
expression came into his face and he
began to scratch at the earth. His thin
hand was weak enough but presently as
they watched him--Mary with quite
breathless interest--he drove the end of
the trowel into the soil and turned some
over.

"You can do it! You can do it!" said
Mary to herself. "I tell you, you
can!"

Dickon's round eyes were full of eager
curiousness but he said not a word. Ben
Weatherstaff looked on with interested
face.

Colin persevered. After he had turned a
few trowelfuls of soil he spoke
exultantly to Dickon in his best
Yorkshire.

"Tha' said as tha'd have me walkin'
about here same as other folk--an' tha'
said tha'd have me diggin'. I thowt tha'
was just leein' to please me. This is
only th' first day an' I've walked--an'
here I am diggin'."

Ben Weatherstaff's mouth fell open again
when he heard him, but he ended by
chuckling.

"Eh!" he said, "that sounds as if tha'd
got wits enow. Tha'rt a Yorkshire lad
for sure. An' tha'rt diggin', too. How'd
tha' like to plant a bit o' somethin'? I
can get thee a rose in a pot."

"Go and get it!" said Colin, digging
excitedly. "Quick! Quick!"

It was done quickly enough indeed. Ben
Weatherstaff went his way forgetting
rheumatics. Dickon took his spade and
dug the hole deeper and wider than a new
digger with thin white hands could make
it. Mary slipped out to run and bring
back a watering-can. When Dickon had
deepened the hole Colin went on turning
the soft earth over and over. He looked
up at the sky, flushed and glowing with
the strangely new exercise, slight as it
was.

"I want to do it before the sun goes
quite--quite down," he said.

Mary thought that perhaps the sun held
back a few minutes just on purpose. Ben
Weatherstaff brought the rose in its pot
from the greenhouse. He hobbled over the
grass as fast as he could. He had begun
to be excited, too. He knelt down by the
hole and broke the pot from the mould.

"Here, lad," he said, handing the plant
to Colin. "Set it in the earth thysel'
same as th' king does when he goes to a
new place."

The thin white hands shook a little and
Colin's flush grew deeper as he set the
rose in the mould and held it while old
Ben made firm the earth. It was filled
in and pressed down and made steady.
Mary was leaning forward on her hands
and knees. Soot had flown down and
marched forward to see what was being
done. Nut and Shell chattered about it
from a cherry-tree.

"It's planted!" said Colin at last. "And
the sun is only slipping over the edge.
Help me up, Dickon. I want to be
standing when it goes. That's part of
the Magic."

And Dickon helped him, and the Magic--or
whatever it was--so gave him strength
that when the sun did slip over the edge
and end the strange lovely afternoon for
them there he actually stood on his two
feet--laughing.



CHAPTER XXIII

MAGIC

Dr. Craven had been waiting some time at
the house when they returned to it. He
had indeed begun to wonder if it might
not be wise to send some one out to
explore the garden paths. When Colin was
brought back to his room the poor man
looked him over seriously.

"You should not have stayed so long," he
said. "You must not overexert
yourself."

"I am not tired at all," said Colin. "It
has made me well. Tomorrow I am going
out in the morning as well as in the
afternoon."

"I am not sure that I can allow it,"
answered Dr. Craven. "I am afraid it
would not be wise."

"It would not be wise to try to stop
me," said Colin quite seriously. "I am
going."

Even Mary had found out that one of
Colin's chief peculiarities was that he
did not know in the least what a rude
little brute he was with his way of
ordering people about. He had lived on a
sort of desert island all his life and
as he had been the king of it he had
made his own manners and had had no one
to compare himself with. Mary had indeed
been rather like him herself and since
she had been at Misselthwaite had
gradually discovered that her own
manners had not been of the kind which
is usual or popular. Having made this
discovery she naturally thought it of
enough interest to communicate to Colin.
So she sat and looked at him curiously
for a few minutes after Dr. Craven had
gone. She wanted to make him ask her why
she was doing it and of course she
did.

"What are you looking at me for?" he
said.

"I'm thinking that I am rather sorry for
Dr. Craven."

"So am I," said Colin calmly, but not
without an air of some satisfaction. "He
won't get Misselthwaite at all now I'm
not going to die."

"I'm sorry for him because of that, of
course," said Mary, "but I was thinking
just then that it must have been very
horrid to have had to be polite for ten
years to a boy who was always rude. I
would never have done it."

"Am I rude?" Colin inquired
undisturbedly.

"If you had been his own boy and he had
been a slapping sort of man," said Mary,
"he would have slapped you."

"But he daren't," said Colin.

"No, he daren't," answered Mistress
Mary, thinking the thing out quite
without prejudice. "Nobody ever dared to
do anything you didn't like--because you
were going to die and things like that.
You were such a poor thing."

"But," announced Colin stubbornly, "I am
not going to be a poor thing. I won't
let people think I'm one. I stood on my
feet this afternoon."

"It is always having your own way that
has made you so queer," Mary went on,
thinking aloud.

Colin turned his head, frowning.

"Am I queer?" he demanded.

"Yes," answered Mary, "very. But you
needn't be cross," she added
impartially, "because so am I queer--and
so is Ben Weatherstaff. But I am not as
queer as I was before I began to like
people and before I found the garden."

"I don't want to be queer," said Colin.
"I am not going to be," and he frowned
again with determination.

He was a very proud boy. He lay thinking
for a while and then Mary saw his
beautiful smile begin and gradually
change his whole face.

"I shall stop being queer," he said, "if
I go every day to the garden. There is
Magic in there--good Magic, you know,
Mary. I am sure there is." "So am I,"
said Mary.

"Even if it isn't real Magic," Colin
said, "we can pretend it is. Something
is there--something!"

"It's Magic," said Mary, "but not black.
It's as white as snow."

They always called it Magic and indeed
it seemed like it in the months that
followed--the wonderful months--the
radiant months--the amazing ones. Oh!
the things which happened in that
garden! If you have never had a garden
you cannot understand, and if you have
had a garden you will know that it would
take a whole book to describe all that
came to pass there. At first it seemed
that green things would never cease
pushing their way through the earth, in
the grass, in the beds, even in the
crevices of the walls. Then the green
things began to show buds and the buds
began to unfurl and show color, every
shade of blue, every shade of purple,
every tint and hue of crimson. In its
happy days flowers had been tucked away
into every inch and hole and corner. Ben
Weatherstaff had seen it done and had
himself scraped out mortar from between
the bricks of the wall and made pockets
of earth for lovely clinging things to
grow on. Iris and white lilies rose out
of the grass in sheaves, and the green
alcoves filled themselves with amazing
armies of the blue and white flower
lances of tall delphiniums or columbines
or campanulas.

"She was main fond o' them--she was,"
Ben Weatherstaff said. "She liked them
things as was allus pointin' up to th'
blue sky, she used to tell. Not as she
was one o' them as looked down on th'
earth--not her. She just loved it but
she said as th' blue sky allus looked so
joyful."

The seeds Dickon and Mary had planted
grew as if fairies had tended them.
Satiny poppies of all tints danced in
the breeze by the score, gaily defying
flowers which had lived in the garden
for years and which it might be
confessed seemed rather to wonder how
such new people had got there. And the
roses--the roses! Rising out of the
grass, tangled round the sun-dial,
wreathing the tree trunks and hanging
from their branches, climbing up the
walls and spreading over them with long
garlands falling in cascades--they came
alive day by day, hour by hour. Fair
fresh leaves, and buds--and buds--tiny
at first but swelling and working Magic
until they burst and uncurled into cups
of scent delicately spilling themselves
over their brims and filling the garden
air.

Colin saw it all, watching each change
as it took place. Every morning he was
brought out and every hour of each day
when it didn't rain he spent in the
garden. Even gray days pleased him. He
would lie on the grass "watching things
growing," he said. If you watched long
enough, he declared, you could see buds
unsheath themselves. Also you could make
the acquaintance of strange busy insect
things running about on various unknown
but evidently serious errands, sometimes
carrying tiny scraps of straw or feather
or food, or climbing blades of grass as
if they were trees from whose tops one
could look out to explore the country. A
mole throwing up its mound at the end of
its burrow and making its way out at
last with the long-nailed paws which
looked so like elfish hands, had
absorbed him one whole morning. Ants'
ways, beetles' ways, bees' ways, frogs'
ways, birds' ways, plants' ways, gave
him a new world to explore and when
Dickon revealed them all and added
foxes' ways, otters' ways, ferrets'
ways, squirrels' ways, and trout' and
water-rats' and badgers' ways, there was
no end to the things to talk about and
think over.

And this was not the half of the Magic.
The fact that he had really once stood
on his feet had set Colin thinking
tremendously and when Mary told him of
the spell she had worked he was excited
and approved of it greatly. He talked of
it constantly.

"Of course there must be lots of Magic
in the world," he said wisely one day,
"but people don't know what it is like
or how to make it. Perhaps the beginning
is just to say nice things are going to
happen until you make them happen. I am
going to try and experiment."

The next morning when they went to the
secret garden he sent at once for Ben
Weatherstaff. Ben came as quickly as he
could and found the Rajah standing on
his feet under a tree and looking very
grand but also very beautifully
smiling.

"Good morning, Ben Weatherstaff," he
said. "I want you and Dickon and Miss
Mary to stand in a row and listen to me
because I am going to tell you something
very important."

"Aye, aye, sir!" answered Ben
Weatherstaff, touching his forehead.
(One of the long concealed charms of Ben
Weatherstaff was that in his boyhood he
had once run away to sea and had made
voyages. So he could reply like a
sailor.)

"I am going to try a scientific
experiment," explained the Rajah. "When
I grow up I am going to make great
scientific discoveries and I am going to
begin now with this experiment."

"Aye, aye, sir!" said Ben Weatherstaff
promptly, though this was the first time
he had heard of great scientific
discoveries.

It was the first time Mary had heard of
them, either, but even at this stage she
had begun to realize that, queer as he
was, Colin had read about a great many
singular things and was somehow a very
convincing sort of boy. When he held up
his head and fixed his strange eyes on
you it seemed as if you believed him
almost in spite of yourself though he
was only ten years old--going on eleven.
At this moment he was especially
convincing because he suddenly felt the
fascination of actually making a sort of
speech like a grown-up person.

"The great scientific discoveries I am
going to make," he went on, "will be
about Magic. Magic is a great thing and
scarcely any one knows anything about it
except a few people in old books--and
Mary a little, because she was born in
India where there are fakirs. I believe
Dickon knows some Magic, but perhaps he
doesn't know he knows it. He charms
animals and people. I would never have
let him come to see me if he had not
been an animal charmer--which is a boy
charmer, too, because a boy is an
animal. I am sure there is Magic in
everything, only we have not sense
enough to get hold of it and make it do
things for us--like electricity and
horses and steam."

This sounded so imposing that Ben
Weatherstaff became quite excited and
really could not keep still. "Aye, aye,
sir," he said and he began to stand up
quite straight.

