Chapter 1 There Is No One Left When Mary Lennox was sent to Misselth waite Manorto live with her uncle everybody said she was the mostdisagreeable-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 inIndia and had always been ill in one way or another.   Her father had held a position under the EnglishGovernment and had always been busy and ill himself,and her mother had been a great beauty who cared onlyto go to parties and amuse herself with gay people.   She had not wanted a little girl at all, and when Marywas born she handed her over to the care of an Ayah,who was made to understand that if she wished to pleasethe Mem Sahib she must keep the child out of sight as muchas possible. So when she was a sickly, fretful, ugly littlebaby she was kept out of the way, and when she becamea sickly, fretful, toddling thing she was kept out ofthe way also. She never remembered seeing familiarlyanything but the dark faces of her Ayah and the othernative servants, and as they always obeyed her and gaveher her own way in everything, because the Mem Sahibwould be angry if she was disturbed by her crying,by the time she was six years old she was as tyrannicaland selfish a little pig as ever lived. The young Englishgoverness who came to teach her to read and write dislikedher so much that she gave up her place in three months,and when other governesses came to try to fill it theyalways went away in a shorter time than the first one.   So if Mary had not chosen to really want to know howto read books she would never have learned her letters at all.   One frightfully hot morning, when she was about nineyears old, she awakened feeling very cross, and she becamecrosser still when she saw that the servant who stoodby 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 stammeredthat the Ayah could not come and when Mary threw herselfinto a passion and beat and kicked her, she looked onlymore frightened and repeated that it was not possiblefor 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 thenative servants seemed missing, while those whom Marysaw 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 beganto play by herself under a tree near the veranda.   She pretended that she was making a flower-bed, and she stuckbig scarlet hibiscus blossoms into little heaps of earth,all the time growing more and more angry and mutteringto herself the things she would say and the names shewould call Saidie when she returned.   "Pig! Pig! Daughter of Pigs!" she said, because to calla native a pig is the worst insult of all.   She was grinding her teeth and saying this over and overagain when she heard her mother come out on the verandawith some one. She was with a fair young man and they stoodtalking together in low strange voices. Mary knew the fairyoung man who looked like a boy. She had heard that hewas 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 oftenerthan anything else--was such a tall, slim, pretty personand wore such lovely clothes. Her hair was like curlysilk and she had a delicate little nose which seemedto be disdaining things, and she had large laughing eyes.   All her clothes were thin and floating, and Mary said theywere "full of lace." They looked fuller of lace than everthis morning, but her eyes were not laughing at all.   They were large and scared and lifted imploringly to the fairboy 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 hillstwo weeks ago."The Mem Sahib wrung her hands.   "Oh, I know I ought!" she cried. "I only stayed to goto that silly dinner party. What a fool I was!"At that very moment such a loud sound of wailing brokeout from the servants' quarters that she clutched the youngman'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 didnot 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 mysteriousnessof the morning was explained to Mary. The cholera hadbroken out in its most fatal form and people were dyinglike flies. The Ayah had been taken ill in the night,and it was because she had just died that the servantshad wailed in the huts. Before the next day three otherservants were dead and others had run away in terror.   There was panic on every side, and dying people in allthe bungalows.   During the confusion and bewilderment of the second day Maryhid herself in the nursery and was forgotten by everyone.   Nobody thought of her, nobody wanted her, and strange thingshappened of which she knew nothing. Mary alternately criedand slept through the hours. She only knew that people wereill and that she heard mysterious and tightening sounds.   Once she crept into the dining-room and found it empty,though a partly finished meal was on the table and chairsand plates looked as if they had been hastily pushedback when the diners rose suddenly for some reason.   The child ate some fruit and biscuits, and being thirstyshe 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 backto her nursery and shut herself in again, frightened by criesshe heard in the huts and by the hurrying sound of feet.   The wine made her so sleepy that she could scarcely keep hereyes open and she lay down on her bed and knew nothing morefor a long time.   Many things happened during the hours in which she sleptso heavily, but she was not disturbed by the wails and thesound 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 knownit to be so silent before. She heard neither voicesnor footsteps, and wondered if everybody had got well ofthe cholera and all the trouble was over. She wonderedalso who would take care of her now her Ayah was dead.   There would be a new Ayah, and perhaps she would knowsome new stories. Mary had been rather tired of theold ones. She did not cry because her nurse had died.   She was not an affectionate child and had never cared muchfor any one. The noise and hurrying about and wailingover the cholera had frightened her, and she had been angrybecause no one seemed to remember that she was alive.   Everyone was too panic-stricken to think of a littlegirl no one was fond of. When people had the cholerait seemed that they remembered nothing but themselves.   But if everyone had got well again, surely some one wouldremember and come to look for her.   But no one came, and as she lay waiting the house seemedto grow more and more silent. She heard something rustlingon the matting and when she looked down she saw a littlesnake gliding along and watching her with eyes like jewels.   She was not frightened, because he was a harmless littlething who would not hurt her and he seemed in a hurryto get out of the room. He slipped under the door as shewatched him.   "How queer and quiet it is," she said. "It sounds asif 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 seemedto 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 theyopened the door a few minutes later. She looked an ugly,cross little thing and was frowning because she wasbeginning to be hungry and feel disgracefully neglected.   The first man who came in was a large officer she had onceseen talking to her father. He looked tired and troubled,but when he saw her he was so startled that he almostjumped back.   "Barney!" he cried out. "There is a child here! A childalone! In a place like this! Mercy on us, who is she!""I am Mary Lennox," the little girl said, drawing herselfup stiffly. She thought the man was very rude to call herfather's bungalow "A place like this!" "I fell asleep wheneveryone 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 winktears away.   "Poor little kid!" he said. "There is nobody left to come."It was in that strange and sudden way that Mary foundout 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 hadleft 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 therewas no one in the bungalow but herself and the littlerustling snake. Chapter 2 Mistress Mary Quite Contrary Mary had liked to look at her mother from a distanceand she had thought her very pretty, but as she knewvery little of her she could scarcely have been expectedto 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 aself-absorbed child she gave her entire thought to herself,as she had always done. If she had been older she wouldno doubt have been very anxious at being left alone inthe world, but she was very young, and as she had alwaysbeen taken care of, she supposed she always would be.   What she thought was that she would like to know if she wasgoing to nice people, who would be polite to her and giveher her own way as her Ayah and the other native servantshad done.   She knew that she was not going to stay at the Englishclergyman's house where she was taken at first. She didnot want to stay. The English clergyman was poor and hehad five children nearly all the same age and they woreshabby clothes and were always quarreling and snatchingtoys from each other. Mary hated their untidy bungalowand was so disagreeable to them that after the first dayor two nobody would play with her. By the second daythey had given her a nickname which made her furious.   It was Basil who thought of it first. Basil was a littleboy with impudent blue eyes and a turned-up nose, and Maryhated 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 gardenand Basil came and stood near to watch her. Presently hegot rather interested and suddenly made a suggestion.   "Why don't you put a heap of stones there and pretendit 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 roundand 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 stayedwith them they called her "Mistress Mary Quite Contrary"when they spoke of her to each other, and often when theyspoke 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 sentto her last year. You are not going to your grandmama.   You have none. You are going to your uncle. His name isMr. 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 thecountry and no one goes near him. He's so cross he won'tlet 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 fingersin her ears, because she would not listen any more.   But she thought over it a great deal afterward; and whenMrs. Crawford told her that night that she was goingto 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 thatthey did not know what to think about her. They triedto be kind to her, but she only turned her face awaywhen Mrs. Crawford attempted to kiss her, and heldherself 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 mostunattractive ways I ever saw in a child. The childrencall her `Mistress Mary Quite Contrary,' and thoughit's naughty of them, one can't help understanding it.""Perhaps if her mother had carried her pretty faceand her pretty manners oftener into the nursery Marymight have learned some pretty ways too. It is very sad,now the poor beautiful thing is gone, to remember thatmany 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 therewas no one to give a thought to the little thing.   Think of the servants running away and leaving her allalone in that deserted bungalow. Colonel McGrew said henearly jumped out of his skin when he opened the doorand found her standing by herself in the middle of the room."Mary made the long voyage to England under the care ofan officer's wife, who was taking her children to leavethem in a boarding-school. She was very much absorbedin her own little boy and girl, and was rather glad to handthe child over to the woman Mr. Archibald Craven sentto meet her, in London. The woman was his housekeeperat Misselthwaite Manor, and her name was Mrs. Medlock.   She was a stout woman, with very red cheeks and sharpblack eyes. She wore a very purple dress, a blacksilk mantle with jet fringe on it and a black bonnetwith purple velvet flowers which stuck up and trembledwhen she moved her head. Mary did not like her at all,but as she very seldom liked people there was nothingremarkable in that; besides which it was very evidentMrs. 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'thanded much of it down, has she, ma'am?" "Perhaps shewill improve as she grows older," the officer's wifesaid good-naturedly. "If she were not so sallow and hada 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 atMisselthwaite--if you ask me!" They thought Mary was notlistening because she was standing a little apart from themat 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 abouther uncle and the place he lived in. What sort of a placewas 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 housesand had had no Ayah, she had begun to feel lonelyand to think queer thoughts which were new to her.   She had begun to wonder why she had never seemed to belongto 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 onehad taken any notice of her. She did not know that thiswas 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 notknow that she was so herself.   She thought Mrs. Medlock the most disagreeable personshe had ever seen, with her common, highly colored faceand her common fine bonnet. When the next day they setout on their journey to Yorkshire, she walked throughthe station to the railway carriage with her head upand 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 shewas her little girl.   But Mrs. Medlock was not in the least disturbed by herand her thoughts. She was the kind of woman who would"stand no nonsense from young ones." At least, that iswhat she would have said if she had been asked. She hadnot wanted to go to London just when her sister Maria'sdaughter was going to be married, but she had a comfortable,well paid place as housekeeper at Misselthwaite Manorand the only way in which she could keep it was to doat 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 Lennoxwas my wife's brother and I am their daughter's guardian.   The child is to be brought here. You must go to Londonand bring her yourself."So she packed her small trunk and made the journey.   Mary sat in her corner of the railway carriage and lookedplain and fretful. She had nothing to read or to look at,and she had folded her thin little black-gloved hands inher lap. Her black dress made her look yellower than ever,and her limp light hair straggled from under her blackcrepe hat.   "A more marred-looking young one I never saw in my life,"Mrs. Medlock thought. (Marred is a Yorkshire word andmeans spoiled and pettish.) She had never seen a childwho sat so still without doing anything; and at last shegot tired of watching her and began to talk in a brisk,hard voice.   "I suppose I may as well tell you something about whereyou are going to," she said. "Do you know anythingabout your uncle?""No," said Mary.   "Never heard your father and mother talk about him?""No," said Mary frowning. She frowned because sheremembered that her father and mother had never talkedto her about anything in particular. Certainly theyhad never told her things.   "Humph," muttered Mrs. Medlock, staring at her queer,unresponsive little face. She did not say any more fora few moments and then she began again.   "I suppose you might as well be told something--toprepare you. You are going to a queer place."Mary said nothing at all, and Mrs. Medlock looked ratherdiscomfited by her apparent indifference, but, after takinga 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'sgloomy enough, too. The house is six hundred years oldand it's on the edge of the moor, and there's near a hundredrooms in it, though most of them's shut up and locked.   And there's pictures and fine old furniture and thingsthat's been there for ages, and there's a big park roundit and gardens and trees with branches trailing to theground--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 soundedso 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 shesat 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 Manorfor I don't know, unless because it's the easiest way.   He's not going to trouble himself about you, that's sureand certain. He never troubles himself about no one."She stopped herself as if she had just remembered somethingin 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 moneyand big place till he was married."Mary's eyes turned toward her in spite of her intentionnot to seem to care. She had never thought of thehunchback's being married and she was a trifle surprised.   Mrs. Medlock saw this, and as she was a talkative womanshe continued with more interest. This was one wayof passing some of the time, at any rate.   "She was a sweet, pretty thing and he'd have walkedthe 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 onceread called "Riquet a la Houppe." It had been about a poorhunchback and a beautiful princess and it had made hersuddenly sorry for Mr. Archibald Craven.   "Yes, she died," Mrs. Medlock answered. "And itmade 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 inthe West Wing and won't let any one but Pitcher see him.   Pitcher's an old fellow, but he took care of him when hewas a child and he knows his ways."It sounded like something in a book and it did not makeMary feel cheerful. A house with a hundred rooms,nearly all shut up and with their doors locked--a house onthe edge of a moor--whatsoever a moor was--sounded dreary.   A man with a crooked back who shut himself up also! Shestared out of the window with her lips pinched together,and it seemed quite natural that the rain should have begunto pour down in gray slanting lines and splash and streamdown the window-panes. If the pretty wife had been aliveshe might have made things cheerful by being somethinglike her own mother and by running in and out and goingto 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 therewill be people to talk to you. You'll have to playabout and look after yourself. You'll be told what roomsyou can go into and what rooms you're to keep out of.   There's gardens enough. But when you're in the housedon't go wandering and poking about. Mr. Craven won'thave it.""I shall not want to go poking about," said sour littleMary and just as suddenly as she had begun to be rathersorry for Mr. Archibald Craven she began to cease to besorry and to think he was unpleasant enough to deserveall that had happened to him.   And she turned her face toward the streaming panes of thewindow of the railway carriage and gazed out at the grayrain-storm which looked as if it would go on forever and ever.   She watched it so long and steadily that the graynessgrew heavier and heavier before her eyes and she fell asleep. Chapter 3 Across The Moor She slept a long time, and when she awakened Mrs. Medlockhad bought a lunchbasket at one of the stations and theyhad some chicken and cold beef and bread and butter andsome hot tea. The rain seemed to be streaming down moreheavily than ever and everybody in the station wore wetand glistening waterproofs. The guard lighted the lampsin the carriage, and Mrs. Medlock cheered up very muchover her tea and chicken and beef. She ate a great dealand afterward fell asleep herself, and Mary sat and staredat her and watched her fine bonnet slip on one side until sheherself 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 trainhad stopped at a station and Mrs. Medlock was shaking her.   "You have had a sleep!" she said. "It's time to openyour eyes! We're at Thwaite Station and we've got a longdrive before us."Mary stood up and tried to keep her eyes open whileMrs. Medlock collected her parcels. The littlegirl did not offer to help her, because in Indianative servants always picked up or carried thingsand it seemed quite proper that other people should wait on one.   The station was a small one and nobody but themselvesseemed to be getting out of the train. The station-masterspoke to Mrs. Medlock in a rough, good-natured way,pronouncing his words in a queer broad fashion which Maryfound 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 witha Yorkshire accent herself and jerking her head overher shoulder toward Mary. "How's thy Missus?""Well enow. Th' carriage is waitin' outside for thee."A brougham stood on the road before the littleoutside platform. Mary saw that it was a smart carriageand that it was a smart footman who helped her in.   His long waterproof coat and the waterproof covering of hishat 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 seatedin a comfortably cushioned corner, but she was not inclinedto go to sleep again. She sat and looked out of the window,curious to see something of the road over which shewas being driven to the queer place Mrs. Medlock hadspoken of. She was not at all a timid child and she wasnot exactly frightened, but she felt that there was noknowing what might happen in a house with a hundred roomsnearly 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 acrossMissel Moor before we get to the Manor. You won't seemuch because it's a dark night, but you can see something."Mary asked no more questions but waited in the darknessof her corner, keeping her eyes on the window. The carriagelamps cast rays of light a little distance ahead of themand she caught glimpses of the things they passed.   After they had left the station they had driven through atiny village and she had seen whitewashed cottages and thelights of a public house. Then they had passed a churchand a vicarage and a little shop-window or so in a cottagewith toys and sweets and odd things set our for sale.   Then they were on the highroad and she saw hedges and trees.   After that there seemed nothing different for a longtime--or at least it seemed a long time to her.   At last the horses began to go more slowly, as if theywere climbing up-hill, and presently there seemed to beno more hedges and no more trees. She could see nothing,in fact, but a dense darkness on either side. She leanedforward and pressed her face against the window justas 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-lookingroad which seemed to be cut through bushes and low-growingthings which ended in the great expanse of dark apparentlyspread out before and around them. A wind was risingand making a singular, wild, low, rushing sound.   "It's--it's not the sea, is it?" said Mary, looking roundat her companion.   "No, not it," answered Mrs. Medlock. "Nor it isn't fieldsnor mountains, it's just miles and miles and miles of wildland 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 wateron 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'splenty that likes it--particularly when the heather's in bloom."On and on they drove through the darkness, and thoughthe rain stopped, the wind rushed by and whistled and madestrange sounds. The road went up and down, and severaltimes the carriage passed over a little bridge beneathwhich water rushed very fast with a great deal of noise.   Mary felt as if the drive would never come to an endand that the wide, bleak moor was a wide expanse of blackocean 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 roadwhen she first caught sight of a light. Mrs. Medlocksaw 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 carriagepassed through the park gates there was still two milesof avenue to drive through and the trees (which nearlymet overhead) made it seem as if they were drivingthrough a long dark vault.   They drove out of the vault into a clear spaceand stopped before an immensely long but low-builthouse which seemed to ramble round a stone court.   At first Mary thought that there were no lights at allin the windows, but as she got out of the carriageshe saw that one room in a corner upstairs showed a dull glow.   The entrance door was a huge one made of massive, curiouslyshaped panels of oak studded with big iron nails and boundwith great iron bars. It opened into an enormous hall,which was so dimly lighted that the faces in the portraitson the walls and the figures in the suits of armormade 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 lostand odd as she looked.   A neat, thin old man stood near the manservant who openedthe 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 Londonin 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 hedoesn't see what he doesn't want to see."And then Mary Lennox was led up a broad staircaseand down a long corridor and up a short flightof steps and through another corridor and another,until a door opened in a wall and she found herselfin 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'lllive--and you must keep to them. Don't you forget that!"It was in this way Mistress Mary arrived at MisselthwaiteManor and she had perhaps never felt quite so contraryin all her life. Chapter 4 Martha When she opened her eyes in the morning it was becausea young housemaid had come into her room to lightthe fire and was kneeling on the hearth-rug rakingout the cinders noisily. Mary lay and watched her fora few moments and then began to look about the room.   She had never seen a room at all like it and thought itcurious and gloomy. The walls were covered with tapestrywith a forest scene embroidered on it. There werefantastically dressed people under the trees and in thedistance 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 climbingstretch 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 polishingaway 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 looksso high an' th' bees an' skylarks makes such a nicenoise 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 Indiawere not in the least like this. They were obsequiousand servile and did not presume to talk to their mastersas if they were their equals. They made salaams and calledthem "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 shewas angry. She wondered a little what this girl woulddo if one slapped her in the face. She was a round,rosy, good-natured-looking creature, but she had a sturdyway which made Mistress Mary wonder if she might noteven slap back--if the person who slapped her was only alittle girl.   "You are a strange servant," she said from her pillows,rather haughtily.   Martha sat up on her heels, with her blackingbrush in her hand,and laughed, without seeming the least out of temper.   "Eh! I know that," she said. "If there was a grand Missusat Misselthwaite I should never have been even one of th'   under house-maids. I might have been let to be scullerymaidbut I'd never have been let upstairs. I'm too common an'   I talk too much Yorkshire. But this is a funny house forall it's so grand. Seems like there's neither Master norMistress 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 havedone it if Misselthwaite had been like other big houses.""Are you going to be my servant?" Mary asked, still in herimperious 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'swork up here an' wait on you a bit. But you won't needmuch waitin' on.""Who is going to dress me?" demanded Mary.   Martha sat up on her heels again and stared. She spokein 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'dhave 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 didin my life. My Ayah dressed me, of course.""Well," said Martha, evidently not in the least awarethat she was impudent, "it's time tha' should learn.   Tha' cannot begin younger. It'll do thee good to waiton thysen a bit. My mother always said she couldn'tsee why grand people's children didn't turn out fairfools--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 almostsympathetically. "I dare say it's because there's sucha lot o' blacks there instead o' respectable white people.   When I heard you was comin' from India I thought you was a blacktoo."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 beso vexed. That's not th' way for a young lady to talk.   I've nothin' against th' blacks. When you read about 'emin tracts they're always very religious. You always readas 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 lookat you. An' there you was," disappointedly, "no more blackthan 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 knowanything about natives! They are not people--they're servantswho 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'ssimple stare, and somehow she suddenly felt so horriblylonely and far away from everything she understoodand which understood her, that she threw herself facedownward on the pillows and burst into passionate sobbing.   She sobbed so unrestrainedly that good-natured YorkshireMartha 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 herqueer Yorkshire speech and sturdy way which had a good effecton 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 beenmade into a nursery for thee. I'll help thee on with thyclothes 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 Marthatook from the wardrobe were not the ones she had wornwhen 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 placesadder than it is. Put color on her.' Mother she said sheknew 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 shehad never seen a child who stood still and waited for anotherperson to do things for her as if she had neither hands nor feetof her own.   "Why doesn't tha' put on tha' own shoes?" she saidwhen 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 nativeservants were always saying it. If one told them to doa thing their ancestors had not done for a thousand yearsthey 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 shoulddo anything but stand and allow herself to be dressedlike a doll, but before she was ready for breakfast shebegan to suspect that her life at Misselthwaite Manorwould end by teaching her a number of things quitenew to her--things such as putting on her own shoesand stockings, and picking up things she let fall.   If Martha had been a well-trained fine young lady's maidshe would have been more subservient and respectful andwould 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 rusticwho had been brought up in a moorland cottage with aswarm of little brothers and sisters who had neverdreamed of doing anything but waiting on themselvesand on the younger ones who were either babies in armsor just learning to totter about and tumble over things.   If Mary Lennox had been a child who was ready to be amusedshe would perhaps have laughed at Martha's readiness to talk,but Mary only listened to her coldly and wondered at herfreedom 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 twelveof us an' my father only gets sixteen shilling a week. I cantell 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 shebelieves they eat th' grass same as th' wild ponies do.   Our Dickon, he's twelve years old and he's got a young ponyhe calls his own.""Where did he get it?" asked Mary.   "He found it on th' moor with its mother when it wasa 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 ownand had always thought she should like one. So shebegan to feel a slight interest in Dickon, and as shehad never before been interested in any one but herself,it was the dawning of a healthy sentiment. When she wentinto 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 oldoak chairs. A table in the center was set with a goodsubstantial breakfast. But she had always had a verysmall appetite, and she looked with something more thanindifference 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 victualsgo to waste. If our children was at this table they'dclean it bare in five minutes.""Why?" said Mary coldly. "Why!" echoed Martha. "Because theyscarce 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 seethat plain enough," she said outspokenly. "I've nopatience with folk as sits an' just stares at goodbread 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' thisisn't my day out. I get my day out once a month sameas 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 pathsand 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 notthought of amusement. Perhaps it would be better to goand 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 tolearn to play like other children does when they haven'tgot sisters and brothers. Our Dickon goes off on th'   moor by himself an' plays for hours. That's how he madefriends with th' pony. He's got sheep on th' moor thatknows 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 decideto 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 itmight amuse her to look at them.   Martha found her coat and hat for her and a pair of stoutlittle 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'snothin' bloomin' now." She seemed to hesitate a secondbefore 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 anotherlocked 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 ledto the door in the shrubbery. She could not help thinkingabout the garden which no one had been into for ten years.   She wondered what it would look like and whether therewere any flowers still alive in it. When she had passedthrough 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 clippedinto strange shapes, and a large pool with an old grayfountain in its midst. But the flower-beds were bareand wintry and the fountain was not playing. This was notthe garden which was shut up. How could a garden be shutup? You could always walk into a garden.   She was just thinking this when she saw that, at the endof the path she was following, there seemed to be along wall, with ivy growing over it. She was not familiarenough with England to know that she was coming upon thekitchen-gardens where the vegetables and fruit were growing.   She went toward the wall and found that there was a greendoor in the ivy, and that it stood open. This wasnot the closed garden, evidently, and she could go into it.   She went through the door and found that it was a gardenwith walls all round it and that it was only one of severalwalled gardens which seemed to open into one another.   She saw another open green door, revealing bushes andpathways 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 shestood and stared about her. It might be nicer in summerwhen things were green, but there was nothing pretty aboutit now.   Presently an old man with a spade over his shoulder walkedthrough the door leading from the second garden. He lookedstartled when he saw Mary, and then touched his cap.   He had a surly old face, and did not seem at all pleasedto see her--but then she was displeased with his gardenand wore her "quite contrary" expression, and certainlydid 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 othergreen door.   "Another of 'em," shortly. "There's another on t'otherside 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 throughthe second green door. There, she found more wallsand winter vegetables and glass frames, but in the secondwall there was another green door and it was not open.   Perhaps it led into the garden which no one had seen forten years. As she was not at all a timid child and alwaysdid what she wanted to do, Mary went to the green doorand turned the handle. She hoped the door would not openbecause she wanted to be sure she had found the mysteriousgarden--but it did open quite easily and she walkedthrough it and found herself in an orchard. There werewalls all round it also and trees trained against them,and there were bare fruit-trees growing in the winter-brownedgrass--but there was no green door to be seen anywhere.   Mary looked for it, and yet when she had entered theupper end of the garden she had noticed that the walldid not seem to end with the orchard but to extendbeyond 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 brightred breast sitting on the topmost branch of one of them,and suddenly he burst into his winter song--almostas 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--evena disagreeable little girl may be lonely, and the big closedhouse and big bare moor and big bare gardens had made thisone feel as if there was no one left in the world but herself.   If she had been an affectionate child, who had beenused 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 birdbrought a look into her sour little face which was almosta smile. She listened to him until he flew away.   He was not like an Indian bird and she liked him andwondered if she should ever see him again. Perhaps helived in the mysterious garden and knew all about it.   Perhaps it was because she had nothing whatever to dothat she thought so much of the deserted garden. She wascurious about it and wanted to see what it was like.   Why had Mr. Archibald Craven buried the key? If hehad liked his wife so much why did he hate her garden?   She wondered if she should ever see him, but she knewthat if she did she should not like him, and he wouldnot like her, and that she should only stand and stareat him and say nothing, though she should be wantingdreadfully 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 singhis song at her, and as she remembered the tree-top heperched on she stopped rather suddenly on the path.   "I believe that tree was in the secret garden--I feel sureit was," she said. "There was a wall round the placeand there was no door."She walked back into the first kitchen-garden she had enteredand found the old man digging there. She went and stood besidehim 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 hisdigging 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 birdwith a red breast was sitting on one of them and he sang."To her surprise the surly old weather-beaten faceactually changed its expression. A slow smile spreadover it and the gardener looked quite different. It madeher think that it was curious how much nicer a personlooked when he smiled. She had not thought of it before.   He turned about to the orchard side of his garden and beganto whistle--a low soft whistle. She could not understandhow 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--andit was the bird with the red breast flying to them,and he actually alighted on the big clod of earth quite nearto the gardener's foot.   "Here he is," chuckled the old man, and then he spoketo 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'rttoo forrad."The bird put his tiny head on one side and looked up at himwith 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 forseeds and insects. It actually gave Mary a queer feelingin her heart, because he was so pretty and cheerfuland seemed so like a person. He had a tiny plump bodyand a delicate beak, and slender delicate legs.   "Will he always come when you call him?" she asked almostin a whisper.   "Aye, that he will. I've knowed him ever since he wasa fledgling. He come out of th' nest in th' other garden an'   when first he flew over th' wall he was too weak to flyback for a few days an' we got friendly. When he wentover 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 geton 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 birdas if he were both proud and fond of him.   "He's a conceited one," he chuckled. "He likes to hearfolk talk about him. An' curious--bless me, there neverwas his like for curiosity an' meddlin'. He's always comin'   to see what I'm plantin'. He knows all th' things MesterCraven never troubles hissel' to find out. He's th'   head gardener, he is."The robin hopped about busily pecking the soil and nowand then stopped and looked at them a little. Mary thoughthis 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 therest 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 lookedat him very hard.   "I'm lonely," she said.   She had not known before that this was one of the thingswhich made her feel sour and cross. She seemed to findit out when the robin looked at her and she lookedat the robin.   The old gardener pushed his cap back on his bald headand 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 beforetha's done," he said.   He began to dig again, driving his spade deep intothe rich black garden soil while the robin hoppedabout very busily employed.   "What is your name?" Mary inquired.   He stood up to answer her.   "Ben Weatherstaff," he answered, and then he added with asurly 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 withblunt frankness, and old Ben Weatherstaff was a Yorkshiremoor man.   "Tha' an' me are a good bit alike," he said.   "We was wove out of th' same cloth. We're neither of usgood 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 heardthe truth about herself in her life. Native servantsalways salaamed and submitted to you, whatever you did.   She had never thought much about her looks, but she wonderedif she was as unattractive as Ben Weatherstaff and shealso wondered if she looked as sour as he had lookedbefore the robin came. She actually began to wonderalso if she was "nasty tempered." She felt uncomfortable.   Suddenly a clear rippling little sound broke out nearher and she turned round. She was standing a few feetfrom a young apple-tree and the robin had flown on to oneof 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 treesoftly and looked up.   "Would you make friends with me?" she said to the robinjust as if she was speaking to a person. "Would you?"And she did not say it either in her hard little voiceor in her imperious Indian voice, but in a tone so softand eager and coaxing that Ben Weatherstaff was as surprisedas she had been when she heard him whistle.   "Why," he cried out, "tha' said that as nice an' human asif 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 ratherin 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 cubslies 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 aboutthe 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 hadother things to do.   "He has flown over the wall!" Mary cried out, watching him.   "He has flown into the orchard--he has flown across theother 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 madamof 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 isthe green door? There must be a door somewhere."Ben drove his spade deep and looked as uncompanionableas 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 anyone can find, an' none as is any one's business.   Don't you be a meddlesome wench an' poke your nose whereit'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 overhis shoulder and walked off, without even glancingat her or saying good-by. Chapter 5 The Cry In The Corridor At first each day which passed by for Mary Lennoxwas exactly like the others. Every morning she awokein her tapestried room and found Martha kneeling uponthe hearth building her fire; every morning she ate herbreakfast in the nursery which had nothing amusing in it;and after each breakfast she gazed out of the windowacross to the huge moor which seemed to spread out on allsides and climb up to the sky, and after she had staredfor a while she realized that if she did not go out shewould have to stay in and do nothing--and so she went out.   She did not know that this was the best thing she couldhave done, and she did not know that, when she began to walkquickly or even run along the paths and down the avenue,she was stirring her slow blood and making herself strongerby fighting with the wind which swept down from the moor.   She ran only to make herself warm, and she hated the windwhich rushed at her face and roared and held her backas if it were some giant she could not see. But the bigbreaths of rough fresh air blown over the heather filledher lungs with something which was good for her wholethin body and whipped some red color into her cheeks andbrightened her dull eyes when she did not know anythingabout it.   But after a few days spent almost entirely out of doorsshe wakened one morning knowing what it was to be hungry,and when she sat down to her breakfast she did not glancedisdainfully at her porridge and push it away, but tookup her spoon and began to eat it and went on eating ituntil 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 littlesurprised her self.   "It's th' air of th' moor that's givin' thee stomachfor tha' victuals," answered Martha. "It's luckyfor 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 childrenplays 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 wanderedabout the paths in the park. Sometimes she looked forBen Weatherstaff, but though several times she saw himat work he was too busy to look at her or was too surly.   Once when she was walking toward him he picked up his spadeand 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 wallsround them. There were bare flower-beds on eitherside of it and against the walls ivy grew thickly.   There was one part of the wall where the creeping darkgreen leaves were more bushy than elsewhere. It seemedas 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 trimmedat 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 ivyswinging in the wind when she saw a gleam of scarlet andheard 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 onone side.   "Oh!" she cried out, "is it you--is it you?" And itdid not seem at all queer to her that she spoke to himas if she were sure that he would understand and answer her.   He did answer. He twittered and chirped and hopped alongthe 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 hesaid:   "Good morning! Isn't the wind nice? Isn't the sun nice? Isn'teverything nice? Let us both chirp and hop and twitter.   Come on! Come on!"Mary began to laugh, and as he hopped and took little flightsalong 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 didnot know how to do in the least. But the robin seemedto be quite satisfied and chirped and whistled back at her.   At last he spread his wings and made a darting flightto 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 beenstanding in the orchard. Now she was on the other sideof the orchard and standing in the path outside a wall--muchlower 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 enteredthe first morning. Then she ran down the path throughthe other door and then into the orchard, and when shestood and looked up there was the tree on the other sideof the wall, and there was the robin just finishing hissong 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 theorchard wall, but she only found what she had foundbefore--that there was no door in it. Then she ranthrough the kitchen-gardens again and out into the walkoutside the long ivy-covered wall, and she walked tothe 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 saidthere was no door and there is no door. But there musthave been one ten years ago, because Mr. Craven buriedthe key."This gave her so much to think of that she began to bequite interested and feel that she was not sorry that shehad come to Misselthwaite Manor. In India she had alwaysfelt hot and too languid to care much about anything.   The fact was that the fresh wind from the moor had begunto blow the cobwebs out of her young brain and to wakenher up a little.   She stayed out of doors nearly all day, and when she satdown to her supper at night she felt hungry and drowsyand comfortable. She did not feel cross when Marthachattered 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 satdown 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 notobjected at all. She was very young, and used to a crowdedcottage full of brothers and sisters, and she found itdull in the great servants' hall downstairs where thefootman and upper-housemaids made fun of her Yorkshirespeech and looked upon her as a common little thing,and sat and whispered among themselves. Martha likedto talk, and the strange child who had lived in India,and been waited upon by "blacks," was novelty enoughto attract her.   She sat down on the hearth herself without waitingto be asked.   "Art tha' thinkin' about that garden yet?" she said.   "I knew tha' would. That was just the way with me when Ifirst heard about it.""Why did he hate it?" Mary persisted.   Martha tucked her feet under her and made herselfquite comfortable.   "Listen to th' wind wutherin' round the house," she said.   "You could bare stand up on the moor if you was out onit tonight."Mary did not know what "wutherin'" meant until she listened,and then she understood. It must mean that hollowshuddering sort of roar which rushed round and round thehouse as if the giant no one could see were buffeting itand beating at the walls and windows to try to break in.   But one knew he could not get in, and somehow it madeone feel very safe and warm inside a room with a redcoal fire.   "But why did he hate it so?" she asked, after shehad 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 betalked about. There's lots o' things in this place that'snot 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 wasMrs. Craven's garden that she had made when first theywere married an' she just loved it, an' they used to 'tendthe flowers themselves. An' none o' th' gardeners wasever 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 seaton it. An' she made roses grow over it an' she usedto sit there. But one day when she was sittin' there th'   branch broke an' she fell on th' ground an' was hurtso bad that next day she died. Th' doctors thought he'dgo 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 talkabout it."Mary did not ask any more questions. She looked atthe 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 shecame to Misselthwaite Manor. She had felt as if shehad 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 listento something else. She did not know what it was,because at first she could scarcely distinguish it fromthe wind itself. It was a curious sound--it seemed almostas if a child were crying somewhere. Sometimes the windsounded rather like a child crying, but presently MistressMary 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 itsounds 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 oneof those long corridors."And at that very moment a door must have been openedsomewhere downstairs; for a great rushing draft blew alongthe passage and the door of the room they sat in was blownopen with a crash, and as they both jumped to their feetthe light was blown out and the crying sound was swept downthe far corridor so that it was to be heard more plainly thanever.   "There!" said Mary. "I told you so! It is some onecrying--and it isn't a grown-up person."Martha ran and shut the door and turned the key, but beforeshe did it they both heard the sound of a door in some farpassage 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 madeMistress Mary stare very hard at her. She did not believeshe was speaking the truth. Chapter 6 There Was Someone Crying--There Was! The next day the rain poured down in torrents again,and when Mary looked out of her window the moor was almosthidden by gray mist and cloud. There could be no goingout 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 thingson rainy days as doesn't show when it's fair weather.   He once found a little fox cub half drowned in its hole and hebrought it home in th' bosom of his shirt to keep it warm.   Its mother had been killed nearby an' th' hole was swumout an' th' rest o' th' litter was dead. He's got it athome now. He found a half-drowned young crow another time an'   he brought it home, too, an' tamed it. It's named Sootbecause it's so black, an' it hops an' flies about withhim everywhere."The time had come when Mary had forgotten to resentMartha's familiar talk. She had even begun to find itinteresting and to be sorry when she stopped or went away.   The stories she had been told by her Ayah when she livedin India had been quite unlike those Martha had to tell aboutthe moorland cottage which held fourteen people who livedin four little rooms and never had quite enough to eat.   The children seemed to tumble about and amuse themselveslike 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 theyalways 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 goodbit now.""I haven't any books," said Mary. "Those I had were leftin India.""That's a pity," said Martha. "If Mrs. Medlock'd let theego into th' library, there's thousands o' books there."Mary did not ask where the library was, because she wassuddenly inspired by a new idea. She made up her mindto go and find it herself. She was not troubled aboutMrs. Medlock. Mrs. Medlock seemed always to be in hercomfortable 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 luxuriouslife below stairs, where there was a huge kitchen hungabout with shining brass and pewter, and a large servants'   hall where there were four or five abundant meals eatenevery day, and where a great deal of lively romping went onwhen 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 oftreating children. In India she had always been attendedby 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 dressherself because Martha looked as though she thought she wassilly and stupid when she wanted to have things handed to herand put on.   "Hasn't tha' got good sense?" she said once, when Maryhad stood waiting for her to put on her gloves for her.   "Our Susan Ann is twice as sharp as thee an' she's onlyfour 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 morningafter Martha had swept up the hearth for the last timeand gone downstairs. She was thinking over the new ideawhich 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 broughtback to her mind the hundred rooms with closed doors.   She wondered if they were all really locked and whatshe would find if she could get into any of them.   Were there a hundred really? Why shouldn't she go and seehow many doors she could count? It would be somethingto 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 wouldnot have thought it necessary to ask Mrs. Medlock if shemight 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 corridorand it branched into other corridors and it led her upshort flights of steps which mounted to others again.   There were doors and doors, and there were pictureson the walls. Sometimes they were pictures of dark,curious landscapes, but oftenest they were portraitsof men and women in queer, grand costumes made of satinand velvet. She found herself in one long gallerywhose walls were covered with these portraits. She hadnever thought there could be so many in any house.   She walked slowly down this place and stared at the faceswhich also seemed to stare at her. She felt as if theywere wondering what a little girl from India was doingin their house. Some were pictures of children--littlegirls in thick satin frocks which reached to their feetand stood out about them, and boys with puffed sleevesand lace collars and long hair, or with big ruffs aroundtheir 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 greenbrocade 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 ramblinghouse but her own small self, wandering about upstairsand down, through narrow passages and wide ones, where itseemed to her that no one but herself had ever walked.   Since so many rooms had been built, people must have livedin them, but it all seemed so empty that she could not quitebelieve it true.   It was not until she climbed to the second floor that shethought of turning the handle of a door. All the doorswere shut, as Mrs. Medlock had said they were, but at last sheput her hand on the handle of one of them and turned it.   She was almost frightened for a moment when she feltthat it turned without difficulty and that when she pushedupon 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 inlaidfurniture 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 curiouslythan ever.   "Perhaps she slept here once," said Mary. "She staresat me so that she makes me feel queer."After that she opened more doors and more. She sawso many rooms that she became quite tired and beganto think that there must be a hundred, though she had notcounted them. In all of them there were old picturesor old tapestries with strange scenes worked on them.   There were curious pieces of furniture and curiousornaments 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 cabinetwere about a hundred little elephants made of ivory.   They were of different sizes, and some had their mahoutsor palanquins on their backs. Some were much bigger than theothers and some were so tiny that they seemed only babies.   Mary had seen carved ivory in India and she knew allabout elephants. She opened the door of the cabinetand stood on a footstool and played with these for quitea long time. When she got tired she set the elephantsin order and shut the door of the cabinet.   In all her wanderings through the long corridors and theempty rooms, she had seen nothing alive; but in thisroom she saw something. Just after she had closed thecabinet door she heard a tiny rustling sound. It madeher jump and look around at the sofa by the fireplace,from which it seemed to come. In the corner of the sofathere was a cushion, and in the velvet which coveredit there was a hole, and out of the hole peeped a tinyhead with a pair of tightened eyes in it.   Mary crept softly across the room to look. The bright eyesbelonged to a little gray mouse, and the mouse had eatena hole into the cushion and made a comfortable nest there.   Six baby mice were cuddled up asleep near her. If therewas no one else alive in the hundred rooms there wereseven mice who did not look lonely at all.   "If they wouldn't be so frightened I would take them backwith me," said Mary.   She had wandered about long enough to feel too tiredto wander any farther, and she turned back. Two or threetimes she lost her way by turning down the wrong corridorand was obliged to ramble up and down until she foundthe right one; but at last she reached her own floor again,though she was some distance from her own room and didnot 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 passagewith 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 shehad said this that the stillness was broken by a sound.   It was another cry, but not quite like the one she had heardlast night; it was only a short one, a fretful childishwhine muffled by passing through walls.   "It's nearer than it was," said Mary, her heart beatingrather faster. "And it is crying."She put her hand accidentally upon the tapestry near her,and then sprang back, feeling quite startled. The tapestrywas the covering of a door which fell open and showedher that there was another part of the corridor behind it,and Mrs. Medlock was coming up it with her bunch of keysin her hand and a very cross look on her face.   "What are you doing here?" she said, and she took Maryby 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 hatedher 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 boxyour ears."And she took her by the arm and half pushed, half pulledher up one passage and down another until she pushedher in at the door of her own room.   "Now," she said, "you stay where you're told to stayor you'll find yourself locked up. The master hadbetter 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 feltas if she had been on a long journey, and at any rateshe had had something to amuse her all the time, and shehad played with the ivory elephants and had seen the graymouse and its babies in their nest in the velvet cushion. Chapter 7 The Key To The Garden Two days after this, when Mary opened her eyes she satupright in bed immediately, and called to Martha.   "Look at the moor! Look at the moor!"The rainstorm had ended and the gray mist and cloudshad been swept away in the night by the wind. The winditself had ceased and a brilliant, deep blue sky archedhigh over the moorland. Never, never had Mary dreamedof a sky so blue. In India skies were hot and blazing;this was of a deep cool blue which almost seemed tosparkle like the waters of some lovely bottomless lake,and here and there, high, high in the arched bluenessfloated small clouds of snow-white fleece. The far-reachingworld of the moor itself looked softly blue insteadof gloomy purple-black or awful dreary gray.   "Aye," said Martha with a cheerful grin. "Th' storm'sover 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 longway off yet, but it's comin'.""I thought perhaps it always rained or looked darkin England," Mary said.   "Eh! no!" said Martha, sitting up on her heels amongher black lead brushes. "Nowt o' th' soart!""What does that mean?" asked Mary seriously. In Indiathe natives spoke different dialects which only a fewpeople understood, so she was not surprised when Marthaused words she did not know.   Martha laughed as she had done the first morning.   "There now," she said. "I've talked broad Yorkshire againlike 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 theetha'd like th' moor after a bit. Just you wait till yousee 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 onit 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 walkfive mile. It's five mile to our cottage.""I should like to see your cottage."Martha stared at her a moment curiously before she tookup her polishing brush and began to rub the grate again.   She was thinking that the small plain face did not look quiteas sour at this moment as it had done the first morningshe saw it. It looked just a trifle like little SusanAnn'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 talkto 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 hernose 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'dseen her or not. When I'm goin' home to her on my dayout 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 ather 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 quiteas if she were curious to know.   Mary hesitated a moment and thought it over.   "Not at all--really," she answered. "But I never thoughtof that before."Martha grinned a little as if at some homely recollection.   "Mother said that to me once," she said. "She was at herwash- 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 givenMary her breakfast. She was going to walk five milesacross the moor to the cottage, and she was going to helpher mother with the washing and do the week's bakingand enjoy herself thoroughly.   Mary felt lonelier than ever when she knew she was no longerin the house. She went out into the garden as quicklyas possible, and the first thing she did was to runround and round the fountain flower garden ten times.   She counted the times carefully and when she had finishedshe felt in better spirits. The sunshine made thewhole place look different. The high, deep, blue skyarched 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 onone of the little snow-white clouds and float about.   She went into the first kitchen-garden and found BenWeatherstaff 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 outthere 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 therains in India," said Mary. "And I think things growup 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 bithigher here, an' push out a spike more there, an' uncurl aleaf this day an' another that. You watch 'em.""I am going to," answered Mary.   Very soon she heard the soft rustling flight of wingsagain and she knew at once that the robin had come again.   He was very pert and lively, and hopped about so closeto her feet, and put his head on one side and looked ather 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, letalone th' people. He's never seen a little wenchhere 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 gardenwhere he lives?" Mary inquired.   "What garden?" grunted Weatherstaff, becoming surly again.   "The one where the old rose-trees are." She couldnot help asking, because she wanted so much to know.   "Are all the flowers dead, or do some of them come againin the summer? Are there ever any roses?""Ask him," said Ben Weatherstaff, hunching his shoulderstoward 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 beenborn ten years ago.   She walked away, slowly thinking. She had begun tolike the garden just as she had begun to like the robinand Dickon and Martha's mother. She was beginningto like Martha, too. That seemed a good many peopleto like--when you were not used to liking. She thoughtof the robin as one of the people. She went to her walkoutside the long, ivy-covered wall over which she couldsee the tree-tops; and the second time she walked upand down the most interesting and exciting thing happenedto her, and it was all through Ben Weatherstaff's robin.   She heard a chirp and a twitter, and when she lookedat the bare flower-bed at her left side there he washopping about and pretending to peck things out of theearth to persuade her that he had not followed her.   But she knew he had followed her and the surprise so filledher with delight that she almost trembled a little.   "You do remember me!" she cried out. "You do! You areprettier 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 hewere talking. His red waistcoat was like satin and hepuffed his tiny breast out and was so fine and so grandand so pretty that it was really as if he were showing herhow important and like a human person a robin could be.   Mistress Mary forgot that she had ever been contraryin her life when he allowed her to draw closer and closerto him, and bend down and talk and try to make somethinglike robin sounds.   Oh! to think that he should actually let her come as nearto him as that! He knew nothing in the world would makeher put out her hand toward him or startle him in theleast tiniest way. He knew it because he was a realperson--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 flowersbecause the perennial plants had been cut down for theirwinter rest, but there were tall shrubs and low ones which grewtogether at the back of the bed, and as the robin hoppedabout under them she saw him hop over a small pile of freshlyturned up earth. He stopped on it to look for a worm.   The earth had been turned up because a dog had been tryingto 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 thenewly-turned soil. It was something like a ring of rustyiron or brass and when the robin flew up into a treenearby she put out her hand and picked the ring up.   It was more than a ring, however; it was an old keywhich looked as if it had been buried a long time.   Mistress Mary stood up and looked at it with an almostfrightened face as it hung from her finger.   "Perhaps it has been buried for ten years," she saidin a whisper. "Perhaps it is the key to the garden!" Chapter 8 The Robin Who Showed The Way She looked at the key quite a long time. She turned itover and over, and thought about it. As I have said before,she was not a child who had been trained to ask permissionor consult her elders about things. All she thought aboutthe key was that if it was the key to the closed garden,and she could find out where the door was, she couldperhaps open it and see what was inside the walls,and what had happened to the old rose-trees. It was becauseit had been shut up so long that she wanted to see it.   It seemed as if it must be different from other placesand that something strange must have happened to itduring ten years. Besides that, if she liked it shecould go into it every day and shut the door behind her,and she could make up some play of her own and play itquite alone, because nobody would ever know where she was,but would think the door was still locked and the keyburied in the earth. The thought of that pleased hervery much.   Living as it were, all by herself in a house with a hundredmysteriously closed rooms and having nothing whateverto do to amuse herself, had set her inactive brainto working and was actually awakening her imagination.   There is no doubt that the fresh, strong, pure air from themoor had a great deal to do with it. Just as it had givenher an appetite, and fighting with the wind had stirredher blood, so the same things had stirred her mind.   In India she had always been too hot and languid and weakto care much about anything, but in this place shewas beginning to care and to want to do new things.   Already she felt less "contrary," though she did notknow why.   She put the key in her pocket and walked up and downher 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 nothingbut thickly growing, glossy, dark green leaves. She wasvery much disappointed. Something of her contrarinesscame back to her as she paced the walk and looked over itat the tree-tops inside. It seemed so silly, she saidto herself, to be near it and not be able to get in.   She took the key in her pocket when she went back tothe house, and she made up her mind that she would alwayscarry it with her when she went out, so that if she evershould find the hidden door she would be ready.   Mrs. Medlock had allowed Martha to sleep all night atthe cottage, but she was back at her work in the morningwith 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 mangave 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 thebaking and washing all out of the way. She had even madeeach of the children a doughcake with a bit of brown sugarin 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 tornclothes and mended stockings and Martha had told themabout the little girl who had come from India and who hadbeen 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 elephantsand camels, and about the officers going to hunt tigers.""My word!" cried delighted Martha. "It would set 'emclean off their heads. Would tha' really do that,Miss? It would be same as a wild beast show like we heardthey 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 wasput 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. Medlocksays he will when he thinks of it, but she says he mayn'tthink 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 timean'   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 bigplace 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 backwith 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 cottagefull 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 buyanythin'. Just as he was goin' away our 'Lizabeth Ellencalled 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 likea good lass, an' I've got four places to put every penny,but I'm just goin' to take tuppence out of it to buythat child a skippin'-rope,' an' she bought one an'   here it is."She brought it out from under her apron and exhibitedit quite proudly. It was a strong, slender ropewith 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 notgot skippin'-ropes in India, for all they've got elephantsand 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 ahandle in each hand, began to skip, and skip, and skip,while Mary turned in her chair to stare at her, and thequeer faces in the old portraits seemed to stare at her,too, and wonder what on earth this common little cottagerhad the impudence to be doing under their very noses.   But Martha did not even see them. The interest and curiosityin Mistress Mary's face delighted her, and she went on skippingand 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 practiceyou'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 strengthin Mistress Mary's arms and legs when she first beganto skip. She was not very clever at it, but she likedit 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-ropeover her arm. She opened the door to go out, and thensuddenly thought of something and turned back rather slowly.   "Martha," she said, "they were your wages. It was yourtwo-pence really. Thank you." She said it stifflybecause she was not used to thanking people or noticingthat they did things for her. "Thank you," she said,and held out her hand because she did not know what elseto do.   Martha gave her hand a clumsy little shake, as if shewas 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 mea 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 offoutside an' play with thy rope."Mistress Mary felt a little awkward as she went out ofthe room. Yorkshire people seemed strange, and Martha wasalways rather a puzzle to her. At first she had dislikedher very much, but now she did not. The skipping-ropewas 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 sinceshe was born. The sun was shining and a little wind wasblowing--not a rough wind, but one which came in delightfullittle gusts and brought a fresh scent of newly turnedearth with it. She skipped round the fountain garden,and up one walk and down another. She skipped at lastinto the kitchen-garden and saw Ben Weatherstaff diggingand talking to his robin, which was hopping about him.   She skipped down the walk toward him and he liftedhis head and looked at her with a curious expression.   She had wondered if he would notice her. She wanted himto see her skip.   "Well!" he exclaimed. "Upon my word. P'raps tha'   art a young 'un, after all, an' p'raps tha's gotchild's blood in thy veins instead of sour buttermilk.   Tha's skipped red into thy cheeks as sure as my name'sBen 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 itfor a young 'un that's lived with heathen. Just see howhe'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 herown special walk and made up her mind to try if shecould skip the whole length of it. It was a good longskip and she began slowly, but before she had gonehalf-way down the path she was so hot and breathlessthat 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 heavyin her pocket strike against her at each jump, and when shesaw 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 believeyou know!"The robin flew from his swinging spray of ivy on to thetop of the wall and he opened his beak and sang a loud,lovely trill, merely to show off. Nothing in the worldis quite as adorably lovely as a robin when he showsoff--and they are nearly always doing it.   Mary Lennox had heard a great deal about Magic in herAyah's stories, and she always said that what happenedalmost at that moment was Magic.   One of the nice little gusts of wind rushed downthe 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 trailingsprays of untrimmed ivy hanging from the wall. Mary hadstepped close to the robin, and suddenly the gust of windswung aside some loose ivy trails, and more suddenlystill she jumped toward it and caught it in her hand.   This she did because she had seen something under it--a roundknob 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 pulland push them aside. Thick as the ivy hung, it nearlyall was a loose and swinging curtain, though some had creptover wood and iron. Mary's heart began to thump and herhands to shake a little in her delight and excitement.   The robin kept singing and twittering away and tiltinghis head on one side, as if he were as excited as she was.   What was this under her hands which was square and madeof iron and which her fingers found a hole in?   It was the lock of the door which had been closed tenyears and she put her hand in her pocket, drew out the keyand found it fitted the keyhole. She put the key in andturned it. It took two hands to do it, but it did turn.   And then she took a long breath and looked behindher 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 nothelp it, and she held back the swinging curtain of ivyand 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 herand breathing quite fast with excitement, and wonder,and delight.   She was standing inside the secret garden. Chapter 9 The Strangest House Any One Ever Lived In It was the sweetest, most mysterious-looking placeany one could imagine. The high walls which shut itin were covered with the leafless stems of climbing roseswhich were so thick that they were matted together.   Mary Lennox knew they were roses because she had seena great many roses in India. All the ground was coveredwith grass of a wintry brown and out of it grew clumpsof bushes which were surely rosebushes if they were alive.   There were numbers of standard roses which had so spreadtheir branches that they were like little trees.   There were other trees in the garden, and one of thethings which made the place look strangest and loveliestwas that climbing roses had run all over them and swungdown long tendrils which made light swaying curtains,and here and there they had caught at each other orat a far-reaching branch and had crept from one treeto another and made lovely bridges of themselves.   There were neither leaves nor roses on them now and Marydid not know whether they were dead or alive, but theirthin gray or brown branches and sprays looked like a sortof hazy mantle spreading over everything, walls, and trees,and even brown grass, where they had fallen from theirfastenings and run along the ground. It was this hazy tanglefrom tree to tree which made it all look so mysterious.   Mary had thought it must be different from other gardenswhich had not been left all by themselves so long;and indeed it was different from any other place she hadever 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 stillas 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 amthe first person who has spoken in here for ten years."She moved away from the door, stepping as softly as if shewere afraid of awakening some one. She was glad that therewas grass under her feet and that her steps made no sounds.   She walked under one of the fairy-like gray archesbetween the trees and looked up at the sprays and tendrilswhich 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 toldwhether the wood was alive by looking at it, but shecould only see that there were only gray or brown spraysand branches and none showed any signs of even a tinyleaf-bud anywhere.   But she was inside the wonderful garden and she couldcome through the door under the ivy any time and shefelt as if she had found a world all her own.   The sun was shining inside the four walls and the high archof blue sky over this particular piece of Misselthwaiteseemed even more brilliant and soft than it was overthe moor. The robin flew down from his tree-top andhopped about or flew after her from one bush to another.   He chirped a good deal and had a very busy air, as if hewere showing her things. Everything was strange andsilent and she seemed to be hundreds of miles away fromany one, but somehow she did not feel lonely at all.   All that troubled her was her wish that she knew whetherall the roses were dead, or if perhaps some of them hadlived and might put out leaves and buds as the weathergot 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 camein and after she had walked about for a while she thoughtshe would skip round the whole garden, stopping when shewanted to look at things. There seemed to have beengrass paths here and there, and in one or two cornersthere were alcoves of evergreen with stone seats or tallmoss-covered flower urns in them.   As she came near the second of these alcoves shestopped skipping. There had once been a flowerbed in it,and she thought she saw something sticking out of theblack earth- -some sharp little pale green points.   She remembered what Ben Weatherstaff had said and sheknelt down to look at them.   "Yes, they are tiny growing things and they might becrocuses or snowdrops or daffodils," she whispered.   She bent very close to them and sniffed the fresh scentof 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 kepther eyes on the ground. She looked in the old borderbeds 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 grassseemed so thick in some of the places where the greenpoints were pushing their way through that she thoughtthey did not seem to have room enough to grow.   She searched about until she found a rather sharp pieceof wood and knelt down and dug and weeded out the weedsand 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 amgoing 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 onfrom bed to bed and into the grass under the trees.   The exercise made her so warm that she first threw hercoat off, and then her hat, and without knowing it shewas smiling down on to the grass and the pale green pointsall the time.   The robin was tremendously busy. He was very muchpleased to see gardening begun on his own estate.   He had often wondered at Ben Weatherstaff. Where gardeningis done all sorts of delightful things to eat are turnedup with the soil. Now here was this new kind of creaturewho was not half Ben's size and yet had had the senseto come into his garden and begin at once.   Mistress Mary worked in her garden until it was timeto go to her midday dinner. In fact, she was ratherlate in remembering, and when she put on her coatand hat, and picked up her skipping-rope, she could notbelieve that she had been working two or three hours.   She had been actually happy all the time; and dozensand dozens of the tiny, pale green points were to be seenin cleared places, looking twice as cheerful as they hadlooked before when the grass and weeds had been smothering them.   "I shall come back this afternoon," she said, looking allround at her new kingdom, and speaking to the treesand the rose-bushes as if they heard her.   Then she ran lightly across the grass, pushed openthe slow old door and slipped through it under the ivy.   She had such red cheeks and such bright eyes and ate sucha 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 stickMistress Mary had found herself digging up a sort of whiteroot rather like an onion. She had put it back in itsplace and patted the earth carefully down on it and justnow she wondered if Martha could tell her what it was.   "Martha," she said, "what are those white roots that looklike onions?""They're bulbs," answered Martha. "Lots o' spring flowersgrow from 'em. Th' very little ones are snowdrops an'   crocuses an' th' big ones are narcissuses an' jonquilsand daffydowndillys. Th' biggest of all is lilies an'   purple flags. Eh! they are nice. Dickon's got a wholelot of 'em planted in our bit o' garden.""Does Dickon know all about them?" asked Mary, a new ideataking 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 andyears if no one helped them?" inquired Mary anxiously.   "They're things as helps themselves," said Martha. "That's whypoor 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 wantto see all the things that grow in England."She had finished her dinner and gone to her favorite seaton 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 mustbe careful if she meant to keep her secret kingdom.   She wasn't doing any harm, but if Mr. Craven found outabout the open door he would be fearfully angry and geta new key and lock it up forevermore. She really couldnot bear that.   "This is such a big lonely place," she said slowly, as if shewere 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 thingsin India, but there were more people to look at--nativesand soldiers marching by--and sometimes bands playing,and my Ayah told me stories. There is no one to talk tohere except you and Ben Weatherstaff. And you have to doyour work and Ben Weatherstaff won't speak to me often.   I thought if I had a little spade I could dig somewhereas he does, and I might make a little garden if he wouldgive 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 abit 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 wordsshe said.""Were they?" said Mary. "How many things she knows,doesn't she?""Eh!" said Martha. "It's like she says: `A woman asbrings up twelve children learns something besides her AB 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 Thwaitevillage there's a shop or so an' I saw little garden setswith a spade an' a rake an' a fork all tied together fortwo 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. Medlockgave 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 tospend it on.""My word! that's riches," said Martha. "Tha' can buyanything in th' world tha' wants. Th' rent of ourcottage 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 knowswhich 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 wecould 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! Ididn't know you were so nice. I know I can print lettersif I try. Let's ask Mrs. Medlock for a pen and ink and somepaper.""I've got some of my own," said Martha. "I bought 'emso 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 stoodby the fire and twisted her thin little hands togetherwith sheer pleasure.   "If I have a spade," she whispered, "I can make the earthnice and soft and dig up weeds. If I have seeds and canmake flowers grow the garden won't be dead at all--itwill come alive."She did not go out again that afternoon because when Marthareturned with her pen and ink and paper she was obligedto clear the table and carry the plates and dishesdownstairs and when she got into the kitchen Mrs. Medlockwas there and told her to do something, so Mary waitedfor 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 governesseshad disliked her too much to stay with her. She couldnot spell particularly well but she found that she couldprint letters when she tried. This was the letter Marthadictated 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 Thwaiteand buy her some flower seeds and a set of garden toolsto make a flower-bed. Pick the prettiest ones and easyto grow because she has never done it before and livedin India which is different. Give my love to motherand every one of you. Miss Mary is going to tell me a lotmore so that on my next day out you can hear about elephantsand 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 greatfriend 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 walkover this way.""Oh!" exclaimed Mary, "then I shall see him! I neverthought 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 firstthing this mornin'. I asked mother--and she said she'd askMrs. Medlock her own self.""Do you mean--" Mary began.   "What I said Tuesday. Ask her if you might be driven overto our cottage some day and have a bit o' mother's hotoat cake, an' butter, an' a glass o' milk."It seemed as if all the interesting things were happeningin one day. To think of going over the moor in thedaylight and when the sky was blue! To think of goinginto 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 womanmother 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 afternoonended by making her feel quiet and thoughtful. Martha stayedwith her until tea-time, but they sat in comfortablequiet and talked very little. But just before Marthawent downstairs for the tea-tray, Mary asked a question.   "Martha," she said, "has the scullery-maid had thetoothache again today?"Martha certainly started slightly.   "What makes thee ask that?" she said.   "Because when I waited so long for you to come back Iopened the door and walked down the corridor to see if youwere coming. And I heard that far-off crying again,just as we heard it the other night. There isn'ta 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 bethat there angry there's no knowin' what he'd do.""I wasn't listening," said Mary. "I was just waitingfor 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 cushionedseat of the armchair near her. Fresh air, and digging,and skipping-rope had made her feel so comfortably tiredthat she fell asleep. Chapter 10 Dickon The sun shone down for nearly a week on the secret garden.   The Secret Garden was what Mary called it when she wasthinking of it. She liked the name, and she liked stillmore the feeling that when its beautiful old walls shuther in no one knew where she was. It seemed almost likebeing shut out of the world in some fairy place. The fewbooks 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 nointention of going to sleep, and, in fact, she was becomingwider awake every day which passed at Misselthwaite.   