"When Mary found this garden it looked
quite dead," the orator proceeded. "Then
something began pushing things up out of
the soil and making things out of
nothing. One day things weren't there
and another they were. I had never
watched things before and it made me
feel very curious. Scientific people are
always curious and I am going to be
scientific. I keep saying to myself,
'What is it? What is it?' It's
something. It can't be nothing! I don't
know its name so I call it Magic. I have
never seen the sun rise but Mary and
Dickon have and from what they tell me I
am sure that is Magic too. Something
pushes it up and draws it. Sometimes
since I've been in the garden I've
looked up through the trees at the sky
and I have had a strange feeling of
being happy as if something were pushing
and drawing in my chest and making me
breathe fast. Magic is always pushing
and drawing and making things out of
nothing. Everything is made out of
Magic, leaves and trees, flowers and
birds, badgers and foxes and squirrels
and people. So it must be all around us.
In this garden--in all the places. The
Magic in this garden has made me stand
up and know I am going to live to be a
man. I am going to make the scientific
experiment of trying to get some and put
it in myself and make it push and draw
me and make me strong. I don't know how
to do it but I think that if you keep
thinking about it and calling it perhaps
it will come. Perhaps that is the first
baby way to get it. When I was going to
try to stand that first time Mary kept
saying to herself as fast as she could,
'You can do it! You can do it!' and I
did. I had to try myself at the same
time, of course, but her Magic helped
me--and so did Dickon's. Every morning
and evening and as often in the daytime
as I can remember I am going to say,
'Magic is in me! Magic is making me
well! I am going to be as strong as
Dickon, as strong as Dickon!' And you
must all do it, too. That is my
experiment Will you help, Ben
Weatherstaff?"

"Aye, aye, sir!" said Ben Weatherstaff.
"Aye, aye!"

"If you keep doing it every day as
regularly as soldiers go through drill
we shall see what will happen and find
out if the experiment succeeds. You
learn things by saying them over and
over and thinking about them until they
stay in your mind forever and I think it
will be the same with Magic. If you keep
calling it to come to you and help you
it will get to be part of you and it
will stay and do things." "I once heard
an officer in India tell my mother that
there were fakirs who said words over
and over thousands of times," said
Mary.

"I've heard Jem Fettleworth's wife say
th' same thing over thousands o'
times--callin' Jem a drunken brute,"
said Ben Weatherstaff dryly. "Summat
allus come o' that, sure enough. He gave
her a good hidin' an' went to th' Blue
Lion an' got as drunk as a lord."

Colin drew his brows together and
thought a few minutes. Then he cheered
up.

"Well," he said, "you see something did
come of it. She used the wrong Magic
until she made him beat her. If she'd
used the right Magic and had said
something nice perhaps he wouldn't have
got as drunk as a lord and
perhaps--perhaps he might have bought
her a new bonnet."

Ben Weatherstaff chuckled and there was
shrewd admiration in his little old
eyes.

"Tha'rt a clever lad as well as a
straight-legged one, Mester Colin," he
said. "Next time I see Bess Fettleworth
I'll give her a bit of a hint o' what
Magic will do for her. She'd be rare an'
pleased if th' sinetifik 'speriment
worked--an' so 'ud Jem."

Dickon had stood listening to the
lecture, his round eyes shining with
curious delight. Nut and Shell were on
his shoulders and he held a long-eared
white rabbit in his arm and stroked and
stroked it softly while it laid its ears
along its back and enjoyed itself.

"Do you think the experiment will work?"
Colin asked him, wondering what he was
thinking. He so often wondered what
Dickon was thinking when he saw him
looking at him or at one of his
"creatures" with his happy wide smile.

He smiled now and his smile was wider
than usual.

"Aye," he answered, "that I do. It'll
work same as th' seeds do when th' sun
shines on 'em. It'll work for sure.
Shall us begin it now?"

Colin was delighted and so was Mary.
Fired by recollections of fakirs and
devotees in illustrations Colin
suggested that they should all sit
cross-legged under the tree which made a
canopy.

"It will be like sitting in a sort of
temple," said Colin. "I'm rather tired
and I want to sit down."

"Eh!" said Dickon, "tha' mustn't begin
by sayin' tha'rt tired. Tha' might spoil
th' Magic."

Colin turned and looked at him--into his
innocent round eyes.

"That's true," he said slowly. "I must
only think of the Magic." It all seemed
most majestic and mysterious when they
sat down in their circle. Ben
Weatherstaff felt as if he had somehow
been led into appearing at a
prayer-meeting. Ordinarily he was very
fixed in being what he called "agen'
prayer-meetin's" but this being the
Rajah's affair he did not resent it and
was indeed inclined to be gratified at
being called upon to assist. Mistress
Mary felt solemnly enraptured. Dickon
held his rabbit in his arm, and perhaps
he made some charmer's signal no one
heard, for when he sat down,
cross-legged like the rest, the crow,
the fox, the squirrels and the lamb
slowly drew near and made part of the
circle, settling each into a place of
rest as if of their own desire.

"The 'creatures' have come," said Colin
gravely. "They want to help us."

Colin really looked quite beautiful,
Mary thought. He held his head high as
if he felt like a sort of priest and his
strange eyes had a wonderful look in
them. The light shone on him through the
tree canopy.

"Now we will begin," he said. "Shall we
sway backward and forward, Mary, as if
we were dervishes?"

"I canna' do no swayin' back'ard and
for'ard," said Ben Weatherstaff. "I've
got th' rheumatics."

"The Magic will take them away," said
Colin in a High Priest tone, "but we
won't sway until it has done it. We will
only chant."

"I canna' do no chantin'" said Ben
Weatherstaff a trifle testily. "They
turned me out o' th' church choir th'
only time I ever tried it."

No one smiled. They were all too much in
earnest. Colin's face was not even
crossed by a shadow. He was thinking
only of the Magic.

"Then I will chant," he said. And he
began, looking like a strange boy
spirit. "The sun is shining--the sun is
shining. That is the Magic. The flowers
are growing--the roots are stirring.
That is the Magic. Being alive is the
Magic--being strong is the Magic. The
Magic is in me--the Magic is in me. It
is in me--it is in me. It's in every one
of us. It's in Ben Weatherstaff's back.
Magic! Magic! Come and help!"

He said it a great many times--not a
thousand times but quite a goodly
number. Mary listened entranced. She
felt as if it were at once queer and
beautiful and she wanted him to go on
and on. Ben Weatherstaff began to feel
soothed into a sort of dream which was
quite agreeable. The humming of the bees
in the blossoms mingled with the
chanting voice and drowsily melted into
a doze. Dickon sat cross-legged with his
rabbit asleep on his arm and a hand
resting on the lamb's back. Soot had
pushed away a squirrel and huddled close
to him on his shoulder, the gray film
dropped over his eyes. At last Colin
stopped.

"Now I am going to walk round the
garden," he announced.

Ben Weatherstaff's head had just dropped
forward and he lifted it with a jerk.

"You have been asleep," said Colin.

"Nowt o' th' sort," mumbled Ben. "Th'
sermon was good enow--but I'm bound to
get out afore th' collection."

He was not quite awake yet.

"You're not in church," said Colin.

"Not me," said Ben, straightening
himself. "Who said I were? I heard every
bit of it. You said th' Magic was in my
back. Th' doctor calls it rheumatics."

The Rajah waved his hand.

"That was the wrong Magic," he said.
"You will get better. You have my
permission to go to your work. But come
back tomorrow."

"I'd like to see thee walk round the
garden," grunted Ben.

It was not an unfriendly grunt, but it
was a grunt. In fact, being a stubborn
old party and not having entire faith in
Magic he had made up his mind that if he
were sent away he would climb his ladder
and look over the wall so that he might
be ready to hobble back if there were
any stumbling.

The Rajah did not object to his staying
and so the procession was formed. It
really did look like a procession. Colin
was at its head with Dickon on one side
and Mary on the other. Ben Weatherstaff
walked behind, and the "creatures"
trailed after them, the lamb and the fox
cub keeping close to Dickon, the white
rabbit hopping along or stopping to
nibble and Soot following with the
solemnity of a person who felt himself
in charge.

It was a procession which moved slowly
but with dignity. Every few yards it
stopped to rest. Colin leaned on
Dickon's arm and privately Ben
Weatherstaff kept a sharp lookout, but
now and then Colin took his hand from
its support and walked a few steps
alone. His head was held up all the time
and he looked very grand.

"The Magic is in me!" he kept saying.
"The Magic is making me strong! I can
feel it! I can feel it!"

It seemed very certain that something
was upholding and uplifting him. He sat
on the seats in the alcoves, and once or
twice he sat down on the grass and
several times he paused in the path and
leaned on Dickon, but he would not give
up until he had gone all round the
garden. When he returned to the canopy
tree his cheeks were flushed and he
looked triumphant.

"I did it! The Magic worked!" he cried.
"That is my first scientific
discovery.".

"What will Dr. Craven say?" broke out
Mary.

"He won't say anything," Colin answered,
"because he will not be told. This is to
be the biggest secret of all. No one is
to know anything about it until I have
grown so strong that I can walk and run
like any other boy. I shall come here
every day in my chair and I shall be
taken back in it. I won't have people
whispering and asking questions and I
won't let my father hear about it until
the experiment has quite succeeded. Then
sometime when he comes back to
Misselthwaite I shall just walk into his
study and say 'Here I am; I am like any
other boy. I am quite well and I shall
live to be a man. It has been done by a
scientific experiment.'"

"He will think he is in a dream," cried
Mary. "He won't believe his eyes."

Colin flushed triumphantly. He had made
himself believe that he was going to get
well, which was really more than half
the battle, if he had been aware of it.
And the thought which stimulated him
more than any other was this imagining
what his father would look like when he
saw that he had a son who was as
straight and strong as other fathers'
sons. One of his darkest miseries in the
unhealthy morbid past days had been his
hatred of being a sickly weak-backed boy
whose father was afraid to look at
him.

"He'll be obliged to believe them," he
said.

"One of the things I am going to do,
after the Magic works and before I begin
to make scientific discoveries, is to be
an athlete."

"We shall have thee takin' to boxin' in
a week or so," said Ben Weatherstaff.
"Tha'lt end wi' winnin' th' Belt an'
bein' champion prize-fighter of all
England."

Colin fixed his eyes on him sternly.

"Weatherstaff," he said, "that is
disrespectful. You must not take
liberties because you are in the secret.
However much the Magic works I shall not
be a prize-fighter. I shall be a
Scientific Discoverer."

"Ax pardon--ax pardon, sir" answered
Ben, touching his forehead in salute. "I
ought to have seed it wasn't a jokin'
matter," but his eyes twinkled and
secretly he was immensely pleased. He
really did not mind being snubbed since
the snubbing meant that the lad was
gaining strength and spirit.



CHAPTER XXIV

"LET THEM LAUGH"

The secret garden was not the only one
Dickon worked in. Round the cottage on
the moor there was a piece of ground
enclosed by a low wall of rough stones.
Early in the morning and late in the
fading twilight and on all the days
Colin and Mary did not see him, Dickon
worked there planting or tending
potatoes and cabbages, turnips and
carrots and herbs for his mother. In the
company of his "creatures" he did
wonders there and was never tired of
doing them, it seemed. While he dug or
weeded he whistled or sang bits of
Yorkshire moor songs or talked to Soot
or Captain or the brothers and sisters
he had taught to help him.