She was beginning to like to be out of doors; she no longerhated the wind, but enjoyed it. She could run faster,and longer, and she could skip up to a hundred. The bulbsin the secret garden must have been much astonished.   Such nice clear places were made round them that theyhad all the breathing space they wanted, and really,if Mistress Mary had known it, they began to cheer upunder the dark earth and work tremendously. The sun couldget at them and warm them, and when the rain came downit could reach them at once, so they began to feel verymuch alive.   Mary was an odd, determined little person, and now shehad something interesting to be determined about,she was very much absorbed, indeed. She worked and dugand pulled up weeds steadily, only becoming more pleasedwith 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 thanshe had ever hoped to find. They seemed to be starting upeverywhere 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 hadsaid about the "snowdrops by the thousands," and aboutbulbs spreading and making new ones. These had been leftto themselves for ten years and perhaps they had spread,like the snowdrops, into thousands. She wondered how longit would be before they showed that they were flowers.   Sometimes she stopped digging to look at the garden andtry to imagine what it would be like when it was coveredwith thousands of lovely things in bloom. During that weekof sunshine, she became more intimate with Ben Weatherstaff.   She surprised him several times by seeming to startup beside him as if she sprang out of the earth.   The truth was that she was afraid that he would pick uphis tools and go away if he saw her coming, so she alwayswalked 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 evidentdesire for his elderly company. Then, also, she was morecivil than she had been. He did not know that when shefirst saw him she spoke to him as she would have spokento a native, and had not known that a cross, sturdy oldYorkshire 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 morningwhen he lifted his head and saw her standing by him.   "I never knows when I shall see thee or which side tha'llcome from.""He's friends with me now," said Mary.   "That's like him," snapped Ben Weatherstaff. "Makin' upto 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 answerMary's questions except by a grunt, but this morning hesaid more than usual. He stood up and rested one hobnailedboot 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 quiteso yeller. Tha' looked like a young plucked crow when tha'   first came into this garden. Thinks I to myself I never seteyes on an uglier, sourer faced young 'un."Mary was not vain and as she had never thought muchof her looks she was not greatly disturbed.   "I know I'm fatter," she said. "My stockingsare getting tighter. They used to make wrinkles.   There's the robin, Ben Weatherstaff."There, indeed, was the robin, and she thought he lookednicer than ever. His red waistcoat was as glossy as satinand he flirted his wings and tail and tilted his headand 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 withme 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 MisselMoor 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 Weatherstaffmore and more engagingly. He flew on to the nearestcurrant bush and tilted his head and sang a little songright 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 hewas trying not to look pleased. "Tha' thinks no one canstand out against thee--that's what tha' thinks."The robin spread his wings--Mary could scarcely believeher eyes. He flew right up to the handle of BenWeatherstaff's spade and alighted on the top of it.   Then the old man's face wrinkled itself slowly intoa new expression. He stood still as if he were afraidto 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 sayingsomething quite different. "Tha' does know how to get ata chap--tha' does! Tha's fair unearthly, tha's so knowin'."And he stood without stirring--almost without drawinghis breath--until the robin gave another flirt to hiswings and flew away. Then he stood looking at the handleof the spade as if there might be Magic in it, and thenhe 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 asidebefore he answered.   "Well, yes, I do. I was learned that by a young lady Iwas gardener to. She had a lot in a place she was fondof, an' she loved 'em like they was children--or robins.   I've seen her bend over an' kiss 'em." He dragged out anotherweed 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 intothe 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 areleft 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 wasin 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 shineson 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 bitof a brown lump swelling here an' there, watch it after th'   warm rain an' see what happens." He stopped suddenlyand 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 almostafraid 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 hewas actually a little sorry for her. She had never feltsorry 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 shouldenjoy herself always.   She stayed with him for ten or fifteen minutes longer andasked him as many questions as she dared. He answered everyone of them in his queer grunting way and he did not seemreally cross and did not pick up his spade and leave her.   He said something about roses just as she was going awayand it reminded her of the ones he had said he had beenfond of.   "Do you go and see those other roses now?" she asked.   "Not been this year. My rheumatics has made me too stiffin th' joints."He said it in his grumbling voice, and then quite suddenlyhe seemed to get angry with her, though she did not seewhy 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 notthe least use in staying another minute. She wentskipping slowly down the outside walk, thinking him overand saying to herself that, queer as it was, here wasanother 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 theworld about flowers.   There was a laurel-hedged walk which curved round the secretgarden and ended at a gate which opened into a wood,in the park. She thought she would slip round this walkand look into the wood and see if there were any rabbitshopping about. She enjoyed the skipping very much andwhen she reached the little gate she opened it and wentthrough because she heard a low, peculiar whistlingsound and wanted to find out what it was.   It was a very strange thing indeed. She quite caught herbreath as she stopped to look at it. A boy was sittingunder a tree, with his back against it, playing on a roughwooden pipe. He was a funny looking boy about twelve.   He looked very clean and his nose turned up and hischeeks were as red as poppies and never had Mistress Maryseen such round and such blue eyes in any boy's face.   And on the trunk of the tree he leaned against, a brownsquirrel was clinging and watching him, and from behinda bush nearby a cock pheasant was delicately stretchinghis neck to peep out, and quite near him were two rabbitssitting up and sniffing with tremulous noses--and actuallyit appeared as if they were all drawing near to watch himand listen to the strange low little call his pipe seemedto make.   When he saw Mary he held up his hand and spoke to herin a voice almost as low as and rather like his piping.   "Don't tha' move," he said. "It'd flight 'em." Maryremained motionless. He stopped playing his pipe and beganto rise from the ground. He moved so slowly that it scarcelyseemed as though he were moving at all, but at last hestood on his feet and then the squirrel scampered backup into the branches of his tree, the pheasant withdrewhis head and the rabbits dropped on all fours and beganto 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 thathe was Dickon. Who else could have been charming rabbitsand pheasants as the natives charm snakes in India? He hada wide, red, curving mouth and his smile spread all over hisface.   "I got up slow," he explained, "because if tha' makes aquick 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 seeneach other before but as if he knew her quite well.   Mary knew nothing about boys and she spoke to him a littlestiffly because she felt rather shy.   "Did you get Martha's letter?" she asked.   He nodded his curly, rust-colored head. "That's whyI come."He stooped to pick up something which had been lyingon 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'sa 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 speechwas so quick and easy. It sounded as if he liked herand was not the least afraid she would not like him,though he was only a common moor boy, in patched clothesand with a funny face and a rough, rusty-red head.   As she came closer to him she noticed that there was a cleanfresh scent of heather and grass and leaves about him,almost as if he were made of them. She liked it very muchand when she looked into his funny face with the redcheeks 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 paperpackage out of his coat pocket. He untied the stringand inside there were ever so many neater and smallerpackages 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 hishead 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 withscarlet 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 thingin 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 allabout thee in a minute."He moved quite close to the bush with the slow movement Maryhad noticed before, and then he made a sound almost likethe robin's own twitter. The robin listened a few seconds,intently, and then answered quite as if he were replying to aquestion.   "Aye, he's a friend o' yours," chuckled Dickon.   "Do you think he is?" cried Mary eagerly. She did so wantto 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 worsethan 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 sidledand 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'rapsI'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 talkabout the flower seeds again. He told her what they lookedlike 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 onher lap. She did not know what to say, so for a wholeminute she said nothing. She had never thought of this.   She felt miserable. And she felt as if she went redand 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 sentencequite fiercely.   Dickon looked more puzzled than ever and even rubbedhis hand over his rough head again, but he answered quitegood-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 cankeep secrets."Mistress Mary did not mean to put out her hand and clutchhis 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 init already. I don't know."She began to feel hot and as contrary as she had everfelt in her life.   "I don't care, I don't care! Nobody has any rightto take it from me when I care about it and theydon't. They're letting it die, all shut in by itself,"she ended passionately, and she threw her arms overher 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 justlike 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 shefelt contrary again, and obstinate, and she did not careat all. She was imperious and Indian, and at the sametime 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 theivy grew so thickly. Dickon followed her with a queer,almost pitying, look on his face. He felt as if he werebeing led to look at some strange bird's nest and mustmove softly. When she stepped to the wall and liftedthe hanging ivy he started. There was a door and Marypushed 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'mthe only one in the world who wants it to be alive."Dickon looked round and round about it, and roundand round again.   "Eh!" he almost whispered, "it is a queer, pretty place!   It's like as if a body was in a dream." Chapter 11 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 walkabout softly, even more lightly than Mary had walked thefirst time she had found herself inside the four walls.   His eyes seemed to be taking in everything--the gray treeswith the gray creepers climbing over them and hangingfrom their branches, the tangle on the walls and amongthe grass, the evergreen alcoves with the stone seatsand 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 puttingher hand quickly against her mouth. "Did you know aboutthe 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 tangleabout 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 withoutknowing it.   "Will there be roses?" she whispered. "Can you tell? Ithought 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 withgray lichen all over its bark, but upholding a curtainof tangled sprays and branches. He took a thick knifeout 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 newlast year. This here's a new bit," and he touched a shootwhich 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 rememberedthat 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 gardenand count how many wick ones there are."She quite panted with eagerness, and Dickon was as eageras she was. They went from tree to tree and from bushto bush. Dickon carried his knife in his hand and showedher things which she thought wonderful.   "They've run wild," he said, "but th' strongest oneshas fair thrived on it. The delicatest ones hasdied 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 believeit is--down to th' root. I'll cut it low down an' see."He knelt and with his knife cut the lifeless-lookingbranch 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 withall 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 livewood 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 climbingand 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 knewhow to cut the dry and dead wood away, and could tell whenan 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 wouldcry out joyfully under her breath when she caught sightof the least shade of moist green. The spade, and hoe,and fork were very useful. He showed her how to use thefork while he dug about roots with the spade and stirredthe earth and let the air in.   They were working industriously round one of the biggeststandard roses when he caught sight of something whichmade 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 palegreen 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 thegrass was so thick and strong, and they looked as if theyhad 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 toldthee better. They'll grow now like Jack's bean-stalk. They'recrocuses 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 hishead 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 arabbit's, mother says.""Do you never catch cold?" inquired Mary, gazing athim wonderingly. She had never seen such a funny boy,or such a nice one.   "Not me," he said, grinning. "I never ketched coldsince 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 freshair 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 wasfollowing 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 mylife-- shut in here an' wakenin' up a garden.""If you will come," said Mary, "if you will help meto 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 hishappy grin. "Tha'll get fat an' tha'll get as hungryas 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 atthe walls and bushes with a thoughtful expression.   "I wouldn't want to make it look like a gardener'sgarden, 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 ratherpuzzled look. "It's a secret garden sure enough," he said,"but seems like some one besides th' robin must have beenin 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 shookhis head.   "Aye! how could it!" he murmured. "With th'   door locked an' th' key buried."Mistress Mary always felt that however many yearsshe lived she should never forget that first morningwhen her garden began to grow. Of course, it did seemto begin to grow for her that morning. When Dickonbegan to clear places to plant seeds, she rememberedwhat 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 awaywith 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 tooclose an' we'll have to separate 'em, but there's plenty.   Th' other ones takes two years to bloom from seed, but Ican bring you some bits o' plants from our cottage garden.   Why does tha' want 'em?"Then Mary told him about Basil and his brothersand sisters in India and of how she had hated themand 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 therewere really flowers like silver bells."She frowned a little and gave her trowel a rather spitefuldig 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 shesaw he was sniffing up the scent of it. "There doesn'tseem to be no need for no one to be contrary when there'sflowers an' such like, an' such lots o' friendly wildthings runnin' about makin' homes for themselves, or buildin'   nests an' singin' an' whistlin', does there?"Mary, kneeling by him holding the seeds, looked at himand stopped frowning.   "Dickon," she said, "you are as nice as Martha saidyou 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 waspolishing the grate. He did look funny and delightful,Mary thought, with his round blue eyes and red cheeksand 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 offon her fingers, "and the robin and Ben Weatherstaff."Dickon laughed so that he was obliged to stifle the soundby putting his arm over his mouth.   "I know tha' thinks I'm a queer lad," he said, "but Ithink tha' art th' queerest little lass I ever saw."Then Mary did a strange thing. She leaned forwardand asked him a question she had never dreamed of askingany one before. And she tried to ask it in Yorkshirebecause that was his lan- guage, and in India a nativewas always pleased if you knew his speech.   "Does tha' like me?" she said.   "Eh!" he answered heartily, "that I does. I likesthee 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 clockin the courtyard strike the hour of her midday dinner.   "I shall have to go," she said mournfully. "And youwill 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 ofa pocket a lumpy little bundle tied up in a quite clean,coarse, blue and white handkerchief. It held two thickpieces of bread with a slice of something laid between them.   "It's oftenest naught but bread," he said, "but I've gota fine slice o' fat bacon with it today."Mary thought it looked a queer dinner, but he seemedready to enjoy it.   "Run on an' get thy victuals," he said. "I'll be donewith mine first. I'll get some more work done before Istart 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 itseemed as if he might be a sort of wood fairy whomight be gone when she came into the garden again.   He seemed too good to be true. She went slowly half-wayto 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 bigbite 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 12 Might I Have A Bit Of Earth Mary ran so fast that she was rather out of breath when shereached her room. Her hair was ruffled on her foreheadand her cheeks were bright pink. Her dinner was waitingon 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 determinedvoice.   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 uptoo 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 skyover 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 wishmine 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'dbe sure to bring 'em if they was in Yorkshire.   He's such a trusty lad."Mary was afraid that she might begin to askdifficult questions, but she did not. She was verymuch 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 beplanted.   "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 seenundergardeners 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 herewhen 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 onecould 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 sherose from the table she was going to run to her roomto put on her hat again, but Martha stopped her.   "I've got somethin' to tell you," she said. "I thoughtI'd let you eat your dinner first. Mr. Craven came backthis 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 spoketo him before, but Mrs. Craven had been to our cottagetwo or three times. He'd forgot, but mother hadn't an'   she made bold to stop him. I don't know what she saidto 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 tillautumn 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 shewould 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 blackdress and cap, and her collar was fastened with alarge brooch with a picture of a man's face on it.   It was a colored photograph of Mr. Medlock who had diedyears ago, and she always wore it when she was dressed up.   She looked nervous and excited.   "Your hair's rough," she said quickly. "Go andbrush 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 tothump 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 herhair brushed, and after she was quite tidy she followedMrs. Medlock down the corridors, in silence. What was therefor her to say? She was obliged to go and see Mr. Cravenand 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 beeninto before. At last Mrs. Medlock knocked at a door,and when some one said, "Come in," they entered theroom together. A man was sitting in an armchair beforethe 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 youwhen I want you to take her away," said Mr. Craven.   When she went out and closed the door, Mary could onlystand waiting, a plain little thing, twisting her thinhands together. She could see that the man in thechair was not so much a hunchback as a man with high,rather crooked shoulders, and he had black hair streakedwith white. He turned his head over his high shouldersand spoke to her.   "Come here!" he said.   Mary went to him.   He was not ugly. His face would have been handsome if ithad not been so miserable. He looked as if the sightof her worried and fretted him and as if he did not knowwhat 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 knewwas her stiffest way.   What an unhappy face he had! His black eyes seemed as if theyscarcely 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? Iintended to send you a governess or a nurse, or someone of that sort, but I forgot.""Please," began Mary. "Please--" and then the lumpin 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 mutteredabsentmindedly.   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 thather 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 beforeyou had a governess.""It makes me feel strong when I play and the wind comesover the moor," argued Mary.   "Where do you play?" he asked next.   "Everywhere," gasped Mary. "Martha's mother sent mea skipping-rope. I skip and run--and I look about to seeif 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 dowhat you like."Mary put her hand up to her throat because she was afraidhe 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 happyand 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 Iought to see you. Her daughter had talked about you.   She thought you needed fresh air and freedom and runningabout.""She knows all about children," Mary said again in spiteof herself.   "She ought to," said Mr. Craven. "I thought her ratherbold to stop me on the moor, but she said--Mrs. Cravenhad been kind to her." It seemed hard for him to speakhis 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 placeand you may go where you like and amuse yourself as you like.   Is there anything you want?" as if a sudden thought hadstruck 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 wordswould sound and that they were not the ones she had meantto say. Mr. Craven looked quite startled.   "Earth!" he repeated. "What do you mean?""To plant seeds in--to make things grow--to see themcome alive," Mary faltered.   He gazed at her a moment and then passed his hand quicklyover his eyes.   "Do you--care about gardens so much," he said slowly.   "I didn't know about them in India," said Mary. "I wasalways ill and tired and it was too hot. I sometimesmade littlebeds 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 thoughtthat somehow she must have reminded him of something.   When he stopped and spoke to her his dark eyes looked almostsoft and kind.   "You can have as much earth as you want," he said.   "You remind me of some one else who loved the earth andthings that grow. When you see a bit of earth you want,"with something like a smile, "take it, child, and make itcome 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 musthave been waiting in the corridor.   "Mrs. Medlock," Mr. Craven said to her, "now I haveseen 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 inthe garden. Don't look after her too much. She needsliberty and fresh air and romping about. Mrs. Sowerbyis to come and see her now and then and she may sometimesgo to the cottage."Mrs. Medlock looked pleased. She was relieved tohear that she need not "look after" Mary too much.   She had felt her a tiresome charge and had indeed seenas little of her as she dared. In addition to thisshe was fond of Martha's mother.   "Thank you, sir," she said. "Susan Sowerby and me went toschool together and she's as sensible and good-hearted a womanas you'd find in a day's walk. I never had any childrenmyself and she's had twelve, and there never was healthieror 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 Maryaway now and send Pitcher to me."When Mrs. Medlock left her at the end of her own corridorMary flew back to her room. She found Martha waiting there.   Martha had, in fact, hurried back after she had removedthe dinner service.   "I can have my garden!" cried Mary. "I may have itwhere I like! I am not going to have a governessfor a long time! Your mother is coming to see meand I may go to your cottage! He says a little girllike me could not do any harm and I may do what Ilike--anywhere!""Eh!" said Martha delightedly, "that was nice of himwasn't it?""Martha," said Mary solemnly, "he is really a nice man,only his face is so miserable and his forehead is alldrawn together."She ran as quickly as she could to the garden. She hadbeen away so much longer than she had thought she shouldand she knew Dickon would have to set out early on hisfive-mile walk. When she slipped through the door underthe 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 therewas no Dickon to be seen. He had gone away and the secretgarden was empty--except for the robin who had just flownacross the wall and sat on a standard rose-bush watching her.   "He's gone," she said woefully. "Oh! was he--was he--washe only a wood fairy?"Something white fastened to the standard rose-bush caughther eye. It was a piece of paper, in fact, it was apiece of the letter she had printed for Martha to sendto 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 sortof picture. At first she could not tell what it was.   Then she saw it was meant for a nest with a bird sittingon it. Underneath were the printed letters and theysaid:   "I will cum bak." Chapter 13 I Am Colin Mary took the picture back to the house when she wentto her supper and she showed it to Martha.   "Eh!" said Martha with great pride. "I never knew ourDickon was as clever as that. That there's a pictureof 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 shefell asleep looking forward to the morning.   But you never know what the weather will do in Yorkshire,particularly in the springtime. She was awakened inthe night by the sound of rain beating with heavy dropsagainst her window. It was pouring down in torrentsand the wind was "wuthering" round the corners and inthe chimneys of the huge old house. Mary sat up in bedand 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 theheavily beating rain, she hated the wind and its "wuthering."She could not go to sleep again. The mournful sound kepther awake because she felt mournful herself. If she hadfelt happy it would probably have lulled her to sleep.   How it "wuthered" and how the big raindrops poured downand beat against the pane!   "It sounds just like a person lost on the moorand wandering on and on crying," she said.   She had been lying awake turning from side to sidefor about an hour, when suddenly something made her situp 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 Iheard before."The door of her room was ajar and the sound came downthe corridor, a far-off faint sound of fretful crying.   She listened for a few minutes and each minute she becamemore and more sure. She felt as if she must find outwhat it was. It seemed even stranger than the secretgarden and the buried key. Perhaps the fact that shewas in a rebellious mood made her bold. She put her footout of bed and stood on the floor.   "I am going to find out what it is," she said. "Everybody isin bed and I don't care about Mrs. Medlock--I don't care!"There was a candle by her bedside and she took it upand went softly out of the room. The corridor lookedvery long and dark, but she was too excited to mind that.   She thought she remembered the corners she must turnto find the short corridor with the door covered withtapestry--the one Mrs. Medlock had come through the dayshe 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 couldhear 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 cryingquite plainly, though it was not loud. It was on the otherside of the wall at her left and a few yards farther onthere was a door. She could see a glimmer of light comingfrom 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 thereshe 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 anight light burning by the side of a carved four-postedbed 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 hadfallen asleep again and was dreaming without knowing it.   The boy had a sharp, delicate face the color of ivoryand he seemed to have eyes too big for it. He hadalso a lot of hair which tumbled over his foreheadin heavy locks and made his thin face seem smaller.   He looked like a boy who had been ill, but he was cryingmore 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 attentionand 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 soundinghalf frightened. "Are you one?"He stared and stared and stared. Mary could not helpnoticing what strange eyes he had. They were agategray and they looked too big for his face because theyhad 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 hehad a boy! Why didn't they?""Come here," he said, still keeping his strange eyesfixed on her with an anxious expression.   She came close to the bed and he put out his handand touched her.   "You are real, aren't you?" he said. "I have such realdreams very often. You might be one of them."Mary had slipped on a woolen wrapper before she lefther 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 realI 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 goto sleep and I heard some one crying and wanted to findout 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 cometo live here?"He was still fingering the fold of her wrapper, but hebegan 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 movedout 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 wantto 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 wretchedto look at me. He thinks I don't know, but I've heardpeople talking. He almost hates me.""He hates the garden, because she died," said Mary halfspeaking 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 Ihave been taken to places at the seaside, but I won'tstay because people stare at me. I used to wear an ironthing to keep my back straight, but a grand doctor camefrom London to see me and said it was stupid. He toldthem 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 doyou keep looking at me like that?""Because of the dreams that are so real," he answeredrather fretfully. "Sometimes when I open my eyes I don'tbelieve I'm awake.""We're both awake," said Mary. She glanced round the roomwith 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 ita 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 bedand sat down on the cushioned stool. She did not wantto go away at all. She wanted to stay in the mysterioushidden-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 wantedto know what she had been doing; if she disliked the mooras he disliked it; where she had lived before she cameto Yorkshire. She answered all these questions and manymore and he lay back on his pillow and listened. He madeher tell him a great deal about India and about her voyageacross the ocean. She found out that because he had beenan invalid he had not learned things as other children had.   One of his nurses had taught him to read when he was quitelittle and he was always reading and looking at picturesin splendid books.   Though his father rarely saw him when he was awake, he wasgiven all sorts of wonderful things to amuse himself with.   He never seemed to have been amused, however. He could haveanything he asked for and was never made to do anything he didnot 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 ithad ceased to matter to him at all. He seemed to likethe sound of Mary's voice. As she went on talking helistened in a drowsy, interested way. Once or twice shewondered 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 lockedand 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 wasthe key buried?" he exclaimed as if he were suddenlyvery much interested.   "It--it was the garden Mr. Craven hates," said Mary nervously.   "He locked the door. No one--no one knew where he buriedthe 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 muchlike herself. He too had had nothing to think aboutand the idea of a hidden garden attracted him as ithad attracted her. He asked question after question.   Where was it? Had she never looked for the door? Had shenever asked the gardeners?   "They won't talk about it," said Mary. "I think theyhave 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 whatmight happen!   "Everyone is obliged to please me. I told you that,"he said. "If I were to live, this place would sometimebelong to me. They all know that. I would make themtell me."Mary had not known that she herself had been spoiled,but she could see quite plainly that this mysterious boyhad 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 becauseshe was curious and partly in hope of making him forgetthe garden.   "I don't suppose I shall," he answered as indifferentlyas he had spoken before. "Ever since I remember anythingI have heard people say I shan't. At first they thoughtI was too little to understand and now they think Idon't hear. But I do. My doctor is my father's cousin.   He is quite poor and if I die he will have all Misselthwaitewhen my father is dead. I should think he wouldn't wantme to live.""Do you want to live?" inquired Mary.   "No," he answered, in a cross, tired fashion. "But Idon't want to die. When I feel ill I lie here and thinkabout it until I cry and cry.""I have heard you crying three times," Mary said, "but Idid 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 reallywanted 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 wouldbe getting fresh air. I am going to make them open the door."He had become quite excited and his strange eyes beganto shine like stars and looked more immense than ever.   "They have to please me," he said. "I will make themtake me there and I will let you go, too."Mary's hands clutched each other. Everything wouldbe spoiled--everything! Dickon would never come back.   She would never again feel like a missel thrush with asafe-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 likethat 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 butourselves--if there was a door, hidden somewhere underthe ivy--if there was--and we could find it; and if wecould slip through it together and shut it behind us,and no one knew any one was inside and we called it ourgarden and pretended that--that we were missel thrushesand it was our nest, and if we played there almost everyday 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 areworking in the earth now--pushing up pale green pointsbecause the spring is coming.""Is the spring coming?" he said. "What is it like? Youdon't see it in rooms if you are ill.""It is the sun shining on the rain and the rain fallingon the sunshine, and things pushing up and working underthe earth," said Mary. "If the garden was a secret and wecould get into it we could watch the things grow biggerevery day, and see how many roses are alive. Don't you.   see? Oh, don't you see how much nicer it would be if itwas a secret?"He dropped back on his pillow and lay there with an oddexpression on his face.   "I never had a secret," he said, "except that one aboutnot 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 getin sometime. And then--if the doctor wants you to go outin 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 eyeslooking dreamy. "I should like that. I should not mindfresh air in a secret garden."Mary began to recover her breath and feel safer becausethe idea of keeping the secret seemed to please him.   She felt almost sure that if she kept on talking and couldmake him see the garden in his mind as she had seen ithe would like it so much that he could not bear to thinkthat everybody might tramp in to it when they chose.   "I'll tell you what I think it would be like, if we couldgo into it," she said. "It has been shut up so longthings have grown into a tangle perhaps."He lay quite still and listened while she went on talkingabout the roses which might have clambered from treeto tree and hung down--about the many birds which mighthave 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 itwas so easy and safe to talk about it that she ceasedto be afraid. The robin pleased him so much that hesmiled until he looked almost beautiful, and at firstMary 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 beeninside 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 momenthe 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 thewall 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 seemedto 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 onrings 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 werebecause of the black lashes all round them.   "She is my mother," said Colin complainingly. "I don'tsee 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 daresay 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 eyesare just like yours--at least they are the same shapeand color. Why is the curtain drawn over her?"He moved uncomfortably.   "I made them do it," he said. "Sometimes I don't like tosee her looking at me. She smiles too much when I am illand miserable. Besides, she is mine and I don't want everyoneto see her." There were a few moments of silence and then Maryspoke.   "What would Mrs. Medlock do if she found out that Ihad 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 hereand 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 dayfor the garden door.""Yes, you must," said Colin, "and you can tell me aboutit 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 nottell them until they find out. I can always send the nurseout 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 hersister and she always makes Martha attend to me when shewants to go out. Martha shall tell you when to come here."Then Mary understood Martha's troubled look when shehad asked questions about the crying.   "Martha knew about you all the time?" she said.   "Yes; she often attends to me. The nurse likes to getaway from me and then Martha comes.""I have been here a long time," said Mary. "Shall I goaway 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 somethingquite low.""I should like that perhaps," he said drowsily.   Somehow she was sorry for him and did not want himto lie awake, so she leaned against the bed and beganto stroke and pat his hand and sing a very low littlechanting song in Hindustani.   "That is nice," he said more drowsily still, and she wenton chanting and stroking, but when she looked at him againhis black lashes were lying close against his cheeks,for his eyes were shut and he was fast asleep. So shegot up softly, took her candle and crept away withoutmaking a sound. Chapter 14 A Young Rajah The moor was hidden in mist when the morning came,and the rain had not stopped pouring down. There couldbe no going out of doors. Martha was so busy that Maryhad no opportunity of talking to her, but in the afternoonshe asked her to come and sit with her in the nursery.   She came bringing the stocking she was always knittingwhen she was doing nothing else.   "What's the matter with thee?" she asked as soon as theysat 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 gazedat her with startled eyes.   "Tha' hasn't!" she exclaimed. "Never!""I heard it in the night," Mary went on. "And I gotup 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'thave done it--tha' shouldn't! Tha'll get me in trouble.   I never told thee nothin' about him--but tha'll get mein 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'sin 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 goaway and he made me stay. He asked me questions and Isat on a big footstool and talked to him about Indiaand about the robin and gardens. He wouldn't let me go.   He let me see his mother's picture. Before I left him Isang 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 himselfinto one of his tantrums and roused th' house. He won'tlet strangers look at him.""He let me look at him. I looked at him all the timeand 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 ordersand 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 talkto 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 doand 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 Magicin India, but I can't make it. I just went into his roomand I was so surprised to see him I stood and stared.   And then he turned round and stared at me. And he thoughtI was a ghost or a dream and I thought perhaps he was.   And it was so queer being there alone together in themiddle of the night and not knowing about each other.   And we began to ask each other questions. And when I askedhim 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 saidit'd be another hunchback like him and it'd better die.""Is Colin a hunchback?" Mary asked. "He didn't looklike 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 backwas weak an' they've always been takin' care of it--keepin'   him lyin' down and not lettin' him walk. Once they madehim 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 twoor three times. Once he had rheumatic fever an' once hehad 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 hewas with his big eyes open, starin' at her as sensibleas she was herself. She didn't know wha'd happen but hejust 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 livethat gets no fresh air an' doesn't do nothin' but lieon 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 gardenand watch things growing. It did me good.""One of th' worst fits he ever had," said Martha, "was onetime 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'tknow th' rules passed by an' looked at him curious.   He threw himself into a passion an' he said he'dlooked 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 seehim 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 upher 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 shecame back with a puzzled expression.   "Well, tha' has bewitched him," she said. "He's up on hissofa with his picture-books. He's told the nurse to stayaway 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 wantMary Lennox to come and talk to me, and remember you'renot to tell any one.' You'd better go as quick as you can."Mary was quite willing to go quickly. She did not wantto 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 enteredhis room, and in the daylight she saw it was a verybeautiful room indeed. There were rich colors in therugs and hangings and pictures and books on the wallswhich made it look glowing and comfortable even in spiteof the gray sky and falling rain. Colin looked ratherlike a picture himself. He was wrapped in a velvetdressing-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 youall morning.""I've been thinking about you, too," answered Mary.   "You don't know how frightened Martha is. She saysMrs. Medlock will think she told me about you and then shewill be sent away."He frowned.   "Go and tell her to come here," he said. "She isin the next room."Mary went and brought her back. Poor Martha was shakingin 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 sucha thing," said Master Craven grandly. "She wouldn'tlike 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 MistressMary 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 thebig 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 arefrom Dickon.""Who is Dickon?" he said. "What a queer name!"She might as well tell him, she thought she could talkabout Dickon without mentioning the secret garden. She hadliked to hear Martha talk about him. Besides, she longedto 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 thenatives in India charm snakes. He plays a very soft tuneon a pipe and they come and listen."There were some big books on a table at his side and hedragged one suddenly toward him. "There is a pictureof a snake-charmer in this," he exclaimed. "Come and lookat it"The book was a beautiful one with superb coloredillustrations 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 helives on the moor so much and he knows their ways. He sayshe 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 largerand 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 holesand frighten them. He knows about everything that growsor lives on the moor.""Does he like the moor?" said Colin. "How can hewhen 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 arethousands of little creatures all busy building nestsand making holes and burrows and chippering or singingor squeaking to each other. They are so busy and havingsuch fun under the earth or in the trees or heather.   It's their world.""How do you know all that?" said Colin, turning on hiselbow to look at her.   "I have never been there once, really," said Marysuddenly remembering. "I only drove over it in the dark.   I thought it was hideous. Martha told me about it firstand then Dickon. When Dickon talks about it you feelas if you saw things and heard them and as if you werestanding in the heather with the sun shining and the gorsesmelling like honey--and all full of bees and butterflies.""You never see anything if you are ill," saidColin restlessly. He looked like a person listeningto 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 healmost boasted about it.   "Oh, I've heard it ever since I remember," he answered crossly.   "They are always whispering about it and thinkingI don't notice. They wish I would, too."Mistress Mary felt quite contrary. She pinched herlips together.   "If they wished I would," she said, "I wouldn't. Whowishes you would?""The servants--and of course Dr. Craven because he wouldget Misselthwaite and be rich instead of poor. He daren'tsay so, but he always looks cheerful when I am worse.   When I had typhoid fever his face got quite fat. I thinkmy 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 ifhe were thinking. And there was quite a long silence.   Perhaps they were both of them thinking strange thingschildren do not usually think. "I like the grand doctorfrom 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 Ihated whispering. I heard him say one thing quite aloud.   He said, 'The lad might live if he would make up his mindto it. Put him in the humor.' It sounded as if he wasin a temper.""I'll tell you who would put you in the humor, perhaps,"said Mary reflecting. She felt as if she would like thisthing to be settled one way or the other. "I believeDickon 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--orlooking down at the earth to see something growing.   He has such round blue eyes and they are so wide open withlooking about. And he laughs such a big laugh with his widemouth--and his cheeks are as red--as red as cherries."She pulled her stool nearer to the sofa and her expressionquite changed at the remembrance of the wide curving mouthand 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 ustalk and talk about Dickon. And then we will look atyour pictures."It was the best thing she could have said. To talk aboutDickon meant to talk about the moor and about the cottageand the fourteen people who lived in it on sixteen shillingsa week--and the children who got fat on the moor grasslike the wild ponies. And about Dickon's mother--andthe skipping-rope--and the moor with the sun on it--andabout pale green points sticking up out of the black sod.   And it was all so alive that Mary talked more than she hadever talked before--and Colin both talked and listened as hehad never done either before. And they both began to laughover nothings as children will when they are happy together.   And they laughed so that in the end they were makingas much noise as if they had been two ordinary healthynatural ten-year-old creatures--instead of a hard, little,unloving girl and a sickly boy who believed that he was going todie.   They enjoyed themselves so much that they forgot thepictures and they forgot about the time. They had beenlaughing quite loudly over Ben Weatherstaff and his robin,and Colin was actually sitting up as if he had forgottenabout his weak back, when he suddenly remembered something.   "Do you know there is one thing we have never oncethought of," he said. "We are cousins."It seemed so queer that they had talked so much and neverremembered 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 walkedDr. Craven and Mrs. Medlock.   Dr. Craven started in actual alarm and Mrs. Medlock almostfell back because he had accidentally bumped against her.   "Good Lord!" exclaimed poor Mrs. Medlock with her eyesalmost 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 norMrs. Medlock's terror were of the slightest consequence.   He was as little disturbed or frightened as if an elderlycat and dog had walked into the room.   "This is my cousin, Mary Lennox," he said. "I askedher to come and talk to me. I like her. She must comeand 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--theyall have their orders.""Nobody told her anything," said Colin. "She heardme 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 itwas 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 upher tea with mine. We will have tea together."Mrs. Medlock and Dr. Craven looked at each other in atroubled 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 thismorning before she came into the room.""She came into the room last night. She stayed with mea long time. She sang a Hindustani song to me and itmade me go to sleep," said Colin. "I was better when Iwakened up. I wanted my breakfast. I want my tea now.   Tell nurse, Medlock."Dr. Craven did not stay very long. He talked to the nursefor a few minutes when she came into the room and said a fewwords of warning to Colin. He must not talk too much;he must not forget that he was ill; he must not forgetthat he was very easily tired. Mary thought that thereseemed to be a number of uncomfortable things he was notto forget.   Colin looked fretful and kept his strange black-lashedeyes fixed on Dr. Craven's face.   "I want to forget it," he said at last. "She makes meforget 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 onthe large stool. She had become a stiff, silent childagain as soon as he entered and he could not see whatthe attraction was. The boy actually did look brighter,however--and he sighed rather heavily as he went downthe corridor.   "They are always wanting me to eat things when I don'twant to," said Colin, as the nurse brought in the teaand put it on the table by the sofa. "Now, if you'lleat I will. Those muffins look so nice and hot.   Tell me about Rajahs." Chapter 15 Nest Building After another week of rain the high arch of blue skyappeared again and the sun which poured down was quite hot.   Though there had been no chance to see either the secretgarden or Dickon, Mistress Mary had enjoyed herselfvery much. The week had not seemed long. She had spenthours of every day with Colin in his room, talking aboutRajahs or gardens or Dickon and the cottage on the moor.   They had looked at the splendid books and pictures andsometimes Mary had read things to Colin, and sometimes hehad read a little to her. When he was amused and interestedshe thought he scarcely looked like an invalid at all,except that his face was so colorless and he was alwayson the sofa.   "You are a sly young one to listen and get out of yourbed to go following things up like you did that night,"Mrs. Medlock said once. "But there's no saying it'snot been a sort of blessing to the lot of us. He's nothad a tantrum or a whining fit since you made friends.   The nurse was just going to give up the case because shewas so sick of him, but she says she doesn't mind stayingnow you've gone on duty with her," laughing a little.   In her talks with Colin, Mary had tried to be very cautiousabout the secret garden. There were certain things shewanted to find out from him, but she felt that she mustfind 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 youcould tell a secret to. He was not in the least like Dickon,but he was evidently so pleased with the idea of a gardenno one knew anything about that she thought perhaps hecould be trusted. But she had not known him long enoughto be sure. The second thing she wanted to find out wasthis: If he could be trusted--if he really could--wouldn'tit be possible to take him to the garden without havingany one find it out? The grand doctor had said that he musthave fresh air and Colin had said that he would not mindfresh air in a secret garden. Perhaps if he had a greatdeal of fresh air and knew Dickon and the robin and sawthings growing he might not think so much about dying.   Mary had seen herself in the glass sometimes lately when shehad realized that she looked quite a different creaturefrom the child she had seen when she arrived from India.   This child looked nicer. Even Martha had seen a changein her.   "Th' air from th' moor has done thee good already,"she had said. "Tha'rt not nigh so yeller and tha'rt notnigh so scrawny. Even tha' hair doesn't slamp down on tha'   head so flat. It's got some life in it so as it sticksout a bit.""It's like me," said Mary. "It's growing strongerand fatter. I'm sure there's more of it.""It looks it, for sure," said Martha, ruffling it upa little round her face. "Tha'rt not half so ugly whenit's that way an' there's a bit o' red in tha' cheeks."If gardens and fresh air had been good for her perhaps theywould be good for Colin. But then, if he hated peopleto 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 liein my carriage everybody used to stare and ladies wouldstop and talk to my nurse and then they would begin towhisper and I knew then they were saying I shouldn't liveto grow up. Then sometimes the ladies would pat my cheeksand say `Poor child!' Once when a lady did that I screamedout 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 cameinto 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 theydon'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 thinkingover 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 thinkingit over, "perhaps that's why I shouldn't. He's a sortof animal charmer and I am a boy animal."Then he laughed and she laughed too; in fact it endedin their both laughing a great deal and finding the ideaof a boy animal hiding in his hole very funny indeed.   What Mary felt afterward was that she need not fearabout Dickon.   On that first morning when the sky was blue again Mary wakenedvery early. The sun was pouring in slanting rays throughthe blinds and there was something so joyous in the sightof it that she jumped out of bed and ran to the window.   She drew up the blinds and opened the window itselfand a great waft of fresh, scented air blew in upon her.   The moor was blue and the whole world looked as if somethingMagic had happened to it. There were tender littlefluting sounds here and there and everywhere, as if scoresof 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 greenpoints push up and up and up, and it will make the bulbsand roots work and struggle with all their might underthe earth."She kneeled down and leaned out of the window as faras she could, breathing big breaths and sniffing the airuntil she laughed because she remembered what Dickon'smother had said about the end of his nose quiveringlike a rabbit's. "It must be very early," she said.   "The little clouds are all pink and I've never seenthe sky look like this. No one is up. I don't even hearthe 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 puton her clothes in five minutes. She knew a small side doorwhich she could unbolt herself and she flew downstairsin her stocking feet and put on her shoes in the hall.   She unchained and unbolted and unlocked and when the doorwas open she sprang across the step with one bound,and there she was standing on the grass, which seemedto have turned green, and with the sun pouring down onher and warm sweet wafts about her and the fluting andtwittering and singing coming from every bush and tree.   She clasped her hands for pure joy and looked up in the skyand it was so blue and pink and pearly and white and floodedwith springtime light that she felt as if she must fluteand sing aloud herself and knew that thrushes and robinsand skylarks could not possibly help it. She ran aroundthe shrubs and paths towards the secret garden.   "It is all different already," she said. "The grass isgreener and things are sticking up every- where and thingsare 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 theherbaceous beds which bordered the walk by the lower wall.   