"We'd never get on as comfortable as we
do," Mrs. Sowerby said, "if it wasn't
for Dickon's garden. Anything'll grow
for him. His 'taters and cabbages is
twice th' size of any one else's an'
they've got a flavor with 'em as
nobody's has."

When she found a moment to spare she
liked to go out and talk to him. After
supper there was still a long clear
twilight to work in and that was her
quiet time. She could sit upon the low
rough wall and look on and hear stories
of the day. She loved this time. There
were not only vegetables in this garden.
Dickon had bought penny packages of
flower seeds now and then and sown
bright sweet-scented things among
gooseberry bushes and even cabbages and
he grew borders of mignonette and pinks
and pansies and things whose seeds he
could save year after year or whose
roots would bloom each spring and spread
in time into fine clumps. The low wall
was one of the prettiest things in
Yorkshire because he had tucked moorland
foxglove and ferns and rock-cress and
hedgerow flowers into every crevice
until only here and there glimpses of
the stones were to be seen.

"All a chap's got to do to make 'em
thrive, mother," he would say, "is to be
friends with 'em for sure. They're just
like th' 'creatures.' If they're thirsty
give 'em drink and if they're hungry
give 'em a bit o' food. They want to
live same as we do. If they died I
should feel as if I'd been a bad lad and
somehow treated them heartless."

It was in these twilight hours that Mrs.
Sowerby heard of all that happened at
Misselthwaite Manor. At first she was
only told that "Mester Colin" had taken
a fancy to going out into the grounds
with Miss Mary and that it was doing him
good. But it was not long before it was
agreed between the two children that
Dickon's mother might "come into the
secret." Somehow it was not doubted that
she was "safe for sure."

So one beautiful still evening Dickon
told the whole story, with all the
thrilling details of the buried key and
the robin and the gray haze which had
seemed like deadness and the secret
Mistress Mary had planned never to
reveal. The coming of Dickon and how it
had been told to him, the doubt of
Mester Colin and the final drama of his
introduction to the hidden domain,
combined with the incident of Ben
Weatherstaff's angry face peering over
the wall and Mester Colin's sudden
indignant strength, made Mrs. Sowerby's
nice-looking face quite change color
several times.

"My word!" she said. "It was a good
thing that little lass came to th'
Manor. It's been th' makin' o' her an'
th' savin, o' him. Standin' on his feet!
An' us all thinkin' he was a poor
half-witted lad with not a straight bone
in him."

She asked a great many questions and her
blue eyes were full of deep thinking.

"What do they make of it at th'
Manor--him being so well an' cheerful
an' never complainin'?" she inquired.
"They don't know what to make of it,"
answered Dickon. "Every day as comes
round his face looks different. It's
fillin' out and doesn't look so sharp
an' th' waxy color is goin'. But he has
to do his bit o' complainin'," with a
highly entertained grin.

"What for, i' Mercy's name?" asked Mrs.
Sowerby.

Dickon chuckled.

"He does it to keep them from guessin'
what's happened. If the doctor knew he'd
found out he could stand on his feet
he'd likely write and tell Mester
Craven. Mester Colin's savin' th' secret
to tell himself. He's goin' to practise
his Magic on his legs every day till his
father comes back an' then he's goin' to
march into his room an' show him he's as
straight as other lads. But him an' Miss
Mary thinks it's best plan to do a bit
o' groanin' an' frettin' now an' then to
throw folk off th' scent."

Mrs. Sowerby was laughing a low
comfortable laugh long before he had
finished his last sentence.

"Eh!" she said, "that pair's enjoyin'
their-selves I'll warrant. They'll get a
good bit o' actin' out of it an' there's
nothin' children likes as much as play
actin'. Let's hear what they do, Dickon
lad." Dickon stopped weeding and sat up
on his heels to tell her. His eyes were
twinkling with fun.

"Mester Colin is carried down to his
chair every time he goes out," he
explained. "An' he flies out at John,
th' footman, for not carryin' him
careful enough. He makes himself as
helpless lookin' as he can an' never
lifts his head until we're out o' sight
o' th' house. An' he grunts an' frets a
good bit when he's bein' settled into
his chair. Him an' Miss Mary's both got
to enjoyin' it an' when he groans an'
complains she'll say, 'Poor Colin! Does
it hurt you so much? Are you so weak as
that, poor Colin?'--but th' trouble is
that sometimes they can scarce keep from
burstin' out laughin'. When we get safe
into the garden they laugh till they've
no breath left to laugh with. An' they
have to stuff their faces into Mester
Colin's cushions to keep the gardeners
from hearin', if any of, 'em's about."

"Th' more they laugh th' better for
'em!" said Mrs. Sowerby, still laughing
herself. "Good healthy child laughin's
better than pills any day o' th' year.
That pair'll plump up for sure."

"They are plumpin' up," said Dickon.
"They're that hungry they don't know how
to get enough to eat without makin'
talk. Mester Colin says if he keeps
sendin' for more food they won't believe
he's an invalid at all. Miss Mary says
she'll let him eat her share, but he
says that if she goes hungry she'll get
thin an' they mun both get fat at
once."

Mrs. Sowerby laughed so heartily at the
revelation of this difficulty that she
quite rocked backward and forward in her
blue cloak, and Dickon laughed with
her.

"I'll tell thee what, lad," Mrs. Sowerby
said when she could speak. "I've thought
of a way to help 'em. When tha' goes to
'em in th' mornin's tha' shall take a
pail o' good new milk an' I'll bake 'em
a crusty cottage loaf or some buns wi'
currants in 'em, same as you children
like. Nothin's so good as fresh milk an'
bread. Then they could take off th' edge
o' their hunger while they were in their
garden an' th, fine food they get
indoors 'ud polish off th' corners."

"Eh! mother!" said Dickon admiringly,
"what a wonder tha' art! Tha' always
sees a way out o' things. They was quite
in a pother yesterday. They didn't see
how they was to manage without orderin'
up more food--they felt that empty
inside."

"They're two young 'uns growin' fast,
an' health's comin' back to both of 'em.
Children like that feels like young
wolves an' food's flesh an' blood to
'em," said Mrs. Sowerby. Then she smiled
Dickon's own curving smile. "Eh! but
they're enjoyin' theirselves for sure,"
she said.

She was quite right, the comfortable
wonderful mother creature--and she had
never been more so than when she said
their "play actin'" would be their joy.
Colin and Mary found it one of their
most thrilling sources of entertainment.
The idea of protecting themselves from
suspicion had been unconsciously
suggested to them first by the puzzled
nurse and then by Dr. Craven himself.

"Your appetite. Is improving very much,
Master Colin," the nurse had said one
day. "You used to eat nothing, and so
many things disagreed with you."

"Nothing disagrees with me now" replied
Colin, and then seeing the nurse looking
at him curiously he suddenly remembered
that perhaps he ought not to appear too
well just yet. "At least things don't so
often disagree with me. It's the fresh
air."

"Perhaps it is," said the nurse, still
looking at him with a mystified
expression. "But I must talk to Dr.
Craven about it."

"How she stared at you!" said Mary when
she went away. "As if she thought there
must be something to find out."

"I won't have her finding out things,"
said Colin. "No one must begin to find
out yet." When Dr. Craven came that
morning he seemed puzzled, also. He
asked a number of questions, to Colin's
great annoyance.

"You stay out in the garden a great
deal," he suggested. "Where do you
go?"

Colin put on his favorite air of
dignified indifference to opinion.

"I will not let any one know where I
go," he answered. "I go to a place I
like. Every one has orders to keep out
of the way. I won't be watched and
stared at. You know that!"

"You seem to be out all day but I do not
think it has done you harm--I do not
think so. The nurse says that you eat
much more than you have ever done
before."

"Perhaps," said Colin, prompted by a
sudden inspiration, "perhaps it is an
unnatural appetite."

"I do not think so, as your food seems
to agree with you," said Dr. Craven.
"You are gaining flesh rapidly and your
color is better."

"Perhaps--perhaps I am bloated and
feverish," said Colin, assuming a
discouraging air of gloom. "People who
are not going to live are
often--different." Dr. Craven shook his
head. He was holding Colin's wrist and
he pushed up his sleeve and felt his
arm.

"You are not feverish," he said
thoughtfully, "and such flesh as you
have gained is healthy. If you can keep
this up, my boy, we need not talk of
dying. Your father will be happy to hear
of this remarkable improvement."

"I won't have him told!" Colin broke
forth fiercely. "It will only disappoint
him if I get worse again--and I may get
worse this very night. I might have a
raging fever. I feel as if I might be
beginning to have one now. I won't have
letters written to my father--I won't--I
won't! You are making me angry and you
know that is bad for me. I feel hot
already. I hate being written about and
being talked over as much as I hate
being stared at!"

"Hush-h! my boy," Dr. Craven soothed
him. "Nothing shall be written without
your permission. You are too sensitive
about things. You must not undo the good
which has been done."

He said no more about writing to Mr.
Craven and when he saw the nurse he
privately warned her that such a
possibility must not be mentioned to the
patient.

"The boy is extraordinarily better," he
said. "His advance seems almost
abnormal. But of course he is doing now
of his own free will what we could not
make him do before. Still, he excites
himself very easily and nothing must be
said to irritate him." Mary and Colin
were much alarmed and talked together
anxiously. From this time dated their
plan of "play actin'."

"I may be obliged to have a tantrum,"
said Colin regretfully. "I don't want to
have one and I'm not miserable enough
now to work myself into a big one.
Perhaps I couldn't have one at all. That
lump doesn't come in my throat now and I
keep thinking of nice things instead of
horrible ones. But if they talk about
writing to my father I shall have to do
something."

He made up his mind to eat less, but
unfortunately it was not possible to
carry out this brilliant idea when he
wakened each morning with an amazing
appetite and the table near his sofa was
set with a breakfast of home-made bread
and fresh butter, snow-white eggs,
raspberry jam and clotted cream. Mary
always breakfasted with him and when
they found themselves at the
table--particularly if there were
delicate slices of sizzling ham sending
forth tempting odors from under a hot
silver cover--they would look into each
other's eyes in desperation.

"I think we shall have to eat it all
this morning, Mary," Colin always ended
by saying. "We can send away some of the
lunch and a great deal of the dinner."

But they never found they could send
away anything and the highly polished
condition of the empty plates returned
to the pantry awakened much comment.

"I do wish," Colin would say also, "I do
wish the slices of ham were thicker, and
one muffin each is not enough for any
one."

"It's enough for a person who is going
to die," answered Mary when first she
heard this, "but it's not enough for a
person who is going to live. I sometimes
feel as if I could eat three when those
nice fresh heather and gorse smells from
the moor come pouring in at the open
window."

The morning that Dickon--after they had
been enjoying themselves in the garden
for about two hours--went behind a big
rosebush and brought forth two tin pails
and revealed that one was full of rich
new milk with cream on the top of it,
and that the other held cottage-made
currant buns folded in a clean blue and
white napkin, buns so carefully tucked
in that they were still hot, there was a
riot of surprised joyfulness. What a
wonderful thing for Mrs. Sowerby to
think of! What a kind, clever woman she
must be! How good the buns were! And
what delicious fresh milk!

"Magic is in her just as it is in
Dickon," said Colin. "It makes her think
of ways to do things--nice things. She
is a Magic person. Tell her we are
grateful, Dickon--extremely grateful."
He was given to using rather grown-up
phrases at times. He enjoyed them. He
liked this so much that he improved upon
it.