There were things sprouting and pushing out from theroots of clumps of plants and there were actually hereand there glimpses of royal purple and yellow unfurlingamong the stems of crocuses. Six months before MistressMary 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 itselfunder the ivy, she was startled by a curious loud sound.   It was the caw--caw of a crow and it came from the topof the wall, and when she looked up, there sat a bigglossy-plumaged blue-black bird, looking down at her verywisely indeed. She had never seen a crow so close beforeand he made her a little nervous, but the next moment hespread his wings and flapped away across the garden.   She hoped he was not going to stay inside and shepushed the door open wondering if he would. When shegot fairly into the garden she saw that he probablydid intend to stay because he had alighted on a dwarfapple-tree and under the apple-tree was lying a littlereddish animal with a Bushy tail, and both of them werewatching 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 gethere 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 Ihave stayed abed! Th' world's all fair begun again thismornin', 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 madmyself, 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 shehad been running herself.   "Oh, Dickon! Dickon!" she said. "I'm so happy I canscarcely breathe!"Seeing him talking to a stranger, the little bushy-tailedanimal rose from its place under the tree and came to him,and the rook, cawing once, flew down from its branchand settled quietly on his shoulder.   "This is th' little fox cub," he said, rubbing the littlereddish animal's head. "It's named Captain. An' thishere'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 leastafraid of Mary. When Dickon began to walk about,Soot stayed on his shoulder and Captain trotted quietlyclose to his side.   "See here!" said Dickon. "See how these haspushed up, an' these an' these! An' Eh! Look at these here!"He threw himself upon his knees and Mary wentdown beside him. They had come upon a whole clumpof 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 shelifted her head. "Flowers are so different."He looked puzzled but smiled.   "Eh!" he said, "I've kissed mother many a time that waywhen 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 toanother and found so many wonders that they were obligedto remind themselves that they must whisper or speak low.   He showed her swelling leafbuds on rose branches whichhad seemed dead. He showed her ten thousand new greenpoints pushing through the mould. They put their eageryoung noses close to the earth and sniffed its warmedspringtime breathing; they dug and pulled and laughed lowwith rapture until Mistress Mary's hair was as tumbledas Dickon's and her cheeks were almost as poppy red as his.   There was every joy on earth in the secret gardenthat morning, and in the midst of them came a delightmore delightful than all, because it was more wonderful.   Swiftly something flew across the wall and darted throughthe trees to a close grown corner, a little flare ofred-breasted bird with something hanging from its beak.   Dickon stood quite still and put his hand on Mary almostas 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 therewithout 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 differenttill 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 mustkeep 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 inhis way."Mistress Mary was not at all sure that she knew, as Dickonseemed to, how to try to look like grass and trees and bushes.   But he had said the queer thing as if it were the simplestand most natural thing in the world, and she felt it mustbe quite easy to him, and indeed she watched him for a fewminutes carefully, wondering if it was possible for himto quietly turn green and put out branches and leaves.   But he only sat wonderfully still, and when he spokedropped his voice to such a softness that it was curiousthat 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 friendin springtime easier than any other season if you're toocurious.""If we talk about him I can't help looking at him," Mary saidas 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 daythis week. He wants me to come. He says I'm making himforget about being ill and dying," answered Mary.   Dickon looked actually relieved as soon as the surprisedied 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 saysto mother, `Mother,' I says, `I got a secret to keep.   It's not a bad 'un, tha' knows that. It's no worsethan 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 wasa little lad as was like to be a cripple, an' they knowedMester Craven didn't like him to be talked about. Folks issorry for Mester Craven because Mrs. Craven was such a prettyyoung lady an' they was so fond of each other. Mrs. Medlockstops 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 finetrouble th' last time she came home. She said tha'dheard him frettin' an' tha' was askin' questions an'   she didn't know what to say."Mary told him her story about the midnight wutheringof the wind which had wakened her and about the faintfar-off sounds of the complaining voice which had ledher down the dark corridors with her candle and hadended with her opening of the door of the dimly lightedroom with the carven four-posted bed in the corner.   When she described the small ivory-white face and thestrange black-rimmed eyes Dickon shook his head.   "Them's just like his mother's eyes, only hers wasalways laughin', they say," he said. "They say asMr. 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 shesays that's th' worst thing on earth for a child.   Them as is not wanted scarce ever thrives. Mester Cravenhe'd buy anythin' as money could buy for th' poor ladbut 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'sgrowed hunchback.""Colin's so afraid of it himself that he won't sit up,"said Mary. "He says he's always thinking that if heshould feel a lump coming he should go crazy and screamhimself to death.""Eh! he oughtn't to lie there thinkin' things like that,"said Dickon. "No lad could get well as thought themsort o' things."The fox was lying on the grass close by him, looking up toask for a pat now and then, and Dickon bent down and rubbedhis 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 likeeverything 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 budsto break on th' rose-bushes, an' he'd likely be healthier,"explained Dickon. "I was wonderin' if us could everget 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 italmost every time I've talked to him," said Mary.   "I've wondered if he could keep a secret and I've wonderedif we could bring him here without any one seeing us.   I thought perhaps you could push his carriage. The doctorsaid he must have fresh air and if he wants us to take himout no one dare disobey him. He won't go out for other peopleand perhaps they will be glad if he will go out with us.   He could order the gardeners to keep away so they wouldn'tfind 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 thandoctor's stuff.""He's been lying in his room so long and he's alwaysbeen so afraid of his back that it has made him queer,"said Mary. "He knows a good many things out of booksbut he doesn't know anything else. He says he has beentoo ill to notice things and he hates going out of doorsand hates gardens and gardeners. But he likes to hearabout this garden because it is a secret. I daren't tellhim 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 thatbranch wonderin' where it'd be best to put that twig he'sgot in his beak."He made one of his low whistling calls and the robin turnedhis head and looked at him inquiringly, still holdinghis 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 beall right. Tha' knew how to build tha' nest before tha'   came out o' th' egg. Get on with thee, lad. Tha'st gotno time to lose.""Oh, I do like to hear you talk to him!" Mary said,laughing delightedly. "Ben Weatherstaff scolds himand makes fun of him, and he hops about and looks asif he understood every word, and I know he likes it.   Ben Weatherstaff says he is so conceited he would ratherhave 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 beakwas occupied, Mary knew that when he flew away with histwig to his own corner of the garden the darkness of hisdew-bright eye meant that he would not tell their secretfor the world. Chapter 16 "I WON'T!" SAID MARY They found a great deal to do that morning and Marywas late in returning to the house and was also in sucha hurry to get back to her work that she quite forgotColin until the last moment.   "Tell Colin that I can't come and see him yet," she saidto Martha. "I'm very busy in the garden."Martha looked rather frightened.   "Eh! Miss Mary," she said, "it may put him all outof humor when I tell him that."But Mary was not as afraid of him as other people wereand 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 morninghad been. Already nearly all the weeds were clearedout of the garden and most of the roses and trees hadbeen pruned or dug about. Dickon had brought a spadeof his own and he had taught Mary to use all her tools,so that by this time it was plain that though the lovelywild place was not likely to become a "gardener's garden"it would be a wilderness of growing things before thespringtime 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 busyas they were, and the robin and his mate flewbackward and forward like tiny streaks of lightning.   Sometimes the rook flapped his black wings and soared awayover the tree-tops in the park. Each time he came backand perched near Dickon and cawed several times as if hewere relating his adventures, and Dickon talked to himjust as he had talked to the robin. Once when Dickonwas so busy that he did not answer him at first, Soot flewon to his shoulders and gently tweaked his ear with hislarge beak. When Mary wanted to rest a little Dickonsat down with her under a tree and once he took his pipeout of his pocket and played the soft strange little notesand 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 beginningto look different, for sure."Mary was glowing with exercise and good spirits.   "I'm getting fatter and fatter every day," she saidquite exultantly. "Mrs. Medlock will have to get me somebigger 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-coloredrays slanting under the trees when they parted.   "It'll be fine tomorrow," said Dickon. "I'll be at workby sunrise.""So will I," said Mary.   She ran back to the house as quickly as her feet wouldcarry her. She wanted to tell Colin about Dickon's fox cuband the rook and about what the springtime had been doing.   She felt sure he would like to hear. So it was not verypleasant when she opened the door of her room, to seeMartha standing waiting for her with a doleful face.   "What is the matter?" she asked. "What did Colin saywhen 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 allafternoon to keep him quiet. He would watch the clockall th' time."Mary's lips pinched themselves together. She was no moreused to considering other people than Colin was and shesaw no reason why an ill-tempered boy should interferewith the thing she liked best. She knew nothing aboutthe pitifulness of people who had been ill and nervousand who did not know that they could control their tempersand need not make other people ill and nervous, too.   When she had had a headache in India she had done herbest to see that everybody else also had a headache orsomething 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 turnhis head toward her as she came in. This was a bad beginningand 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 putme back in bed this afternoon. My back ached and myhead 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 staywith him instead of coming to talk to me," he said.   Mary flew into a fine passion. She could fly intoa passion without making a noise. She just grew sourand obstinate and did not care what happened.   "If you send Dickon away, I'll never come into thisroom 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 dragme 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 havesprung 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 boyI ever saw.""I'm not!" snapped Colin. "I'm not as selfish as yourfine Dickon is! He keeps you playing in the dirt when heknows 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 sillyto say that but she did not care.   "A nice angel!" Colin sneered ferociously. "He's a commoncottage 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 beginningto get the better of him. The truth was that he hadnever had a fight with any one like himself in hislife 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 eyesand a big tear was squeezed out and ran down his cheek.   He was beginning to feel pathetic and sorry for himself--notfor 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 atonce furious and slightly pleased, if a person couldbe both at one time.   "I'm not?" he cried. "I am! You know I am! Everybodysays so.""I don't believe it!" said Mary sourly. "You just saythat to make people sorry. I believe you're proud of it.   I don't believe it! If you were a nice boy it might betrue--but you're too nasty!"In spite of his invalid back Colin sat up in bed in quitea healthy rage.   "Get out of the room!" he shouted and he caught holdof his pillow and threw it at her. He was not strongenough 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 turnedround 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 wasgoing to tell you all about them. Now I won't tell youa single thing!"She marched out of the door and closed it behind her,and there to her great astonishment she found the trainednurse standing as if she had been listening and, more amazingstill--she was laughing. She was a big handsome youngwoman who ought not to have been a trained nurse at all,as she could not bear invalids and she was alwaysmaking excuses to leave Colin to Martha or any one elsewho would take her place. Mary had never liked her,and she simply stood and gazed up at her as she stoodgiggling into her handkerchief..   "What are you laughing at?" she asked her.   "At you two young ones," said the nurse. "It's the bestthing that could happen to the sickly pampered thingto have some one to stand up to him that's as spoiledas himself;" and she laughed into her handkerchief again.   "If he'd had a young vixen of a sister to fight with itwould 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 afterthis--but at any rate you've given him something to havehysterics about, and I'm glad of it."Mary went back to her room not feeling at all as shehad felt when she had come in from the garden. She wascross and disappointed but not at all sorry for Colin.   She had looked forward to telling him a great many thingsand she had meant to try to make up her mind whetherit would be safe to trust him with the great secret.   She had been beginning to think it would be, but now shehad changed her mind entirely. She would never tell himand he could stay in his room and never get any freshair and die if he liked! It would serve him right! Shefelt so sour and unrelenting that for a few minutes shealmost forgot about Dickon and the green veil creepingover the world and the soft wind blowing down fromthe moor.   Martha was waiting for her and the trouble in her facehad been temporarily replaced by interest and curiosity.   There was a wooden box on the table and its cover had beenremoved and revealed that it was full of neat packages.   "Mr. Craven sent it to you," said Martha. "It looksas if it had picture-books in it."Mary remembered what he had asked her the day she had goneto 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 beautifulbooks such as Colin had, and two of them were about gardensand were full of pictures. There were two or three gamesand there was a beautiful little writing-case with a goldmonogram on it and a gold pen and inkstand.   Everything was so nice that her pleasure began to crowdher anger out of her mind. She had not expected himto remember her at all and her hard little heart grewquite warm.   "I can write better than I can print," she said,"and the first thing I shall write with that pen willbe a letter to tell him I am much obliged."If she had been friends with Colin she would have run to showhim her presents at once, and they would have looked at thepictures and read some of the gardening books and perhapstried playing the games, and he would have enjoyed himselfso much he would never once have thought he was goingto die or have put his hand on his spine to see if therewas a lump coming. He had a way of doing that which shecould not bear. It gave her an uncomfortable frightenedfeeling because he always looked so frightened himself.   He said that if he felt even quite a little lumpsome day he should know his hunch had begun to grow.   Something he had heard Mrs. Medlock whispering to thenurse had given him the idea and he had thought over itin secret until it was quite firmly fixed in his mind.   Mrs. Medlock had said his father's back had begun to showits crookedness in that way when he was a child. He hadnever 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 17 A Tantrum She had got up very early in the morning and had workedhard in the garden and she was tired and sleepy, so as soonas Martha had brought her supper and she had eaten it,she was glad to go to bed. As she laid her head onthe pillow she murmured to herself:   "I'll go out before breakfast and work with Dickonand then afterward--I believe--I'll go to see him."She thought it was the middle of the night when she wasawakened by such dreadful sounds that she jumped out ofbed in an instant. What was it--what was it? The nextminute she felt quite sure she knew. Doors were openedand shut and there were hurrying feet in the corridorsand 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 tantrumsthe nurse called hysterics. How awful it sounds."As she listened to the sobbing screams she did notwonder that people were so frightened that they gavehim 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 goto him and then she remembered how he had driven her outof the room and thought that perhaps the sight of hermight make him worse. Even when she pressed her handsmore tightly over her ears she could not keep the awfulsounds out. She hated them so and was so terrifiedby them that suddenly they began to make her angryand she felt as if she should like to fly into a tantrumherself and frighten him as he was frightening her.   She was not used to any one's tempers but her own. She tookher 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 corridorand her door opened and the nurse came in. She was notlaughing 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 shehad been afraid she might find Mary crying and hidingher 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 thinghad been funny as well as dreadful--that it was funny that allthe grown-up people were so frightened that they came to a littlegirl just because they guessed she was almost as bad as Colinhimself.   She flew along the corridor and the nearer she gotto 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 roomto the four-posted bed.   "You stop!" she almost shouted. "You stop! I hate you!   Everybody hates you! I wish everybody would run out of thehouse and let you scream yourself to death! You will screamyourself to death in a minute, and I wish you would!"A nice sympathetic child could neither have thought norsaid such things, but it just happened that the shock ofhearing them was the best possible thing for this hystericalboy whom no one had ever dared to restrain or contradict.   He had been lying on his face beating his pillow with hishands and he actually almost jumped around, he turnedso 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 didnot care an atom.   "If you scream another scream," she said, "I'll screamtoo --and I can scream louder than you can and I'llfrighten you, I'll frighten you!"He actually had stopped screaming because she had startledhim so. The scream which had been coming almost choked him.   The tears were streaming down his face and he shookall over.   "I can't stop!" he gasped and sobbed. "I can't--I can't!""You can!" shouted Mary. "Half that ails you is hystericsand 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 thenI shall die," and he began to writhe again and turnedon his face and sobbed and wailed but he didn't scream.   "You didn't feel a lump!" contradicted Mary fiercely. "If youdid it was only a hysterical lump. Hysterics makes lumps.   There's nothing the matter with your horrid back--nothingbut hysterics! Turn over and let me look at it!"She liked the word "hysterics" and felt somehow as if ithad an effect on him. He was probably like herselfand had never heard it before.   "Nurse," she commanded, "come here and show me his backthis minute!"The nurse, Mrs. Medlock and Martha had been standinghuddled together near the door staring at her, their mouthshalf 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 twosobs:   "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 overand examined them with a solemn savage little face.   She looked so sour and old-fashioned that the nurse turnedher head aside to hide the twitching of her mouth.   There was just a minute's silence, for even Colin triedto hold his breath while Mary looked up and down his spine,and down and up, as intently as if she had been the greatdoctor 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 stickout as much as yours do, until I began to get fatter,and I am not fat enough yet to hide them. There's nota 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 crosslyspoken childish words had on him. If he had everhad any one to talk to about his secret terrors--if hehad ever dared to let himself ask questions--if he hadhad childish companions and had not lain on his backin the huge closed house, breathing an atmosphere heavywith the fears of people who were most of them ignorantand tired of him, he would have found out that mostof his fright and illness was created by himself.   But he had lain and thought of himself and his achesand weariness for hours and days and months and years.   And now that an angry unsympathetic little girl insistedobstinately that he was not as ill as he thought he washe actually felt as if she might be speaking the truth.   "I didn't know," ventured the nurse, "that he thought hehad a lump on his spine. His back is weak because hewon't try to sit up. I could have told him there was nolump there." Colin gulped and turned his face a littleto 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-drawnbroken breaths, which were the dying down of his stormof sobbing, he lay still for a minute, though great tearssrteamed down his face and wet the pillow. Actually thetears meant that a curious great relief had come to him.   Presently he turned and looked at the nurse again andstrangely enough he was not like a Rajah at all as hespoke to her.   "Do you think--I could--live to grow up?" he said.   The nurse was neither clever nor soft-hearted but shecould repeat some of the London doctor's words.   "You probably will if you will do what you are toldto do and not give way to your temper, and stayout a great deal in the fresh air."Colin's tantrum had passed and he was weak and wornout with crying and this perhaps made him feel gentle.   He put out his hand a little toward Mary, and I am gladto say that, her own tantum having passed, she was softenedtoo and met him half-way with her hand, so that it wasa sort of making up.   "I'll--I'll go out with you, Mary," he said. "I shan'thate fresh air if we can find--" He remembered justin time to stop himself from saying "if we can findthe secret garden" and he ended, "I shall like to goout 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 straightenedthe pillows. Then she made Colin a cup of beef teaand gave a cup to Mary, who really was very glad to getit after her excitement. Mrs. Medlock and Martha gladlyslipped away, and after everything was neat and calmand in order the nurse looked as if she would very gladlyslip away also. She was a healthy young woman who resentedbeing robbed of her sleep and she yawned quite openlyas she looked at Mary, who had pushed her big footstoolclose 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 frommy Ayah?" Mary whispered to Colin.   His hand pulled hers gently and he turned his tired eyeson 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 mustcall me.""Very well," answered Mary.   The nurse was out of the room in a minute and as soonas 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 hada whole lot of nice things to tell me. Have you--do youthink you have found out anything at all about the wayinto the secret garden?"Mary looked at his poor little tired face and swolleneyes and her heart relented.   "Ye-es," she answered, "I think I have. And if youwill go to sleep I will tell you tomorrow." His handquite trembled.   "Oh, Mary!" he said. "Oh, Mary! If I could get into itI think I should live to grow up! Do you suppose thatinstead of singing the Ayah song--you could just tellme softly as you did that first day what you imagine itlooks 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 hishand and began to speak very slowly and in a very low voice.   "I think it has been left alone so long--that it has grownall into a lovely tangle. I think the roses have climbed andclimbed and climbed until they hang from the branches and wallsand creep over the ground--almost like a strange gray mist.   Some of them have died but many--are alive and when thesummer comes there will be curtains and fountains of roses.   I think the ground is full of daffodils and snowdropsand 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 stillerand stiller and she saw it and went on.   "Perhaps they are coming up through the grass--perhaps thereare clusters of purple crocuses and gold ones--even now.   Perhaps the leaves are beginning to break out and uncurl--andperhaps--the gray is changing and a green gauze veil iscreeping--and creeping over--everything. And the birds arecoming 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 18 "THA' MUNNOT WASTE NO TIME" Of course Mary did not waken early the next morning.   She slept late because she was tired, and when Marthabrought her breakfast she told her that though.   Colin was quite quiet he was ill and feverish as he alwayswas 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 soonas tha' can," Martha said. "It's queer what a fancyhe's took to thee. Tha' did give it him last night forsure--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 achild 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 tempertha'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 runand see Dickon first," said Mary. "No, I'll go and seeColin 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 roomand for a second he looked disappointed. He was in bed.   His face was pitifully white and there were dark circlesround his eyes.   "I'm glad you came," he said. "My head aches and I acheall 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 aboutthe garden."His whole face brightened and a little color came into it.   "Oh! is it?" he cried out. "I dreamed about it all nightI heard you say something about gray changing into green,and I dreamed I was standing in a place all filledwith trembling little green leaves--and there were birdson 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 timehe had brought two tame squirrels. "I came over on thepony this mornin', " he said. "Eh! he is a good littlechap--Jump is! I brought these two in my pockets.   This here one he's called Nut an' this here other one'scalled Shell."When he said "Nut" one squirrel leaped on to his rightshoulder and when he said "Shell" the other one leapedon to his left shoulder.   When they sat down on the grass with Captain curled attheir feet, Soot solemnly listening on a tree and Nut andShell nosing about close to them, it seemed to Mary that itwould be scarcely bearable to leave such delightfulness,but when she began to tell her story somehow the lookin 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 fullof '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 poorlad lyin' shut up an' seein' so little that he getsto 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 soakedthrough wi' sunshine. An' we munnot lose no time about it."When he was very much interested he often spoke quitebroad Yorkshire though at other times he tried to modifyhis dialect so that Mary could better understand.   But she loved his broad Yorkshire and had in fact beentrying to learn to speak it herself. So she spokea 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 triedto twist her tongue into speaking Yorkshire it amusedhim 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 himif 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 hischair 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 beforeand 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 nowtas good for ill folk as laughin' is. Mother says shebelieves 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 nightit seemed as if Magicians were passing through it drawingloveliness out of the earth and the boughs with wands.   