"Tell her she has been most bounteous
and our gratitude is extreme."

And then forgetting his grandeur he fell
to and stuffed himself with buns and
drank milk out of the pail in copious
draughts in the manner of any hungry
little boy who had been taking unusual
exercise and breathing in moorland air
and whose breakfast was more than two
hours behind him.

This was the beginning of many agreeable
incidents of the same kind. They
actually awoke to the fact that as Mrs.
Sowerby had fourteen people to provide
food for she might not have enough to
satisfy two extra appetites every day.
So they asked her to let them send some
of their shillings to buy things.

Dickon made the stimulating discovery
that in the wood in the park outside the
garden where Mary had first found him
piping to the wild creatures there was a
deep little hollow where you could build
a sort of tiny oven with stones and
roast potatoes and eggs in it. Roasted
eggs were a previously unknown luxury
and very hot potatoes with salt and
fresh butter in them were fit for a
woodland king--besides being deliciously
satisfying. You could buy both potatoes
and eggs and eat as many as you liked
without feeling as if you were taking
food out of the mouths of fourteen
people.

Every beautiful morning the Magic was
worked by the mystic circle under the
plum-tree which provided a canopy of
thickening green leaves after its brief
blossom-time was ended. After the
ceremony Colin always took his walking
exercise and throughout the day he
exercised his newly found power at
intervals. Each day he grew stronger and
could walk more steadily and cover more
ground. And each day his belief in the
Magic grew stronger--as well it might.
He tried one experiment after another as
he felt himself gaining strength and it
was Dickon who showed him the best
things of all.

"Yesterday," he said one morning after
an absence, "I went to Thwaite for
mother an' near th' Blue Cow Inn I seed
Bob Haworth. He's the strongest chap on
th' moor. He's the champion wrestler an'
he can jump higher than any other chap
an' throw th' hammer farther. He's gone
all th' way to Scotland for th' sports
some years. He's knowed me ever since I
was a little 'un an' he's a friendly
sort an' I axed him some questions. Th'
gentry calls him a athlete and I thought
o' thee, Mester Colin, and I says, 'How
did tha' make tha' muscles stick out
that way, Bob? Did tha' do anythin'
extra to make thysel' so strong?' An' he
says 'Well, yes, lad, I did. A strong
man in a show that came to Thwaite once
showed me how to exercise my arms an'
legs an' every muscle in my body. An' I
says, 'Could a delicate chap make
himself stronger with 'em, Bob?' an' he
laughed an' says, 'Art tha' th' delicate
chap?' an' I says, 'No, but I knows a
young gentleman that's gettin' well of a
long illness an' I wish I knowed some o'
them tricks to tell him about.' I didn't
say no names an' he didn't ask none.
He's friendly same as I said an' he
stood up an' showed me good-natured
like, an' I imitated what he did till I
knowed it by heart."

Colin had been listening excitedly.

"Can you show me?" he cried. "Will
you?"

"Aye, to be sure," Dickon answered,
getting up. "But he says tha' mun do 'em
gentle at first an' be careful not to
tire thysel'. Rest in between times an'
take deep breaths an' don't overdo."

"I'll be careful," said Colin. "Show me!
Show me! Dickon, you are the most Magic
boy in the world!"

Dickon stood up on the grass and slowly
went through a carefully practical but
simple series of muscle exercises. Colin
watched them with widening eyes. He
could do a few while he was sitting
down. Presently he did a few gently
while he stood upon his already steadied
feet. Mary began to do them also. Soot,
who was watching the performance, became
much disturbed and left his branch and
hopped about restlessly because he could
not do them too.

From that time the exercises were part
of the day's duties as much as the Magic
was. It became possible for both Colin
and Mary to do more of them each time
they tried, and such appetites were the
results that but for the basket Dickon
put down behind the bush each morning
when he arrived they would have been
lost. But the little oven in the hollow
and Mrs. Sowerby's bounties were so
satisfying that Mrs. Medlock and the
nurse and Dr. Craven became mystified
again. You can trifle with your
breakfast and seem to disdain your
dinner if you are full to the brim with
roasted eggs and potatoes and richly
frothed new milk and oatcakes and buns
and heather honey and clotted cream.

"They are eating next to nothing," said
the nurse. "They'll die of starvation if
they can't be persuaded to take some
nourishment. And yet see how they
look."

"Look!" exclaimed Mrs. Medlock
indignantly. "Eh! I'm moithered to death
with them. They're a pair of young
Satans. Bursting their jackets one day
and the next turning up their noses at
the best meals Cook can tempt them with.
Not a mouthful of that lovely young fowl
and bread sauce did they set a fork into
yesterday--and the poor woman fair
invented a pudding for them--and back
it's sent. She almost cried. She's
afraid she'll be blamed if they starve
themselves into their graves."

Dr. Craven came and looked at Colin long
and carefully, He wore an extremely
worried expression when the nurse talked
with him and showed him the almost
untouched tray of breakfast she had
saved for him to look at--but it was
even more worried when he sat down by
Colin's sofa and examined him. He had
been called to London on business and
had not seen the boy for nearly two
weeks. When young things begin to gain
health they gain it rapidly. The waxen
tinge had left, Colins skin and a warm
rose showed through it; his beautiful
eyes were clear and the hollows under
them and in his cheeks and temples had
filled out. His once dark, heavy locks
had begun to look as if they sprang
healthily from his forehead and were
soft and warm with life. His lips were
fuller and of a normal color. In fact as
an imitation of a boy who was a
confirmed invalid he was a disgraceful
sight. Dr. Craven held his chin in his
hand and thought him over.

"I am sorry to hear that you do not eat
anything," he said. "That will not do.
You will lose all you have gained--and
you have gained amazingly. You ate so
well a short time ago."

"I told you it was an unnatural
appetite," answered Colin.

Mary was sitting on her stool nearby and
she suddenly made a very queer sound
which she tried so violently to repress
that she ended by almost choking.

"What is the matter?" said Dr. Craven,
turning to look at her.

Mary became quite severe in her
manner.

"It was something between a sneeze and a
cough," she replied with reproachful
dignity, "and it got into my throat."

"But," she said afterward to Colin, "I
couldn't stop myself. It just burst out
because all at once I couldn't help
remembering that last big potato you ate
and the way your mouth stretched when
you bit through that thick lovely crust
with jam and clotted cream on it."

"Is there any way in which those
children can get food secretly?" Dr.
Craven inquired of Mrs. Medlock.

"There's no way unless they dig it out
of the earth or pick it off the trees,"
Mrs. Medlock answered. "They stay out in
the grounds all day and see no one but
each other. And if they want anything
different to eat from what's sent up to
them they need only ask for it."

"Well," said Dr. Craven, "so long as
going without food agrees with them we
need not disturb ourselves. The boy is a
new creature."

"So is the girl," said Mrs. Medlock.
"She's begun to be downright pretty
since she's filled out and lost her ugly
little sour look. Her hair's grown thick
and healthy looking and she's got a
bright color. The glummest, ill-natured
little thing she used to be and now her
and Master Colin laugh together like a
pair of crazy young ones. Perhaps
they're growing fat on that."

"Perhaps they are," said Dr. Craven.
"Let them laugh."



CHAPTER XXV

THE CURTAIN

And the secret garden bloomed and
bloomed and every morning revealed new
miracles. In the robin's nest there were
Eggs and the robin's mate sat upon them
keeping them warm with her feathery
little breast and careful wings. At
first she was very nervous and the robin
himself was indignantly watchful. Even
Dickon did not go near the close-grown
corner in those days, but waited until
by the quiet working of some mysterious
spell he seemed to have conveyed to the
soul of the little pair that in the
garden there was nothing which was not
quite like themselves--nothing which did
not understand the wonderfulness of what
was happening to them--the immense,
tender, terrible, heart-breaking beauty
and solemnity of Eggs. If there had been
one person in that garden who had not
known through all his or her innermost
being that if an Egg were taken away or
hurt the whole world would whirl round
and crash through space and come to an
end--if there had been even one who did
not feel it and act accordingly there
could have been no happiness even in
that golden springtime air. But they all
knew it and felt it and the robin and
his mate knew they knew it.

At first the robin watched Mary and
Colin with sharp anxiety. For some
mysterious reason he knew he need not
watch Dickon. The first moment he set
his dew-bright black eye on Dickon he
knew he was not a stranger but a sort of
robin without beak or feathers. He could
speak robin (which is a quite distinct
language not to be mistaken for any
other). To speak robin to a robin is
like speaking French to a Frenchman.
Dickon always spoke it to the robin
himself, so the queer gibberish he used
when he spoke to humans did not matter
in the least. The robin thought he spoke
this gibberish to them because they were
not intelligent enough to understand
feathered speech. His movements also
were robin. They never startled one by
being sudden enough to seem dangerous or
threatening. Any robin could understand
Dickon, so his presence was not even
disturbing.

But at the outset it seemed necessary to
be on guard against the other two. In
the first place the boy creature did not
come into the garden on his legs. He was
pushed in on a thing with wheels and the
skins of wild animals were thrown over
him. That in itself was doubtful. Then
when he began to stand up and move about
he did it in a queer unaccustomed way
and the others seemed to have to help
him. The robin used to secrete himself
in a bush and watch this anxiously, his
head tilted first on one side and then
on the other. He thought that the slow
movements might mean that he was
preparing to pounce, as cats do. When
cats are preparing to pounce they creep
over the ground very slowly. The robin
talked this over with his mate a great
deal for a few days but after that he
decided not to speak of the subject
because her terror was so great that he
was afraid it might be injurious to the
Eggs.

When the boy began to walk by himself
and even to move more quickly it was an
immense relief. But for a long time--or
it seemed a long time to the robin--he
was a source of some anxiety. He did not
act as the other humans did. He seemed
very fond of walking but he had a way of
sitting or lying down for a while and
then getting up in a disconcerting
manner to begin again.

One day the robin remembered that when
he himself had been made to learn to fly
by his parents he had done much the same
sort of thing. He had taken short
flights of a few yards and then had been
obliged to rest. So it occurred to him
that this boy was learning to fly--or
rather to walk. He mentioned this to his
mate and when he told her that the Eggs
would probably conduct themselves in the
same way after they were fledged she was
quite comforted and even became eagerly
interested and derived great pleasure
from watching the boy over the edge of
her nest--though she always thought that
the Eggs would be much cleverer and
learn more quickly. But then she said
indulgently that humans were always more
clumsy and slow than Eggs and most of
them never seemed really to learn to fly
at all. You never met them in the air or
on tree-tops.

After a while the boy began to move
about as the others did, but all three
of the children at times did unusual
things. They would stand under the trees
and move their arms and legs and heads
about in a way which was neither walking
nor running nor sitting down. They went
through these movements at intervals
every day and the robin was never able
to explain to his mate what they were
doing or tying to do. He could only say
that he was sure that the Eggs would
never flap about in such a manner; but
as the boy who could speak robin so
fluently was doing the thing with them,
birds could be quite sure that the
actions were not of a dangerous nature.
Of course neither the robin nor his mate
had ever heard of the champion wrestler,
Bob Haworth, and his exercises for
making the muscles stand out like lumps.
Robins are not like human beings; their
muscles are always exercised from the
first and so they develop themselves in
a natural manner. If you have to fly
about to find every meal you eat, your
muscles do not become atrophied
(atrophied means wasted away through
want of use).

When the boy was walking and running
about and digging and weeding like the
others, the nest in the corner was
brooded over by a great peace and
content. Fears for the Eggs became
things of the past. Knowing that your
Eggs were as safe as if they were locked
in a bank vault and the fact that you
could watch so many curious things going
on made setting a most entertaining
occupation. On wet days the Eggs' mother
sometimes felt even a little dull
because the children did not come into
the garden.

But even on wet days it could not be
said that Mary and Colin were dull. One
morning when the rain streamed down
unceasingly and Colin was beginning to
feel a little restive, as he was obliged
to remain on his sofa because it was not
safe to get up and walk about, Mary had
an inspiration.

"Now that I am a real boy," Colin had
said, "my legs and arms and all my body
are so full of Magic that I can't keep
them still. They want to be doing things
all the time. Do you know that when I
waken in the morning, Mary, when it's
quite early and the birds are just
shouting outside and everything seems
just shouting for joy--even the trees
and things we can't really hear--I feel
as if I must jump out of bed and shout
myself. If I did it, just think what
would happen!"

Mary giggled inordinately.

"The nurse would come running and Mrs.
Medlock would come running and they
would be sure you had gone crazy and
they'd send for the doctor," she said.

Colin giggled himself. He could see how
they would all look--how horrified by
his outbreak and how amazed to see him
standing upright.

"I wish my father would come home," he
said. "I want to tell him myself. I'm
always thinking about it--but we
couldn't go on like this much longer. I
can't stand lying still and pretending,
and besides I look too different. I wish
it wasn't raining today."

It was then Mistress Mary had her
inspiration.

"Colin," she began mysteriously, "do you
know how many rooms there are in this
house?"

"About a thousand, I suppose," he
answered.

"There's about a hundred no one ever
goes into," said Mary. "And one rainy
day I went and looked into ever so many
of them. No one ever knew, though Mrs.
Medlock nearly found me out. I lost my
way when I was coming back and I stopped
at the end of your corridor. That was
the second time I heard you crying."

Colin started up on his sofa.

"A hundred rooms no one goes into," he
said. "It sounds almost like a secret
garden. Suppose we go and look at them.
Wheel me in my chair and nobody would
know we went."

"That's what I was thinking," said Mary.
"No one would dare to follow us. There
are galleries where you could run. We
could do our exercises. There is a
little Indian room where there is a
cabinet full of ivory elephants. There
are all sorts of rooms."

"Ring the bell," said Colin.

When the nurse came in he gave his
orders.

"I want my chair," he said. "Miss Mary
and I are going to look at the part of
the house which is not used. John can
push me as far as the picture-gallery
because there are some stairs. Then he
must go away and leave us alone until I
send for him again."

Rainy days lost their terrors that
morning. When the footman had wheeled
the chair into the picture-gallery and
left the two together in obedience to
orders, Colin and Mary looked at each
other delighted. As soon as Mary had
made sure that John was really on his
way back to his own quarters below
stairs, Colin got out of his chair.

"I am going to run from one end of the
gallery to the other," he said, "and
then I am going to jump and then we will
do Bob Haworth's exercises."

And they did all these things and many
others. They looked at the portraits and
found the plain little girl dressed in
green brocade and holding the parrot on
her finger.

"All these," said Colin, "must be my
relations. They lived a long time ago.
That parrot one, I believe, is one of my
great, great, great, great aunts. She
looks rather like you, Mary--not as you
look now but as you looked when you came
here. Now you are a great deal fatter
and better looking."

"So are you," said Mary, and they both
laughed.

They went to the Indian room and amused
themselves with the ivory elephants.
They found the rose-colored brocade
boudoir and the hole in the cushion the
mouse had left, but the mice had grown
up and run away and the hole was empty.
They saw more rooms and made more
discoveries than Mary had made on her
first pilgrimage. They found new
corridors and corners and flights of
steps and new old pictures they liked
and weird old things they did not know
the use of. It was a curiously
entertaining morning and the feeling of
wandering about in the same house with
other people but at the same time
feeling as if one were miles away from
them was a fascinating thing.

"I'm glad we came," Colin said. "I never
knew I lived in such a big queer old
place. I like it. We will ramble about
every rainy day. We shall always be
finding new queer corners and things."

That morning they had found among other
things such good appetites that when
they returned to Colin's room it was not
possible to send the luncheon away
untouched.

When the nurse carried the tray
down-stairs she slapped it down on the
kitchen dresser so that Mrs. Loomis, the
cook, could see the highly polished
dishes and plates.

"Look at that!" she said. "This is a
house of mystery, and those two children
are the greatest mysteries in it."

"If they keep that up every day," said
the strong young footman John, "there'd
be small wonder that he weighs twice as
much to-day as he did a month ago. I
should have to give up my place in time,
for fear of doing my muscles an
injury."

That afternoon Mary noticed that
something new had happened in Colin's
room. She had noticed it the day before
but had said nothing because she thought
the change might have been made by
chance. She said nothing today but she
sat and looked fixedly at the picture
over the mantel. She could look at it
because the curtain had been drawn
aside. That was the change she
noticed.

"I know what you want me to tell you,"
said Colin, after she had stared a few
minutes. "I always know when you want me
to tell you something. You are wondering
why the curtain is drawn back. I am
going to keep it like that."

"Why?" asked Mary.

"Because it doesn't make me angry any
more to see her laughing. I wakened when
it was bright moonlight two nights ago
and felt as if the Magic was filling the
room and making everything so splendid
that I couldn't lie still. I got up and
looked out of the window. The room was
quite light and there was a patch of
moonlight on the curtain and somehow
that made me go and pull the cord. She
looked right down at me as if she were
laughing because she was glad I was
standing there. It made me like to look
at her. I want to see her laughing like
that all the time. I think she must have
been a sort of Magic person perhaps."

"You are so like her now," said Mary,
"that sometimes I think perhaps you are
her ghost made into a boy."

That idea seemed to impress Colin. He
thought it over and then answered her
slowly.

"If I were her ghost--my father would be
fond of me."

"Do you want him to be fond of you?"
inquired Mary.

"I used to hate it because he was not
fond of me. If he grew fond of me I
think I should tell him about the Magic.
It might make him more cheerful."



CHAPTER XXVI

"IT'S MOTHER!"

Their belief in the Magic was an abiding
thing. After the morning's incantations
Colin sometimes gave them Magic
lectures.

"I like to do it," he explained,
"because when I grow up and make great
scientific discoveries I shall be
obliged to lecture about them and so
this is practise. I can only give short
lectures now because I am very young,
and besides Ben Weatherstaff would feel
as if he were in church and he would go
to sleep."

"Th' best thing about lecturin'," said
Ben, "is that a chap can get up an' say
aught he pleases an' no other chap can
answer him back. I wouldn't be agen'
lecturin' a bit mysel' sometimes."

But when Colin held forth under his tree
old Ben fixed devouring eyes on him and
kept them there. He looked him over with
critical affection. It was not so much
the lecture which interested him as the
legs which looked straighter and
stronger each day, the boyish head which
held itself up so well, the once sharp
chin and hollow cheeks which had filled
and rounded out and the eyes which had
begun to hold the light he remembered in
another pair. Sometimes when Colin felt
Ben's earnest gaze meant that he was
much impressed he wondered what he was
reflecting on and once when he had
seemed quite entranced he questioned
him.

"What are you thinking about, Ben
Weatherstaff?" he asked.

"I was thinkin'" answered Ben, "as I'd
warrant tha's, gone up three or four
pound this week. I was lookin' at tha'
calves an' tha' shoulders. I'd like to
get thee on a pair o' scales."

"It's the Magic and--and Mrs. Sowerby's
buns and milk and things," said Colin.
"You see the scientific experiment has
succeeded."

That morning Dickon was too late to hear
the lecture. When he came he was ruddy
with running and his funny face looked
more twinkling than usual. As they had a
good deal of weeding to do after the
rains they fell to work. They always had
plenty to do after a warm deep sinking
rain. The moisture which was good for
the flowers was also good for the weeds
which thrust up tiny blades of grass and
points of leaves which must be pulled up
before their roots took too firm hold.
Colin was as good at weeding as any one
in these days and he could lecture while
he was doing it. "The Magic works best
when you work, yourself," he said this
morning. "You can feel it in your bones
and muscles. I am going to read books
about bones and muscles, but I am going
to write a book about Magic. I am making
it up now. I keep finding out things."

It was not very long after he had said
this that he laid down his trowel and
stood up on his feet. He had been silent
for several minutes and they had seen
that he was thinking out lectures, as he
often did. When he dropped his trowel
and stood upright it seemed to Mary and
Dickon as if a sudden strong thought had
made him do it. He stretched himself out
to his tallest height and he threw out
his arms exultantly. Color glowed in his
face and his strange eyes widened with
joyfulness. All at once he had realized
something to the full.

"Mary! Dickon!" he cried. "Just look at
me!"

They stopped their weeding and looked at
him.

"Do you remember that first morning you
brought me in here?" he demanded.

Dickon was looking at him very hard.
Being an animal charmer he could see
more things than most people could and
many of them were things he never talked
about. He saw some of them now in this
boy. "Aye, that we do," he answered.

Mary looked hard too, but she said
nothing.

"Just this minute," said Colin, "all at
once I remembered it myself--when I
looked at my hand digging with the
trowel--and I had to stand up on my feet
to see if it was real. And it is real!
I'm well--I'm well!"

"Aye, that th' art!" said Dickon.

"I'm well! I'm well!" said Colin again,
and his face went quite red all over.

He had known it before in a way, he had
hoped it and felt it and thought about
it, but just at that minute something
had rushed all through him--a sort of
rapturous belief and realization and it
had been so strong that he could not
help calling out.

"I shall live forever and ever and
ever!" he cried grandly. "I shall find
out thousands and thousands of things. I
shall find out about people and
creatures and everything that
grows--like Dickon--and I shall never
stop making Magic. I'm well! I'm well! I
feel--I feel as if I want to shout out
something--something thankful,
joyful!"

Ben Weatherstaff, who had been working
near a rose-bush, glanced round at
him.

"Tha' might sing th' Doxology," he
suggested in his dryest grunt. He had no
opinion of the Doxology and he did not
make the suggestion with any particular
reverence.

But Colin was of an exploring mind and
he knew nothing about the Doxology.

"What is that?" he inquired.

"Dickon can sing it for thee, I'll
warrant," replied Ben Weatherstaff.

Dickon answered with his all-perceiving
animal charmer's smile.

"They sing it i' church," he said.
"Mother says she believes th' skylarks
sings it when they gets up i' th'
mornin'."

"If she says that, it must be a nice
song," Colin answered. "I've never been
in a church myself. I was always too
ill. Sing it, Dickon. I want to hear
it."

Dickon was quite simple and unaffected
about it. He understood what Colin felt
better than Colin did himself. He
understood by a sort of instinct so
natural that he did not know it was
understanding. He pulled off his cap and
looked round still smiling.