It was hard to go away and leave it all, particularly as Nuthad actually crept on to her dress and Shell had scrambleddown the trunk of the apple-tree they sat under and stayedthere looking at her with inquiring eyes. But she went backto the house and when she sat down close to Colin's bedhe began to sniff as Dickon did though not in such an experiencedway.   "You smell like flowers and--and fresh things," he criedout quite joyously. "What is it you smell of? It's cooland 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 knowhow broadly Yorkshire sounds until you have heard someone speak it. Colin began to laugh.   "What are you doing?" he said. "I never heard you talklike 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 untilthey could not stop themselves and they laughed untilthe room echoed and Mrs. Medlock opening the door to comein drew back into the corridor and stood listening amazed.   "Well, upon my word!" she said, speaking rather broadYorkshire herself because there was no one to hearher 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 Colincould never hear enough of Dickon and Captain and Sootand 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 lockshanging over his eyes and with a pretty face and a nuzzlingvelvet nose. He was rather thin with living on moorgrass but he was as tough and wiry as if the musclein his little legs had been made of steel springs.   He had lifted his head and whinnied softly the momenthe saw Dickon and he had trotted up to him and put hishead across his shoulder and then Dickon had talked intohis ear and Jump had talked back in odd little whinniesand puffs and snorts. Dickon had made him give Maryhis small front hoof and kiss her on her cheek with hisvelvet muzzle.   "Does he really understand everything Dickon says?"Colin asked.   "It seems as if he does," answered Mary. "Dickon saysanything 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 grayeyes seemed to be staring at the wall, but Mary sawhe 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--youand I and Ben Weatherstaff. He said we were neitherof 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 robinand 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 beforeI 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 aboutsending Dickon away. I hated you when you said he waslike 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 mouthand his clothes have patches all over them and he talksbroad Yorkshire, but--but if an angel did come to Yorkshireand live on the moor--if there was a Yorkshire angel--Ibelieve he'd understand the green things and know how tomake them grow and he would know how to talk to the wildcreatures as Dickon does and they'd know he was friends forsure.""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 theminute to tell him. Colin knew something new was coming.   "Because what?" he cried eagerly.   Mary was so anxious that she got up from her stooland 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 withsolemn excitement. "The rest is better. There is a doorinto the garden. I found it. It is under the ivy on the wall."If he had been a strong healthy boy Colin would probablyhave shouted "Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!" but he was weakand rather hysterical; his eyes grew bigger and biggerand he gasped for breath.   "Oh! Mary!" he cried out with a half sob. "Shall I seeit? 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 childishthat she brought him to his senses and he began to laughat himself and a few minutes afterward she was sittingon her stool again telling him not what she imaginedthe secret garden to be like but what it really was,and Colin's aches and tiredness were forgotten and hewas 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 Isaid that when you told me first."Mary hesitated about two minutes and then boldly spokethe truth.   "I had seen it--and I had been in," she said. "I foundthe key and got in weeks ago. But I daren't tell you--Idaren't because I was so afraid I couldn't trust you--for sure!" Chapter 19 "IT HAS COME!" Of course Dr. Craven had been sent for the morning afterColin had had his tantrum. He was always sent for atonce 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 breakinto fresh sobbing at the least word. In fact, Dr. Cravendreaded and detested the difficulties of these visits.   On this occasion he was away from Misselthwaite Manoruntil afternoon.   "How is he?" he asked Mrs. Medlock rather irritably when hearrived.   "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 believeyour eyes when you see him. That plain sour-faced childthat's almost as bad as himself has just bewitched him.   How she's done it there's no telling. The Lord knowsshe's nothing to look at and you scarcely ever hearher 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 hispatient's room was indeed rather astonishing to him.   As Mrs. Medlock opened the door he heard laughingand chattering. Colin was on his sofa in his dressing-gownand he was sitting up quite straight looking at a picturein one of the garden books and talking to the plainchild who at that moment could scarcely be called plainat 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 quitestill 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 anervous man.   "I'm better now--much better," Colin answered,rather like a Rajah. "I'm going out in my chairin a day or two if it is fine. I want some fresh air."Dr. Craven sat down by him and felt his pulse and lookedat him curiously.   "It must be a very fine day," he said, "and you mustbe 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 gentlemanhad shrieked aloud with rage and had insisted that freshair would give him cold and kill him, it is not to bewondered 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 Marycould not help remembering how the young native Princehad looked with his diamonds and emeralds and pearlsstuck all over him and the great rubies on the small darkhand he had waved to command his servants to approachwith salaams and receive his orders.   "My cousin knows how to take care of me. I am always betterwhen 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 tiresomehysterical boy should chance to get well he himself wouldlose all chance of inheriting Misselthwaite; but hewas 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 ishis name?""It's Dickon," Mary spoke up suddenly. She felt somehowthat everybody who knew the moor must know Dickon.   And she was right, too. She saw that in a momentDr. Craven's serious face relaxed into a relieved smile.   "Oh, Dickon," he said. "If it is Dickon you will besafe 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 Colinand 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 cleverpeople try to learn them. I like it and so does Colin.""Well, well," he said. "If it amuses you perhaps it won'tdo you any harm. Did you take your bromide last night, Colin?""No," Colin answered. "I wouldn't take it at firstand after Mary made me quiet she talked me to sleep--ina low voice--about the spring creeping into a garden.""That sounds soothing," said Dr. Craven, more perplexedthan ever and glancing sideways at Mistress Mary sittingon 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 Ibegin to have pains everywhere and I think of thingsthat make me begin to scream because I hate them so.   If there was a doctor anywhere who could make you forgetyou were ill instead of remembering it I would have himbrought here." And he waved a thin hand which ought reallyto have been covered with royal signet rings made of rubies.   "It is because my cousin makes me forget that she makesme better."Dr. Craven had never made such a short stay after a"tantrum"; usually he was obliged to remain a very longtime and do a great many things. This afternoon he didnot give any medicine or leave any new orders and he wasspared any disagreeable scenes. When he went downstairs helooked very thoughtful and when he talked to Mrs. Medlockin 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 yesterdayand 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'tbe a pretty one, but she's a child, an' children needschildren.' 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 Ishall save my patient."Mrs. Medlock smiled. She was fond of Susan Sowerby.   "She's got a way with her, has Susan," she went onquite volubly. "I've been thinking all morning of onething she said yesterday. She says, `Once when Iwas givin' th' children a bit of a preach after they'dbeen fightin' I ses to 'em all, "When I was at school myjography told as th' world was shaped like a orange an'   I found out before I was ten that th' whole orangedoesn't belong to nobody. No one owns more than his bitof a quarter an' there's times it seems like there'snot enow quarters to go round. But don't you--none o'   you--think as you own th' whole orange or you'll findout you're mistaken, an' you won't find it out withouthard 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 likelynot 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 broadYorkshire I've seen the times when I should have said youwas clever.'"That night Colin slept without once awakening andwhen he opened his eyes in the morning he lay stilland smiled without knowing it--smiled because he felt socuriously 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 hadloosened themselves and let him go. He did not know thatDr. Craven would have said that his nerves had relaxedand rested themselves. Instead of lying and staring atthe wall and wishing he had not awakened, his mind was fullof the plans he and Mary had made yesterday, of picturesof the garden and of Dickon and his wild creatures.   It was so nice to have things to think about. And hehad not been awake more than ten minutes when he heardfeet running along the corridor and Mary was at the door.   The next minute she was in the room and had run acrossto his bed, bringing with her a waft of fresh air fullof the scent of the morning.   "You've been out! You've been out! There's that nicesmell of leaves!" he cried.   She had been running and her hair was loose and blownand she was bright with the air and pink-cheeked, thoughhe could not see it.   "It's so beautiful!" she said, a little breathlesswith 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 nothingabout it he felt his heart beat. He actually sat upin bed.   "Open the window!" he added, laughing half with joyfulexcitement and half at his own fancy. "Perhaps we mayhear golden trumpets!"And though he laughed, Mary was at the window in a momentand in a moment more it was opened wide and freshness andsoftness and scents and birds' songs were pouring through.   "That's fresh air," she said. "Lie on your back and drawin long breaths of it. That's what Dickon does when he'slying on the moor. He says he feels it in his veinsand it makes him strong and he feels as if he couldlive forever and ever. Breathe it and breathe it."She was only repeating what Dickon had told her, but shecaught 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 deepbreaths over and over again until he felt that somethingquite new and delightful was happening to him.   Mary was at his bedside again.   "Things are crowding up out of the earth," she ran onin a hurry. "And there are flowers uncurling and budson everything and the green veil has covered nearly allthe gray and the birds are in such a hurry about theirnests for fear they may be too late that some of themare 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 broughtthe fox and the crow and the squirrels and a new-born lamb."And then she paused for breath. The new-born lamb Dickonhad found three days before lying by its dead motheramong the gorse bushes on the moor. It was not the firstmotherless lamb he had found and he knew what to do with it.   He had taken it to the cottage wrapped in his jacket and hehad let it lie near the fire and had fed it with warm milk.   It was a soft thing with a darling silly baby faceand legs rather long for its body. Dickon had carriedit over the moor in his arms and its feeding bottlewas in his pocket with a squirrel, and when Mary had satunder a tree with its limp warmness huddled on her lap shehad 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 listeningand 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 herpatient 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 breathsof fresh air. It makes you strong. I am going to get upto the sofa for breakfast. My cousin will have breakfastwith me."The nurse went away, concealing a smile, to givethe order for two breakfasts. She found the servants'   hall a more amusing place than the invalid's chamber andjust now everybody wanted to hear the news from upstairs.   There was a great deal of joking about the unpopular youngrecluse who, as the cook said, "had found his master,and good for him." The servants' hall had been very tiredof the tantrums, and the butler, who was a man with a family,had more than once expressed his opinion that the invalidwould be all the better "for a good hiding."When Colin was on his sofa and the breakfast for two wasput upon the table he made an announcement to the nursein 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 animalsin the servants' hall and keep them there. I want them here."The nurse gave a slight gasp and tried to conceal it witha cough.   "Yes, sir," she answered.   "I'll tell you what you can do," added Colin, wavinghis hand. "You can tell Martha to bring them here.   The boy is Martha's brother. His name is Dickon and heis 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 pouringin upon them. Colin's breakfast was a very good oneand 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 Ialways want it.""I wanted mine this morning," said Colin. "Perhaps itwas the fresh air. When do you think Dickon will come?"He was not long in coming. In about ten minutes Maryheld up her hand.   "Listen!" she said. "Did you hear a caw?"Colin listened and heard it, the oddest sound in the worldto hear inside a house, a hoarse "caw-caw.""Yes," he answered.   "That's Soot," said Mary. "Listen again. Do you heara 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 thoughhe tried to walk quietly they made a clumping sound as hewalked through the long corridors. Mary and Colin heard himmarching--marching, until he passed through the tapestrydoor 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 redfox trotted by his side. Nut sat on his left shoulderand Soot on his right and Shell's head and paws peepedout of his coat pocket.   Colin slowly sat up and stared and stared--as he had staredwhen he first saw Mary; but this was a stare of wonderand delight. The truth was that in spite of all he hadheard he had not in the least understood what this boy wouldbe like and that his fox and his crow and his squirrelsand his lamb were so near to him and his friendlinessthat they seemed almost to be part of himself. Colin hadnever talked to a boy in his life and he was so overwhelmedby his own pleasure and curiosity that he did not even think ofspeaking.   But Dickon did not feel the least shy or awkward.   He had not felt embarrassed because the crow had notknown his language and had only stared and had notspoken to him the first time they met. Creatures werealways like that until they found out about you.   He walked over to Colin's sofa and put the new-bornlamb quietly on his lap, and immediately the littlecreature turned to the warm velvet dressing-gown andbegan to nuzzle and nuzzle into its folds and butt itstight-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'dlike to see it feed."He knelt down by the sofa and took a feeding-bottlefrom his pocket.   "Come on, little 'un," he said, turning the smallwoolly white head with a gentle brown hand. "This iswhat tha's after. Tha'll get more out o' this than tha'   will out o' silk velvet coats. There now," and he pushedthe rubber tip of the bottle into the nuzzling mouthand 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 forthand Dickon answered them all. He told them how he had foundthe lamb just as the sun was rising three mornings ago.   He had been standing on the moor listening to a skylarkand watching him swing higher and higher into the skyuntil 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'dget out o' th' world in a minute--an' just then Iheard somethin' else far off among th' gorse bushes.   It was a weak bleatin' an' I knowed it was a new lambas was hungry an' I knowed it wouldn't be hungry if ithadn'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 seemedto 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 openwindow and cawed remarks about the scenery while Nutand Shell made excursions into the big trees outsideand ran up and down trunks and explored branches.   Captain curled up near Dickon, who sat on the hearth-rugfrom preference.   They looked at the pictures in the gardening books andDickon knew all the flowers by their country names and knewexactly which ones were already growing in the secret garden.   "I couldna' say that there name," he said, pointing to oneunder which was written "Aquilegia," "but us calls thata columbine, an' that there one it's a snapdragon and theyboth 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 goingto see them!""Aye, that tha' mun," said Mary quite seriously. "An' tha'   munnot lose no time about it." Chapter 20 "I SHALL LIVE FOREVER--AND EVER--AND EVER!"But they were obliged to wait more than a week becausefirst there came some very windy days and then Colinwas threatened with a cold, which two things happeningone after the other would no doubt have thrown him intoa rage but that there was so much careful and mysteriousplanning to do and almost every day Dickon came in,if only for a few minutes, to talk about what was happeningon the moor and in the lanes and hedges and on the bordersof 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 enoughto make you almost tremble with excitement when youheard all the intimate details from an animal charmerand realized with what thrilling eagerness and anxietythe whole busy underworld was working.   "They're same as us," said Dickon, "only they have tobuild their homes every year. An' it keeps 'em so busythey fair scuffle to get 'em done."The most absorbing thing, however, was the preparationsto be made before Colin could be transported with sufficientsecrecy to the garden. No one must see the chair-carriageand Dickon and Mary after they turned a certain cornerof the shrubbery and entered upon the walk outsidethe ivied walls. As each day passed, Colin had becomemore and more fixed in his feeling that the mysterysurrounding the garden was one of its greatest charms.   Nothing must spoil that. No one must ever suspectthat they had a secret. People must think that hewas simply going out with Mary and Dickon because heliked 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 crossthe other and go round among the fountain flower-bedsas 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 onewould think it at all mysterious. They would turn intothe shrubbery walks and lose themselves until they cameto the long walls. It was almost as serious and elaboratelythought out as the plans of march made by geat generalsin time of war.   Rumors of the new and curious things which were occurringin the invalid's apartments had of course filteredthrough the servants' hall into the stable yardsand out among the gardeners, but notwithstanding this,Mr. Roach was startled one day when he received ordersfrom Master Colin's room to the effect that he must reporthimself 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 changedhis coat, "what's to do now? His Royal Highness that wasn'tto be looked at calling up a man he's never set eyes on."Mr. Roach was not without curiosity. He had nevercaught even a glimpse of the boy and had heard a dozenexaggerated stories about his uncanny looks and waysand his insane tempers. The thing he had heardoftenest was that he might die at any moment and therehad been numerous fanciful descriptions of a humpedback 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 staircaseto the corridor on to which opened the hitherto mysteriouschamber.   "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 theirduties made a lot easier to stand up under. Don't yoube surprised, Mr. Roach, if you find yourself in the middleof a menagerie and Martha Sowerby's Dickon more at homethan you or me could ever be."There really was a sort of Magic about Dickon, as Maryalways privately believed. When Mr. Roach heard his namehe smiled quite leniently.   "He'd be at home in Buckingham Palace or at the bottomof 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 mighthave been startled. When the bedroom door was openeda large crow, which seemed quite at home perched onthe high back of a carven chair, announced the entranceof a visitor by saying "Caw--Caw" quite loudly.   In spite of Mrs. Medlock's warning, Mr. Roach only justescaped 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 standingby him shaking its tail in feeding-lamb fashion as Dickonknelt giving it milk from its bottle. A squirrel wasperched on Dickon's bent back attentively nibbling a nut.   The little girl from India was sitting on a big footstoollooking on.   "Here is Mr. Roach, Master Colin," said Mrs. Medlock.   The young Rajah turned and looked his servitor over--atleast that was what the head gardener felt happened.   "Oh, you are Roach, are you?" he said. "I sent for youto give you some very important orders.""Very good, sir," answered Roach, wondering if he wasto receive instructions to fell all the oaks in the parkor 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 nearthe Long Walk by the garden walls. No one is to be there.   I shall go out about two o'clock and everyone mustkeep away until I send word that they may go back totheir work.""Very good, sir," replied Mr. Roach, much relieved to hearthat the oaks might remain and that the orchards were safe.   "Mary," said Colin, turning to her, "what is that thingyou say in India when you have finished talking and wantpeople 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 rolledinto one--Prince Consort and all.".   "Eh!" protested Mrs. Medlock, "we've had to let himtrample all over every one of us ever since he had feetand 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'llwarrant she teaches him that the whole orange does notbelong to him, as Susan Sowerby says. And he'll be likelyto 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 Ishall see it--this afternoon I shall be in it!"Dickon went back to the garden with his creatures and Marystayed with Colin. She did not think he looked tiredbut he was very quiet before their lunch came and hewas quiet while they were eating it. She wondered whyand asked him about it.   "What big eyes you've got, Colin," she said. "When youare thinking they get as big as saucers. What are youthinking 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 reallynever seen it before. I scarcely ever went out and when Idid 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 moreimagination than she had and at least he had spent a gooddeal of time looking at wonderful books and pictures.   "That morning when you ran in and said `It's come! It'scome!, you made me feel quite queer. It sounded as ifthings were coming with a great procession and big burstsand wafts of music. I've a picture like it in one of mybooks--crowds of lovely people and children with garlandsand branches with blossoms on them, everyone laughingand dancing and crowding and playing on pipes. That waswhy 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 itfeels like. And if all the flowers and leaves and greenthings and birds and wild creatures danced past at once,what a crowd it would be! I'm sure they'd dance and singand flute and that would be the wafts of music."They both laughed but it was not because the idea waslaughable but because they both so liked it.   A little later the nurse made Colin ready. She noticedthat instead of lying like a log while his clothes wereput 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 spiritsthat it makes him stronger.""I'll call in again later in the afternoon, after he hascome in," said Dr. Craven. "I must see how the goingout 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 evenstay 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 downstairs and put him in his wheeled chair near which Dickonwaited outside. After the manservant had arrangedhis rugs and cushions the Rajah waved his hand to himand to the nurse.   "You have my permission to go," he said, and they bothdisappeared quickly and it must be confessed giggledwhen they were safely inside the house.   Dickon began to push the wheeled chair slowly and steadily.   Mistress Mary walked beside it and Colin leaned backand lifted his face to the sky. The arch of it lookedvery high and the small snowy clouds seemed like white birdsfloating on outspread wings below its crystal blueness.   The wind swept in soft big breaths down from the moorand 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 werelistening--listening, instead of his ears.   "There are so many sounds of singing and humming andcalling out," he said. "What is that scent the puffsof 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 thepaths they took. In fact every gardener or gardener'slad had been witched away. But they wound in and outamong the shrubbery and out and round the fountain beds,following their carefully planned route for the meremysterious pleasure of it. But when at last they turnedinto the Long Walk by the ivied walls the excited senseof an approaching thrill made them, for some curious reasonthey could not have explained, begin to speak in whispers.   "This is it," breathed Mary. "This is where I usedto walk up and down and wonder and wonder." "Is it?"cried Colin, and his eyes began to search the ivy witheager 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 chairwheeled 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 undera big lilac bush, "is where he perched on the littleheap of earth and showed me the key."Then Colin sat up.   "Where? Where? There?" he cried, and his eyes were as bigas the wolf's in Red Riding-Hood, when Red Riding-Hoodfelt called upon to remark on them. Dickon stood stilland 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 mefrom the top of the wall. And this is the ivy the windblew 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 coveredhis eyes with his hands and held them there shuttingout everything until they were inside and the chairstopped as if by magic and the door was closed.   Not till then did he take them away and look roundand round and round as Dickon and Mary had done.   And over walls and earth and trees and swinging spraysand tendrils the fair green veil of tender little leaveshad crept, and in the grass under the trees and the grayurns in the alcoves and here and there everywherewere touches or splashes of gold and purple and whiteand the trees were showing pink and snow above his headand there were fluttering of wings and faint sweet pipesand humming and scents and scents. And the sun fellwarm 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 glowof color had actually crept all over him--ivory faceand 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 foreverand ever and ever!" Chapter 21 Ben Weatherstaff One of the strange things about living in the world isthat it is only now and then one is quite sure one isgoing to live forever and ever and ever. One knows itsometimes when one gets up at the tender solemn dawn-timeand goes out and stands alone and throws one's head farback and looks up and up and watches the pale sky slowlychanging and flushing and marvelous unknown things happeninguntil the East almost makes one cry out and one's heartstands still at the strange unchanging majesty of therising of the sun--which has been happening every morningfor thousands and thousands and thousands of years.   One knows it then for a moment or so. And one knows itsometimes when one stands by oneself in a wood at sunsetand the mysterious deep gold stillness slanting through andunder the branches seems to be saying slowly again and againsomething one cannot quite hear, however much one tries.   