"Tha' must take off tha' cap," he said
to Colin, "an' so mun tha', Ben--an'
tha' mun stand up, tha' knows."

Colin took off his cap and the sun shone
on and warmed his thick hair as he
watched Dickon intently. Ben
Weatherstaff scrambled up from his knees
and bared his head too with a sort of
puzzled half-resentful look on his old
face as if he didn't know exactly why he
was doing this remarkable thing.

Dickon stood out among the trees and
rose-bushes and began to sing in quite a
simple matter-of-fact way and in a nice
strong boy voice:

 "Praise God from whom all blessings
flow, Praise Him all creatures here
below, Praise Him above ye Heavenly
Host, Praise Father, Son, and Holy
Ghost. Amen."

When he had finished, Ben Weatherstaff
was standing quite still with his jaws
set obstinately but with a disturbed
look in his eyes fixed on Colin. Colin's
face was thoughtful and appreciative.

"It is a very nice song," he said. "I
like it. Perhaps it means just what I
mean when I want to shout out that I am
thankful to the Magic." He stopped and
thought in a puzzled way. "Perhaps they
are both the same thing. How can we know
the exact names of everything? Sing it
again, Dickon. Let us try, Mary. I want
to sing it, too. It's my song. How does
it begin? 'Praise God from whom all
blessings flow'?"

And they sang it again, and Mary and
Colin lifted their voices as musically
as they could and Dickon's swelled quite
loud and beautiful--and at the second
line Ben Weatherstaff raspingly cleared
his throat and at the third line he
joined in with such vigor that it seemed
almost savage and when the "Amen" came
to an end Mary observed that the very
same thing had happened to him which had
happened when he found out that Colin
was not a cripple--his chin was
twitching and he was staring and winking
and his leathery old cheeks were wet.

"I never seed no sense in th' Doxology
afore," he said hoarsely, "but I may
change my mind i' time. I should say
tha'd gone up five pound this week
Mester Colin--five on 'em!"

Colin was looking across the garden at
something attracting his attention and
his expression had become a startled
one.

"Who is coming in here?" he said
quickly. "Who is it?"

The door in the ivied wall had been
pushed gently open and a woman had
entered. She had come in with the last
line of their song and she had stood
still listening and looking at them.
With the ivy behind her, the sunlight
drifting through the trees and dappling
her long blue cloak, and her nice fresh
face smiling across the greenery she was
rather like a softly colored
illustration in one of Colin's books.
She had wonderful affectionate eyes
which seemed to take everything in--all
of them, even Ben Weatherstaff and the
"creatures" and every flower that was in
bloom. Unexpectedly as she had appeared,
not one of them felt that she was an
intruder at all. Dickon's eyes lighted
like lamps.

"It's mother--that's who it is!" he
cried and went across the grass at a
run.

Colin began to move toward her, too, and
Mary went with him. They both felt their
pulses beat faster.

"It's mother!" Dickon said again when
they met halfway. "I knowed tha' wanted
to see her an' I told her where th' door
was hid."

Colin held out his hand with a sort of
flushed royal shyness but his eyes quite
devoured her face.

"Even when I was ill I wanted to see
you," he said, "you and Dickon and the
secret garden. I'd never wanted to see
any one or anything before."

The sight of his uplifted face brought
about a sudden change in her own. She
flushed and the corners of her mouth
shook and a mist seemed to sweep over
her eyes.

"Eh! dear lad!" she broke out
tremulously. "Eh! dear lad!" as if she
had not known she were going to say it.
She did not say, "Mester Colin," but
just "dear lad" quite suddenly. She
might have said it to Dickon in the same
way if she had seen something in his
face which touched her. Colin liked
it.

"Are you surprised because I am so
well?" he asked. She put her hand on his
shoulder and smiled the mist out of her
eyes. "Aye, that I am!" she said; "but
tha'rt so like thy mother tha' made my
heart jump."

"Do you think," said Colin a little
awkwardly, "that will make my father
like me?"

"Aye, for sure, dear lad," she answered
and she gave his shoulder a soft quick
pat. "He mun come home--he mun come
home."

"Susan Sowerby," said Ben Weatherstaff,
getting close to her. "Look at th' lad's
legs, wilt tha'? They was like
drumsticks i' stockin' two month'
ago--an' I heard folk tell as they was
bandy an' knock-kneed both at th' same
time. Look at 'em now!"

Susan Sowerby laughed a comfortable
laugh.

"They're goin' to be fine strong lad's
legs in a bit," she said. "Let him go on
playin' an' workin' in the garden an'
eatin' hearty an' drinkin' plenty o'
good sweet milk an' there'll not be a
finer pair i' Yorkshire, thank God for
it."

She put both hands on Mistress Mary's
shoulders and looked her little face
over in a motherly fashion.

"An' thee, too!" she said. "Tha'rt grown
near as hearty as our 'Lisabeth Ellen.
I'll warrant tha'rt like thy mother too.
Our Martha told me as Mrs. Medlock heard
she was a pretty woman. Tha'lt be like a
blush rose when tha' grows up, my little
lass, bless thee."

She did not mention that when Martha
came home on her "day out" and described
the plain sallow child she had said that
she had no confidence whatever in what
Mrs. Medlock had heard. "It doesn't
stand to reason that a pretty woman
could be th' mother o' such a fou'
little lass," she had added
obstinately.

Mary had not had time to pay much
attention to her changing face. She had
only known that she looked "different"
and seemed to have a great deal more
hair and that it was growing very fast.
But remembering her pleasure in looking
at the Mem Sahib in the past she was
glad to hear that she might some day
look like her.

Susan Sowerby went round their garden
with them and was told the whole story
of it and shown every bush and tree
which had come alive. Colin walked on
one side of her and Mary on the other.
Each of them kept looking up at her
comfortable rosy face, secretly curious
about the delightful feeling she gave
them--a sort of warm, supported feeling.
It seemed as if she understood them as
Dickon understood his "creatures." She
stooped over the flowers and talked
about them as if they were children.
Soot followed her and once or twice
cawed at her and flew upon her shoulder
as if it were Dickon's. When they told
her about the robin and the first flight
of the young ones she laughed a motherly
little mellow laugh in her throat.

"I suppose learnin' 'em to fly is like
learnin' children to walk, but I'm
feared I should be all in a worrit if
mine had wings instead o' legs," she
said.

It was because she seemed such a
wonderful woman in her nice moorland
cottage way that at last she was told
about the Magic.

"Do you believe in Magic?" asked Colin
after he had explained about Indian
fakirs. "I do hope you do."

"That I do, lad," she answered. "I never
knowed it by that name but what does th'
name matter? I warrant they call it a
different name i' France an' a different
one i' Germany. Th' same thing as set
th' seeds swellin' an' th' sun shinin'
made thee a well lad an' it's th' Good
Thing. It isn't like us poor fools as
think it matters if us is called out of
our names. Th' Big Good Thing doesn't
stop to worrit, bless thee. It goes on
makin' worlds by th' million--worlds
like us. Never thee stop believin' in
th' Big Good Thing an' knowin' th'
world's full of it--an' call it what
tha' likes. Tha' wert singin' to it when
I come into th' garden."

"I felt so joyful," said Colin, opening
his beautiful strange eyes at her.
"Suddenly I felt how different I
was--how strong my arms and legs were,
you know--and how I could dig and
stand--and I jumped up and wanted to
shout out something to anything that
would listen."

"Th' Magic listened when tha' sung th'
Doxology. It would ha' listened to
anything tha'd sung. It was th' joy that
mattered. Eh! lad, lad--what's names to
th' Joy Maker," and she gave his
shoulders a quick soft pat again.

She had packed a basket which held a
regular feast this morning, and when the
hungry hour came and Dickon brought it
out from its hiding place, she sat down
with them under their tree and watched
them devour their food, laughing and
quite gloating over their appetites. She
was full of fun and made them laugh at
all sorts of odd things. She told them
stories in broad Yorkshire and taught
them new words. She laughed as if she
could not help it when they told her of
the increasing difficulty there was in
pretending that Colin was still a
fretful invalid.

"You see we can't help laughing nearly
all the time when we are together,"
explained Colin. "And it doesn't sound
ill at all. We try to choke it back but
it will burst out and that sounds worse
than ever."

"There's one thing that comes into my
mind so often," said Mary, "and I can
scarcely ever hold in when I think of it
suddenly. I keep thinking suppose
Colin's face should get to look like a
full moon. It isn't like one yet but he
gets a tiny bit fatter every day--and
suppose some morning it should look like
one--what should we do!"

"Bless us all, I can see tha' has a good
bit o' play actin' to do," said Susan
Sowerby. "But tha' won't have to keep it
up much longer. Mester Craven'll come
home."

"Do you think he will?" asked Colin.
"Why?"

Susan Sowerby chuckled softly.

"I suppose it 'ud nigh break thy heart
if he found out before tha' told him in
tha' own way," she said. "Tha's laid
awake nights plannin' it."

"I couldn't bear any one else to tell
him," said Colin. "I think about
different ways every day, I think now I
just want to run into his room." "That'd
be a fine start for him," said Susan
Sowerby. "I'd like to see his face, lad.
I would that! He mun come back--that he
mun."

One of the things they talked of was the
visit they were to make to her cottage.
They planned it all. They were to drive
over the moor and lunch out of doors
among the heather. They would see all
the twelve children and Dickon's garden
and would not come back until they were
tired.

Susan Sowerby got up at last to return
to the house and Mrs. Medlock. It was
time for Colin to be wheeled back also.
But before he got into his chair he
stood quite close to Susan and fixed his
eyes on her with a kind of bewildered
adoration and he suddenly caught hold of
the fold of her blue cloak and held it
fast.

"You are just what I--what I wanted," he
said. "I wish you were my mother--as
well as Dickon's!"

All at once Susan Sowerby bent down and
drew him with her warm arms close
against the bosom under the blue
cloak--as if he had been Dickon's
brother. The quick mist swept over her
eyes.

"Eh! dear lad!" she said. "Thy own
mother's in this 'ere very garden, I do
believe. She couldna' keep out of it.
Thy father mun come back to thee--he
mun!"



CHAPTER XXVII

IN THE GARDEN

In each century since the beginning of
the world wonderful things have been
discovered. In the last century more
amazing things were found out than in
any century before. In this new century
hundreds of things still more astounding
will be brought to light. At first
people refuse to believe that a strange
new thing can be done, then they begin
to hope it can be done, then they see it
can be done--then it is done and all the
world wonders why it was not done
centuries ago. One of the new things
people began to find out in the last
century was that thoughts--just mere
thoughts--are as powerful as electric
batteries--as good for one as sunlight
is, or as bad for one as poison. To let
a sad thought or a bad one get into your
mind is as dangerous as letting a
scarlet fever germ get into your body.
If you let it stay there after it has
got in you may never get over it as long
as you live.

So long as Mistress Mary's mind was full
of disagreeable thoughts about her
dislikes and sour opinions of people and
her determination not to be pleased by
or interested in anything, she was a
yellow-faced, sickly, bored and wretched
child. Circumstances, however, were very
kind to her, though she was not at all
aware of it. They began to push her
about for her own good. When her mind
gradually filled itself with robins, and
moorland cottages crowded with children,
with queer crabbed old gardeners and
common little Yorkshire housemaids, with
springtime and with secret gardens
coming alive day by day, and also with a
moor boy and his "creatures," there was
no room left for the disagreeable
thoughts which affected her liver and
her digestion and made her yellow and
tired.

So long as Colin shut himself up in his
room and thought only of his fears and
weakness and his detestation of people
who looked at him and reflected hourly
on humps and early death, he was a
hysterical half-crazy little
hypochondriac who knew nothing of the
sunshine and the spring and also did not
know that he could get well and could
stand upon his feet if he tried to do
it. When new beautiful thoughts began to
push out the old hideous ones, life
began to come back to him, his blood ran
healthily through his veins and strength
poured into him like a flood. His
scientific experiment was quite
practical and simple and there was
nothing weird about it at all. Much more
surprising things can happen to any one
who, when a disagreeable or discouraged
thought comes into his mind, just has
the sense to remember in time and push
it out by putting in an agreeable
determinedly courageous one. Two things
cannot be in one place.

 "Where, you tend a rose, my lad, A
thistle cannot grow."

While the secret garden was coming alive
and two children were coming alive with
it, there was a man wandering about
certain far-away beautiful places in the
Norwegian fiords and the valleys and
mountains of Switzerland and he was a
man who for ten years had kept his mind
filled with dark and heart-broken
thinking. He had not been courageous; he
had never tried to put any other
thoughts in the place of the dark ones.
He had wandered by blue lakes and
thought them; he had lain on
mountain-sides with sheets of deep blue
gentians blooming all about him and
flower breaths filling all the air and
he had thought them. A terrible sorrow
had fallen upon him when he had been
happy and he had let his soul fill
itself with blackness and had refused
obstinately to allow any rift of light
to pierce through. He had forgotten and
deserted his home and his duties. When
he traveled about, darkness so brooded
over him that the sight of him was a
wrong done to other people because it
was as if he poisoned the air about him
with gloom. Most strangers thought he
must be either half mad or a man with
some hidden crime on his soul. He, was a
tall man with a drawn face and crooked
shoulders and the name he always entered
on hotel registers was, "Archibald
Craven, Misselthwaite Manor, Yorkshire,
England."

He had traveled far and wide since the
day he saw Mistress Mary in his study
and told her she might have her "bit of
earth." He had been in the most
beautiful places in Europe, though he
had remained nowhere more than a few
days. He had chosen the quietest and
remotest spots. He had been on the tops
of mountains whose heads were in the
clouds and had looked down on other
mountains when the sun rose and touched
them with such light as made it seem as
if the world were just being born.

But the light had never seemed to touch
himself until one day when he realized
that for the first time in ten years a
strange thing had happened. He was in a
wonderful valley in the Austrian Tyrol
and he had been walking alone through
such beauty as might have lifted, any
man's soul out of shadow. He had walked
a long way and it had not lifted his.
But at last he had felt tired and had
thrown himself down to rest on a carpet
of moss by a stream. It was a clear
little stream which ran quite merrily
along on its narrow way through the
luscious damp greenness. Sometimes it
made a sound rather like very low
laughter as it bubbled over and round
stones. He saw birds come and dip their
heads to drink in it and then flick
their wings and fly away. It seemed like
a thing alive and yet its tiny voice
made the stillness seem deeper. The
valley was very, very still.

As he sat gazing into the clear running
of the water, Archibald Craven gradually
felt his mind and body both grow quiet,
as quiet as the valley itself. He
wondered if he were going to sleep, but
he was not. He sat and gazed at the
sunlit water and his eyes began to see
things growing at its edge. There was
one lovely mass of blue forget-me-nots
growing so close to the stream that its
leaves were wet and at these he found
himself looking as he remembered he had
looked at such things years ago. He was
actually thinking tenderly how lovely it
was and what wonders of blue its
hundreds of little blossoms were. He did
not know that just that simple thought
was slowly filling his mind--filling and
filling it until other things were
softly pushed aside. It was as if a
sweet clear spring had begun to rise in
a stagnant pool and had risen and risen
until at last it swept the dark water
away. But of course he did not think of
this himself. He only knew that the
valley seemed to grow quieter and
quieter as he sat and stared at the
bright delicate blueness. He did not
know how long he sat there or what was
happening to him, but at last he moved
as if he were awakening and he got up
slowly and stood on the moss carpet,
drawing a long, deep, soft breath and
wondering at himself. Something seemed
to have been unbound and released in
him, very quietly.

"What is it?" he said, almost in a
whisper, and he passed his hand over his
forehead. "I almost feel as if--I were
alive!"

I do not know enough about the
wonderfulness of undiscovered things to
be able to explain how this had happened
to him. Neither does any one else yet.
He did not understand at all
himself--but he remembered this strange
hour months afterward when he was at
Misselthwaite again and he found out
quite by accident that on this very day
Colin had cried out as he went into the
secret garden:

"I am going to live forever and ever and
ever!"

The singular calmness remained with him
the rest of the evening and he slept a
new reposeful sleep; but it was not with
him very long. He did not know that it
could be kept. By the next night he had
opened the doors wide to his dark
thoughts and they had come trooping and
rushing back. He left the valley and
went on his wandering way again. But,
strange as it seemed to him, there were
minutes--sometimes half-hours--when,
without his knowing why, the black
burden seemed to lift itself again and
he knew he was a living man and not a
dead one. Slowly--slowly--for no reason
that he knew of--he was "coming alive"
with the garden.

As the golden summer changed into the
deep golden autumn he went to the Lake
of Como. There he found the loveliness
of a dream. He spent his days upon the
crystal blueness of the lake or he
walked back into the soft thick verdure
of the hills and tramped until he was
tired so that he might sleep. But by
this time he had begun to sleep better,
he knew, and his dreams had ceased to be
a terror to him.

"Perhaps," he thought, "my body is
growing stronger."

It was growing stronger but--because of
the rare peaceful hours when his
thoughts were changed--his soul was
slowly growing stronger, too. He began
to think of Misselthwaite and wonder if
he should not go home. Now and then he
wondered vaguely about his boy and asked
himself what he should feel when he went
and stood by the carved four-posted bed
again and looked down at the sharply
chiseled ivory-white face while it slept
and, the black lashes rimmed so
startlingly the close-shut eyes. He
shrank from it.

One marvel of a day he had walked so far
that when he returned the moon was high
and full and all the world was purple
shadow and silver. The stillness of lake
and shore and wood was so wonderful that
he did not go into the villa he lived
in. He walked down to a little bowered
terrace at the water's edge and sat upon
a seat and breathed in all the heavenly
scents of the night. He felt the strange
calmness stealing over him and it grew
deeper and deeper until he fell
asleep.

He did not know when he fell asleep and
when he began to dream; his dream was so
real that he did not feel as if he were
dreaming. He remembered afterward how
intensely wide awake and alert he had
thought he was. He thought that as he
sat and breathed in the scent of the
late roses and listened to the lapping
of the water at his feet he heard a
voice calling. It was sweet and clear
and happy and far away. It seemed very
far, but he heard it as distinctly as if
it had been at his very side.

"Archie! Archie! Archie!" it said, and
then again, sweeter and clearer than
before, "Archie! Archie!"

He thought he sprang to his feet not
even startled. It was such a real voice
and it seemed so natural that he should
hear it.

"Lilias! Lilias!" he answered. "Lilias!
where are you?"

"In the garden," it came back like a
sound from a golden flute. "In the
garden!"

And then the dream ended. But he did not
awaken. He slept soundly and sweetly all
through the lovely night. When he did
awake at last it was brilliant morning
and a servant was standing staring at
him. He was an Italian servant and was
accustomed, as all the servants of the
villa were, to accepting without
question any strange thing his foreign
master might do. No one ever knew when
he would go out or come in or where he
would choose to sleep or if he would
roam about the garden or lie in the boat
on the lake all night. The man held a
salver with some letters on it and he
waited quietly until Mr. Craven took
them. When he had gone away Mr. Craven
sat a few moments holding them in his
hand and looking at the lake. His
strange calm was still upon him and
something more--a lightness as if the
cruel thing which had been done had not
happened as he thought--as if something
had changed. He was remembering the
dream--the real--real dream.

"In the garden!" he said, wondering at
himself. "In the garden! But the door is
locked and the key is buried deep."

When he glanced at the letters a few
minutes later he saw that the one lying
at the top of the rest was an English
letter and came from Yorkshire. It was
directed in a plain woman's hand but it
was not a hand he knew. He opened it,
scarcely thinking of the writer, but the
first words attracted his attention at
once.

"Dear Sir:

I am Susan Sowerby that made bold to
speak to you once on the moor. It was
about Miss Mary I spoke. I will make
bold to speak again. Please, sir, I
would come home if I was you. I think
you would be glad to come and--if you
will excuse me, sir--I think your lady
would ask you to come if she was here.

 Your obedient servant, Susan Sowerby."


Mr. Craven read the letter twice before
he put it back in its envelope. He kept
thinking about the dream.

"I will go back to Misselthwaite," he
said. "Yes, I'll go at once."

And he went through the garden to the
villa and ordered Pitcher to prepare for
his return to England.

In a few days he was in Yorkshire again,
and on his long railroad journey he
found himself thinking of his boy as he
had never thought in all the ten years
past. During those years he had only
wished to forget him. Now, though he did
not intend to think about him, memories
of him constantly drifted into his mind.
He remembered the black days when he had
raved like a madman because the child
was alive and the mother was dead. He
had refused to see it, and when he had
gone to look at it at last it had been,
such a weak wretched thing that everyone
had been sure it would die in a few
days. But to the surprise of those who
took care of it the days passed and it
lived and then everyone believed it
would be a deformed and crippled
creature.

He had not meant to be a bad father, but
he had not felt like a father at all. He
had supplied doctors and nurses and
luxuries, but he had shrunk from the
mere thought of the boy and had buried
himself in his own misery. The first
time after a year's absence he returned
to Misselthwaite and the small miserable
looking thing languidly and
indifferently lifted to his face the
great gray eyes with black lashes round
them, so like and yet so horribly unlike
the happy eyes he had adored, he could
not bear the sight of them and turned
away pale as death. After that he
scarcely ever saw him except when he was
asleep, and all he knew of him was that
he was a confirmed invalid, with a
vicious, hysterical, half-insane temper.
He could only be kept from furies
dangerous to himself by being given his
own way in every detail.

All this was not an uplifting thing to
recall, but as the train whirled him
through mountain passes and golden
plains the man who was "coming alive"
began to think in a new way and he
thought long and steadily and deeply.

"Perhaps I have been all wrong for ten
years," he said to himself. "Ten years
is a long time. It may be too late to do
anything--quite too late. What have I
been thinking of!"

Of course this was the wrong Magic--to
begin by saying "too late." Even Colin
could have told him that. But he knew
nothing of Magic--either black or white.
This he had yet to learn. He wondered if
Susan Sowerby had taken courage and
written to him only because the motherly
creature had realized that the boy was
much worse--was fatally ill. If he had
not been under the spell of the curious
calmness which had taken possession of
him he would have been more wretched
than ever. But the calm had brought a
sort of courage and hope with it.
Instead of giving way to thoughts of the
worst he actually found he was trying to
believe in better things.

"Could it be possible that she sees that
I may be able to do him good and control
him?" he thought. "I will go and see her
on my way to Misselthwaite."

But when on his way across the moor he
stopped the carriage at the cottage,
seven or eight children who were playing
about gathered in a group and bobbing
seven or eight friendly and polite
curtsies told him that their mother had
gone to the other side of the moor early
in the morning to help a woman who had a
new baby. "Our Dickon," they
volunteered, was over at the Manor
working in one of the gardens where he
went several days each week.

Mr. Craven looked over the collection of
sturdy little bodies and round
red-cheeked faces, each one grinning in
its own particular way, and he awoke to
the fact that they were a healthy
likable lot. He smiled at their friendly
grins and took a golden sovereign from
his pocket and gave it to "our 'Lizabeth
Ellen" who was the oldest.

"If you divide that into eight parts
there will be half a crown for each of,
you," he said.

Then amid grins and chuckles and bobbing
of curtsies he drove away, leaving
ecstasy and nudging elbows and little
jumps of joy behind.

The drive across the wonderfulness of
the moor was a soothing thing. Why did
it seem to give him a sense of
homecoming which he had been sure he
could never feel again--that sense of
the beauty of land and sky and purple
bloom of distance and a warming of the
heart at drawing, nearer to the great
old house which had held those of his
blood for six hundred years? How he had
driven away from it the last time,
shuddering to think of its closed rooms
and the boy lying in the four-posted bed
with the brocaded hangings. Was it
possible that perhaps he might find him
changed a little for the better and that
he might overcome his shrinking from
him? How real that dream had been--how
wonderful and clear the voice which
called back to him, "In the garden--In
the garden!"

"I will try to find the key," he said.
"I will try to open the door. I
must--though I don't know why."

When he arrived at the Manor the
servants who received him with the usual
ceremony noticed that he looked better
and that he did not go to the remote
rooms where he usually lived attended by
Pitcher. He went into the library and
sent for Mrs. Medlock. She came to him
somewhat excited and curious and
flustered.

"How is Master Colin, Medlock?" he
inquired. "Well, sir," Mrs. Medlock
answered, "he's--he's different, in a
manner of speaking."

"Worse?" he suggested.

Mrs. Medlock really was flushed.

"Well, you see, sir," she tried to
explain, "neither Dr. Craven, nor the
nurse, nor me can exactly make him
out."

"Why is that?"

"To tell the truth, sir, Master Colin
might be better and he might be changing
for the worse. His appetite, sir, is
past understanding--and his ways--"

"Has he become more--more peculiar?" her
master, asked, knitting his brows
anxiously.

"That's it, sir. He's growing very
peculiar--when you compare him with what
he used to be. He used to eat nothing
and then suddenly he began to eat
something enormous--and then he stopped
again all at once and the meals were
sent back just as they used to be. You
never knew, sir, perhaps, that out of
doors he never would let himself be
taken. The things we've gone through to
get him to go out in his chair would
leave a body trembling like a leaf. He'd
throw himself into such a state that Dr.
Craven said he couldn't be responsible
for forcing him. Well, sir, just without
warning--not long after one of his worst
tantrums he suddenly insisted on being
taken out every day by Miss Mary and
Susan Sowerby's boy Dickon that could
push his chair. He took a fancy to both
Miss Mary and Dickon, and Dickon brought
his tame animals, and, if you'll credit
it, sir, out of doors he will stay from
morning until night."

"How does he look?" was the next
question.

"If he took his food natural, sir, you'd
think he was putting on flesh--but we're
afraid it may be a sort of bloat. He
laughs sometimes in a queer way when
he's alone with Miss Mary. He never used
to laugh at all. Dr. Craven is coming to
see you at once, if you'll allow him. He
never was as puzzled in his life."

"Where is Master Colin now?" Mr. Craven
asked.

"In the garden, sir. He's always in the
garden--though not a human creature is
allowed to go near for fear they'll look
at him."

Mr. Craven scarcely heard her last
words.

"In the garden," he said, and after he
had sent Mrs. Medlock away he stood and
repeated it again and again. "In the
garden!"

He had to make an effort to bring
himself back to the place he was
standing in and when he felt he was on
earth again he turned and went out of
the room. He took his way, as Mary had
done, through the door in the shrubbery
and among the laurels and the fountain
beds. The fountain was playing now and
was encircled by beds of brilliant
autumn flowers. He crossed the lawn and
turned into the Long Walk by the ivied
walls. He did not walk quickly, but
slowly, and his eyes were on the path.
He felt as if he were being drawn back
to the place he had so long forsaken,
and he did not know why. As he drew near
to it his step became still more slow.
He knew where the door was even though
the ivy hung thick over it--but he did
not know exactly where it lay--that
buried key.

So he stopped and stood still, looking
about him, and almost the moment after
he had paused he started and
listened--asking himself if he were
walking in a dream.

The ivy hung thick over the door, the
key was buried under the shrubs, no
human being had passed that portal for
ten lonely years--and yet inside the
garden there were sounds. They were the
sounds of running scuffling feet seeming
to chase round and round under the
trees, they were strange sounds of
lowered suppressed voices--exclamations
and smothered joyous cries. It seemed
actually like the laughter of young
things, the uncontrollable laughter of
children who were trying not to be heard
but who in a moment or so--as their
excitement mounted--would burst forth.
What in heaven's name was he dreaming
of--what in heaven's name did he hear?
Was he losing his reason and thinking he
heard things which were not for human
ears? Was it that the far clear voice
had meant?

And then the moment came, the
uncontrollable moment when the sounds
forgot to hush themselves. The feet ran
faster and faster--they were nearing the
garden door--there was quick strong
young breathing and a wild outbreak of
laughing shows which could not be
contained--and the door in the wall was
flung wide open, the sheet of ivy
swinging back, and a boy burst through
it at full speed and, without seeing the
outsider, dashed almost into his arms.

Mr. Craven had extended them just in
time to save him from falling as a
result of his unseeing dash against him,
and when he held him away to look at him
in amazement at his being there he truly
gasped for breath.

He was a tall boy and a handsome one. He
was glowing with life and his running
had sent splendid color leaping to his
face. He threw the thick hair back from
his forehead and lifted a pair of
strange gray eyes--eyes full of boyish
laughter and rimmed with black lashes
like a fringe. It was the eyes which
made Mr. Craven gasp for breath.
"Who--What? Who!" he stammered.

This was not what Colin had
expected--this was not what he had
planned. He had never thought of such a
meeting. And yet to come dashing
out--winning a race--perhaps it was even
better. He drew himself up to his very
tallest. Mary, who had been running with
him and had dashed through the door too,
believed that he managed to make himself
look taller than he had ever looked
before--inches taller.

"Father," he said, "I'm Colin. You can't
believe it. I scarcely can myself. I'm
Colin."

Like Mrs. Medlock, he did not understand
what his father meant when he said
hurriedly:

"In the garden! In the garden!"

"Yes," hurried on Colin. "It was the
garden that did it--and Mary and Dickon
and the creatures--and the Magic. No one
knows. We kept it to tell you when you
came. I'm well, I can beat Mary in a
race. I'm going to be an athlete."

He said it all so like a healthy
boy--his face flushed, his words
tumbling over each other in his
eagerness--that Mr. Craven's soul shook
with unbelieving joy.

Colin put out his hand and laid it on
his father's arm.

"Aren't you glad, Father?" he ended.
"Aren't you glad? I'm going to live
forever and ever and ever!"

Mr. Craven put his hands on both the
boy's shoulders and held him still. He
knew he dared not even try to speak for
a moment.

"Take me into the garden, my boy," he
said at last. "And tell me all about
it."

And so they led him in.

The place was a wilderness of autumn
gold and purple and violet blue and
flaming scarlet and on every side were
sheaves of late lilies standing
together--lilies which were white or
white and ruby. He remembered well when
the first of them had been planted that
just at this season of the year their
late glories should reveal themselves.
Late roses climbed and hung and
clustered and the sunshine deepening the
hue of the yellowing trees made one feel
that one, stood in an embowered temple
of gold. The newcomer stood silent just
as the children had done when they came
into its grayness. He looked round and
round.

"I thought it would be dead," he said.

"Mary thought so at first," said Colin.
"But it came alive."

Then they sat down under their tree--all
but Colin, who wanted to stand while he
told the story.

It was the strangest thing he had ever
heard, Archibald Craven thought, as it
was poured forth in headlong boy
fashion. Mystery and Magic and wild
creatures, the weird midnight
meeting--the coming of the spring--the
passion of insulted pride which had
dragged the young Rajah to his feet to
defy old Ben Weatherstaff to his face.
The odd companionship, the play acting,
the great secret so carefully kept. The
listener laughed until tears came into
his eyes and sometimes tears came into
his eyes when he was not laughing. The
Athlete, the Lecturer, the Scientific
Discoverer was a laughable, lovable,
healthy young human thing.

"Now," he said at the end of the story,
"it need not be a secret any more. I
dare say it will frighten them nearly
into fits when they see me--but I am
never going to get into the chair again.
I shall walk back with you, Father--to
the house."

Ben Weatherstaff's duties rarely took
him away from the gardens, but on this
occasion he made an excuse to carry some
vegetables to the kitchen and being
invited into the servants' hall by Mrs.
Medlock to drink a glass of beer he was
on the spot--as he had hoped to be--when
the most dramatic event Misselthwaite
Manor had seen during the present
generation actually took place. One of
the windows looking upon the courtyard
gave also a glimpse of the lawn. Mrs.
Medlock, knowing Ben had come from the
gardens, hoped that he might have caught
sight of his master and even by chance
of his meeting with Master Colin.

"Did you see either of them,
Weatherstaff?" she asked.

Ben took his beer-mug from his mouth and
wiped his lips with the back of his
hand.

"Aye, that I did," he answered with a
shrewdly significant air.

"Both of them?" suggested Mrs.
Medlock.

"Both of 'em," returned Ben
Weatherstaff. "Thank ye kindly, ma'am, I
could sup up another mug of it."

"Together?" said Mrs. Medlock, hastily
overfilling his beer-mug in her
excitement.

"Together, ma'am," and Ben gulped down
half of his new mug at one gulp.

"Where was Master Colin? How did he
look? What did they say to each
other?"

"I didna' hear that," said Ben, "along
o' only bein' on th' stepladder lookin,
over th' wall. But I'll tell thee this.
There's been things goin' on outside as
you house people knows nowt about. An'
what tha'll find out tha'll find out
soon."

And it was not two minutes before he
swallowed the last of his beer and waved
his mug solemnly toward the window which
took in through the shrubbery a piece of
the lawn.

"Look there," he said, "if tha's
curious. Look what's comin' across th'
grass."

When Mrs. Medlock looked she threw up
her hands and gave a little shriek and
every man and woman servant within
hearing bolted across the servants' hall
and stood looking through the window
with their eyes almost starting out of
their heads.

Across the lawn came the Master of
Misselthwaite and he looked as many of
them had never seen him. And by his,
side with his head up in the air and his
eyes full of laughter walked as strongly
and steadily as any boy in
Yorkshire--Master Colin. 

THE END


"I wonder if there is a secret place in 
these caves? Well, I better watch
the sound of my steps..."