Then sometimes the immense quiet of the dark blue at nightwith 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 andheard and felt the Springtime inside the four high wallsof a hidden garden. That afternoon the whole worldseemed to devote itself to being perfect and radiantlybeautiful and kind to one boy. Perhaps out of pureheavenly goodness the spring came and crowned everythingit possibly could into that one place. More than onceDickon paused in what he was doing and stood still witha 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 sighedfor mere joy. "I'll warrant it's the graidelest oneas 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 wereflowering cherry-trees near and apple-trees whose budswere pink and white, and here and there one had burstopen wide. Between the blossoming branches of the canopybits of blue sky looked down like wonderful eyes.   Mary and Dickon worked a litle here and there and Colinwatched them. They brought him things to look at--budswhich were opening, buds which were tight closed,bits of twig whose leaves were just showing green,the feather of a woodpecker which had dropped onthe 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 wondersspringing out of the earth or trailing down from trees.   It was like being taken in state round the country of amagic king and queen and shown all the mysterious richesit 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 getsthere as fair flusters him so as he scarce knows which bigmouth 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 obligedto cover their mouths with their hands, remembering thatthey must not be heard. Colin had been instructed as tothe 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 ratherdifficult never to laugh above a whisper.   Every moment of the afternoon was full of new thingsand every hour the sunshine grew more golden. The wheeledchair had been drawn back under the canopy and Dickonhad sat down on the grass and had just drawn out his pipewhen 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 lookedand there was a brief moment of stillness.   "Yes," answered Dickon, after it, and his low voicehad a very gentle sound.   Mary gazed at the tree and thought.   "The branches are quite gray and there's not a singleleaf anywhere," Colin went on. "It's quite dead,isn't it?""Aye," admitted Dickon. "But them roses as has climbedall over it will near hide every bit o' th' dead woodwhen they're full o' leaves an' flowers. It won't lookdead 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!" witha 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-growncorner and was out of sight. Colin leaned back on hiscushion again, laughing a little. "He's taking her teato her. Perhaps it's five o'clock. I think I'd like sometea myself."And so they were safe.   "It was Magic which sent the robin," said Mary secretlyto Dickon afterward. "I know it was Magic." For both sheand Dickon had been afraid Colin might ask somethingabout the tree whose branch had broken off ten yearsago and they had talked it over together and Dickonhad 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 himhow it broke, poor lad. If he says anything about it wemun--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 gazedat the tree. She wondered and wondered in those few momentsif 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 hadgone on rather hesitatingly. "An' mother she thinksmaybe she's about Misselthwaite many a time lookin'   after Mester Colin, same as all mothers do when they'retook 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 quitebelieved that Dickon worked Magic, of course good Magic,on everything near him and that was why people liked himso much and wild creatures knew he was their friend.   She wondered, indeed, if it were not possible that hisgift had brought the robin just at the right momentwhen Colin asked that dangerous question. She feltthat his Magic was working all the afternoon and makingColin look like an entirely different boy. It did notseem possible that he could be the crazy creature who hadscreamed and beaten and bitten his pillow. Even his ivorywhiteness seemed to change. The faint glow of colorwhich had shown on his face and neck and hands when hefirst got inside the garden really never quite died away.   He looked as if he were made of flesh instead of ivoryor wax.   They saw the robin carry food to his mate two or three times,and it was so suggestive of afternoon tea that Colinfelt they must have some.   "Go and make one of the men servants bring some in abasket to the rhododendron walk," he said. "And thenyou and Dickon can bring it here."It was an agreeable idea, easily carried out, and whenthe white cloth was spread upon the grass, with hot teaand buttered toast and crumpets, a delightfully hungrymeal was eaten, and several birds on domestic errandspaused to inquire what was going on and were led intoinvestigating crumbs with great activity. Nut and Shellwhisked up trees with pieces of cake and Soot took theentire half of a buttered crumpet into a corner and peckedat and examined and turned it over and made hoarse remarksabout 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 beeswere going home and the birds were flying past less often.   Dickon and Mary were sitting on the grass, the tea-basketwas repacked ready to be taken back to the house, and Colinwas lying against his cushions with his heavy lockspushed back from his forehead and his face looking quitea natural color.   "I don't want this afternoon to go," he said; "but I shallcome 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 growhere 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 wasthe matter with his legs.   "For sure tha' will," he said stoutly. "Tha--tha's gotlegs 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 thinand weak. They shake so that I'm afraid to try to standon 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 werewondering about things.   They were really very quiet for a little while.   The sun was dropping lower. It was that hour wheneverything stills itself, and they really had had a busyand exciting afternoon. Colin looked as if he wereresting luxuriously. Even the creatures had ceased movingabout and had drawn together and were resting near them.   Soot had perched on a low branch and drawn up one legand dropped the gray film drowsily over his eyes.   Mary privately thought he looked as if he might snorein a minute.   In the midst of this stillness it was rather startlingwhen Colin half lifted his head and exclaimed in a loudsuddenly 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 BenWeatherstaff's indignant face glaring at them over the wallfrom 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 hisenergetic intention to jump down and deal with her;but as she came toward him he evidently thought betterof it and stood on the top step of his ladder shakinghis 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 scrawnybuttermilk-faced young besom, allus askin' questions an'   pokin' tha' nose where it wasna, wanted. I never knowedhow 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 sortof gasp. "Ben Weatherstaff, it was the robin who showed methe way!"Then it did seem as if Ben really would scramble downon 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 enowfor anythin'. Him showin' thee th' way! Him! Eh! tha'   young nowt"--she could see his next words burst outbecause he was overpowered by curiosity-- "however i'   this world did tha' get in?""It was the robin who showed me the way," she protestedobstinately. "He didn't know he was doing it but he did.   And I can't tell you from here while you're shakingyour fist at me."He stopped shaking his fist very suddenly at that verymoment and his jaw actually dropped as he stared over herhead at something he saw coming over the grass toward him.   At the first sound of his torrent of words Colin hadbeen so surprised that he had only sat up and listenedas if he were spellbound. But in the midst of it hehad recovered himself and beckoned imperiously to Dickon.   "Wheel me over there!" he commanded. "Wheel me quiteclose and stop right in front of him!"And this, if you please, this is what Ben Weatherstaff beheldand which made his jaw drop. A wheeled chair with luxuriouscushions and robes which came toward him looking ratherlike some sort of State Coach because a young Rajah leanedback in it with royal command in his great black-rimmedeyes 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 fixedthemselves on what was before him as if he were seeinga ghost. He gazed and gazed and gulped a lump down histhroat 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 itover his eyes and over his forehead and then he didanswer 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 knowshow tha' come here. But tha'rt th' poor cripple."Colin forgot that he had ever had a back. His faceflushed 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 wallin her fierce indignation. "He's not got a lump as bigas a pin! I looked and there was none there--not one!"Ben Weatherstaff passed his hand over his foreheadagain 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 hecould 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 morehoarsely yet. It was too much. The strength which Colinusually threw into his tantrums rushed through him nowin a new way. Never yet had he been accused of crookedlegs--even in whispers--and the perfectly simple beliefin their existence which was revealed by Ben Weatherstaff'svoice was more than Rajah flesh and blood could endure.   His anger and insulted pride made him forget everythingbut this one moment and filled him with a power he hadnever known before, an almost unnatural strength.   "Come here!" he shouted to Dickon, and he actuallybegan to tear the coverings off his lower limbs anddisentangle himself. "Come here! Come here! This minute!"Dickon was by his side in a second. Mary caught herbreath 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 fastas ever she could.   There was a brief fierce scramble, the rugs were tossedon the ground, Dickon held Colin's arm, the thinlegs were out, the thin feet were on the grass.   Colin was standing upright--upright--as straight as anarrow and looking strangely tall--his head thrown backand 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 asstraight as any lad i' Yorkshire!"What Ben Weatherstaff did Mary thought queer beyond measure.   He choked and gulped and suddenly tears ran down hisweather-wrinkled cheeks as he struck his old hands together.   "Eh!" he burst forth, "th' lies folk tells! Tha'rtas thin as a lath an' as white as a wraith, but there'snot a knob on thee. Tha'lt make a mon yet. God bless thee!"Dickon held Colin's arm strongly but the boy had not begunto falter. He stood straighter and straighter and lookedBen 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 dareto say a word about it! You get down from that ladderand go out to the Long Walk and Miss Mary will meet youand bring you here. I want to talk to you. We did notwant you, but now you will have to be in the secret.   Be quick!"Ben Weatherstaff's crabbed old face was still wet withthat one queer rush of tears. It seemed as if he couldnot take his eyes from thin straight Colin standingon his feet with his head thrown back.   "Eh! lad," he almost whispered. "Eh! my lad!" And thenremembering himself he suddenly touched his hat gardenerfashion and said, "Yes, sir! Yes, sir!" and obedientlydisappeared as he descended the ladder. Chapter 22 Whe 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 grassto the door under the ivy.   Dickon was watching him with sharp eyes. There werescarlet 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 upand 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 Magicas made these 'ere work out o' th' earth," and he touchedwith his thick boot a clump of crocuses in the grass.   Colin looked down at them.   "Aye," he said slowly, "there couldna' be bigger Magicthan that there--there couldna' be."He drew himself up straighter than ever.   "I'm going to walk to that tree," he said, pointing toone a few feet away from him. "I'm going to be standingwhen Weatherstaff comes here. I can rest against the treeif 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 waswonderfully steady. When he stood against the tree trunkit 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 wallhe saw him standing there and he heard Mary mutteringsomething under her breath.   "What art sayin'?" he asked rather testily because hedid not want his attention distracted from the long thinstraight 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 sayingit to Colin because she wanted to make Magic and keephim on his feet looking like that. She could not bearthat he should give in before Ben Weatherstaff.   He did not give in. She was uplifted by a sudden feelingthat he looked quite beautiful in spite of his thinness.   He fixed his eyes on Ben Weatherstaff in his funnyimperious way.   "Look at me!" he commanded. "Look at me all over! Am Ia 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 hisusual 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 lookedhim 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 theeput tha' legs on th' ground in such a hurry I knowed tha'   was all right. Sit thee down on th' rug a bit youngMester an' give me thy orders."There was a queer mixture of crabbed tenderness and shrewdunderstanding in his manner. Mary had poured out speechas 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 gardenwas doing it. No one must let him remember about havinghumps and dying.   The Rajah condescended to seat himself on a rug underthe 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 abouthim too. "She were main fond of it.""It is my garden now. I am fond of it. I shall come hereevery 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 comewhen 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 chinand 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 comethrough th' door. I come over th' wall. Th' rheumatics heldme 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 awayyou 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 easierfor 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 expressioncame into his face and he began to scratch at the earth.   His thin hand was weak enough but presently as they watchedhim--Mary with quite breathless interest--he drove the endof 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 saidnot a word. Ben Weatherstaff looked on with interested face.   Colin persevered. After he had turned a few trowelfulsof soil he spoke exultantly to Dickon in his best Yorkshire.   "Tha' said as tha'd have me walkin' about here sameas other folk--an' tha' said tha'd have me diggin'. Ithowt 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 theea rose in a pot.""Go and get it!" said Colin, digging excitedly.   "Quick! Quick!"It was done quickly enough indeed. Ben Weatherstaff wenthis way forgetting rheumatics. Dickon took his spadeand dug the hole deeper and wider than a new diggerwith thin white hands could make it. Mary slipped outto run and bring back a watering-can. When Dickon haddeepened the hole Colin went on turning the soft earthover and over. He looked up at the sky, flushed andglowing 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 minutesjust on purpose. Ben Weatherstaff brought the rose inits pot from the greenhouse. He hobbled over the grassas 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 hegoes to a new place."The thin white hands shook a little and Colin's flushgrew deeper as he set the rose in the mould and heldit while old Ben made firm the earth. It was filledin and pressed down and made steady. Mary was leaningforward on her hands and knees. Soot had flown downand 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 onlyslipping over the edge. Help me up, Dickon. I wantto be standing when it goes. That's part of the Magic."And Dickon helped him, and the Magic--or whatever itwas--so gave him strength that when the sun did slipover the edge and end the strange lovely afternoonfor them there he actually stood on his two feet--laughing. Chapter 23 Magic Dr. Craven had been waiting some time at the housewhen they returned to it. He had indeed begun to wonderif it might not be wise to send some one out to explorethe garden paths. When Colin was brought back to hisroom the poor man looked him over seriously.   "You should not have stayed so long," he said. "You mustnot 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 inthe 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 Colinquite seriously. "I am going."Even Mary had found out that one of Colin's chief peculiaritieswas that he did not know in the least what a rude littlebrute he was with his way of ordering people about.   He had lived on a sort of desert island all his lifeand as he had been the king of it he had made his ownmanners and had had no one to compare himself with.   Mary had indeed been rather like him herself and since shehad been at Misselthwaite had gradually discovered thather own manners had not been of the kind which is usualor popular. Having made this discovery she naturallythought it of enough interest to communicate to Colin.   So she sat and looked at him curiously for a few minutesafter Dr. Craven had gone. She wanted to make him askher 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 airof some satisfaction. "He won't get Misselthwaiteat 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 veryhorrid to have had to be polite for ten years to a boywho 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 slappingsort of man," said Mary, "he would have slapped you.""But he daren't," said Colin.   "No, he daren't," answered Mistress Mary, thinking thething out quite without prejudice. "Nobody ever daredto do anything you didn't like--because you were goingto die and things like that. You were such a poor thing.""But," announced Colin stubbornly, "I am not goingto 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 youso 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 isBen Weatherstaff. But I am not as queer as I was before Ibegan to like people and before I found the garden.""I don't want to be queer," said Colin. "I am not goingto be," and he frowned again with determination.   He was a very proud boy. He lay thinking for a while andthen Mary saw his beautiful smile begin and graduallychange his whole face.   "I shall stop being queer," he said, "if I go every dayto 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 pretendit is. Something is there--something!""It's Magic," said Mary, "but not black. It's as whiteas snow."They always called it Magic and indeed it seemed like itin the months that followed--the wonderful months--theradiant months--the amazing ones. Oh! the thingswhich happened in that garden! If you have never hada garden you cannot understand, and if you have hada garden you will know that it would take a whole bookto describe all that came to pass there. At first itseemed that green things would never cease pushingtheir way through the earth, in the grass, in the beds,even in the crevices of the walls. Then the green thingsbegan to show buds and the buds began to unfurl andshow color, every shade of blue, every shade of purple,every tint and hue of crimson. In its happy days flowershad been tucked away into every inch and hole and corner.   Ben Weatherstaff had seen it done and had himself scrapedout mortar from between the bricks of the wall and madepockets 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 armiesof the blue and white flower lances of tall delphiniumsor 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 lovedit but she said as th' blue sky allus looked so joyful."The seeds Dickon and Mary had planted grew as if fairieshad tended them. Satiny poppies of all tints danced in thebreeze by the score, gaily defying flowers which had livedin the garden for years and which it might be confessedseemed 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 trunksand hanging from their branches, climbing up the wallsand spreading over them with long garlands fallingin cascades --they came alive day by day, hour by hour.   Fair fresh leaves, and buds--and buds--tiny at first butswelling and working Magic until they burst and uncurledinto cups of scent delicately spilling themselves overtheir 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 daywhen it didn't rain he spent in the garden. Even graydays pleased him. He would lie on the grass "watchingthings 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 insectthings running about on various unknown but evidentlyserious errands, sometimes carrying tiny scraps of strawor feather or food, or climbing blades of grass as if theywere trees from whose tops one could look out to explorethe country. A mole throwing up its mound at the end of itsburrow and making its way out at last with the long-nailedpaws which looked so like elfish hands, had absorbed himone whole morning. Ants' ways, beetles' ways, bees'   ways, frogs' ways, birds' ways, plants' ways, gave hima new world to explore and when Dickon revealed themall 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 thinkover.   And this was not the half of the Magic. The fact that hehad really once stood on his feet had set Colin thinkingtremendously and when Mary told him of the spell shehad 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 islike or how to make it. Perhaps the beginning is just to saynice 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 sentat once for Ben Weatherstaff. Ben came as quickly as hecould and found the Rajah standing on his feet under a treeand looking very grand but also very beautifully smiling.   "Good morning, Ben Weatherstaff," he said. "I want youand Dickon and Miss Mary to stand in a row and listen to mebecause I am going to tell you something very important.""Aye, aye, sir!" answered Ben Weatherstaff, touchinghis forehead. (One of the long concealed charms of BenWeatherstaff was that in his boyhood he had once run awayto 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 scientificdiscoveries 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 greatscientific 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 singularthings and was somehow a very convincing sort of boy.   When he held up his head and fixed his strange eyes on youit seemed as if you believed him almost in spite of yourselfthough he was only ten years old--going on eleven.   At this moment he was especially convincing because hesuddenly felt the fascination of actually making a sortof 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 thingand scarcely any one knows anything about it except a fewpeople in old books--and Mary a little, because she wasborn in India where there are fakirs. I believe Dickonknows some Magic, but perhaps he doesn't know he knows it.   He charms animals and people. I would never have let himcome to see me if he had not been an animal charmer--whichis a boy charmer, too, because a boy is an animal.   I am sure there is Magic in everything, only we have notsense enough to get hold of it and make it do things forus--like electricity and horses and steam."This sounded so imposing that Ben Weatherstaff becamequite 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 thingsup 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 feelvery curious. Scientific people are always curious and Iam going to be scientific. I keep saying to myself,`What is it? What is it?' It's something. It can'tbe nothing! I don't know its name so I call it Magic.   I have never seen the sun rise but Mary and Dickon haveand from what they tell me I am sure that is Magic too.   Something pushes it up and draws it. Sometimes since I'vebeen in the garden I've looked up through the trees atthe sky and I have had a strange feeling of being happyas if something were pushing and drawing in my chestand making me breathe fast. Magic is always pushing anddrawing and making things out of nothing. Everything ismade out of Magic, leaves and trees, flowers and birds,badgers and foxes and squirrels and people. So it mustbe all around us. In this garden--in all the places.   The Magic in this garden has made me stand up and knowI am going to live to be a man. I am going to make thescientific experiment of trying to get some and put itin 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 keepthinking 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 Marykept saying to herself as fast as she could, `You cando it! You can do it!' and I did. I had to try myselfat the same time, of course, but her Magic helped me--andso did Dickon's. Every morning and evening and as oftenin the daytime as I can remember I am going to say,'Magic is in me! Magic is making me well! I am goingto be as strong as Dickon, as strong as Dickon!' And youmust 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 soldiersgo through drill we shall see what will happen and findout if the experiment succeeds. You learn thingsby saying them over and over and thinking about themuntil they stay in your mind forever and I think itwill be the same with Magic. If you keep calling itto come to you and help you it will get to be partof you and it will stay and do things." "I once heardan officer in India tell my mother that there were fakirswho said words over and over thousands of times," said Mary.   "I've heard Jem Fettleworth's wife say th' same thing overthousands o' times--callin' Jem a drunken brute," said BenWeatherstaff 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 somethingnice perhaps he wouldn't have got as drunk as a lord andperhaps--perhaps he might have bought her a new bonnet."Ben Weatherstaff chuckled and there was shrewd admirationin 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 FettleworthI'll give her a bit of a hint o' what Magic will do for her.   She'd be rare an' pleased if th' sinetifik 'sperimentworked --an' so 'ud Jem."Dickon had stood listening to the lecture, his roundeyes shining with curious delight. Nut and Shell wereon his shoulders and he held a long-eared white rabbitin his arm and stroked and stroked it softly while itlaid 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 wonderedwhat Dickon was thinking when he saw him looking at himor 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 recollectionsof fakirs and devotees in illustrations Colin suggestedthat they should all sit cross-legged under the treewhich 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 ofthe Magic." It all seemed most majestic and mysteriouswhen they sat down in their circle. Ben Weatherstafffelt as if he had somehow been led into appearingat a prayer-meeting. Ordinarily he was very fixed inbeing what he called "agen' prayer-meetin's" but thisbeing the Rajah's affair he did not resent it and wasindeed inclined to be gratified at being called uponto assist. Mistress Mary felt solemnly enraptured.   Dickon held his rabbit in his arm, and perhaps he madesome charmer's signal no one heard, for when he sat down,cross-legged like the rest, the crow, the fox, the squirrelsand 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 priestand 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 backwardand 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 HighPriest tone, "but we won't sway until it has done it.   We will only chant.""I canna' do no chantin'" said Ben Weatherstaff atrifle 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 wasthinking only of the Magic.   "Then I will chant," he said. And he began, looking likea strange boy spirit. "The sun is shining--the sunis shining. That is the Magic. The flowers are growing--theroots are stirring. That is the Magic. Being aliveis the Magic--being strong is the Magic. The Magic isin 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 timesbut quite a goodly number. Mary listened entranced.   She felt as if it were at once queer and beautiful and shewanted him to go on and on. Ben Weatherstaff began to feelsoothed into a sort of dream which was quite agreeable.   The humming of the bees in the blossoms mingled withthe chanting voice and drowsily melted into a doze.   Dickon sat cross-legged with his rabbit asleepon his arm and a hand resting on the lamb's back.   Soot had pushed away a squirrel and huddled close to himon 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 helifted it with a jerk.   "You have been asleep," said Colin.   "Nowt o' th' sort," mumbled Ben. "Th' sermon was goodenow--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 Iwere? I heard every bit of it. You said th' Magic wasin 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 comeback 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 entirefaith in Magic he had made up his mind that if he were sentaway he would climb his ladder and look over the wallso that he might be ready to hobble back if there wereany stumbling.   The Rajah did not object to his staying and so the processionwas formed. It really did look like a procession.   Colin was at its head with Dickon on one side andMary on the other. Ben Weatherstaff walked behind,and the "creatures" trailed after them, the lamb andthe fox cub keeping close to Dickon, the white rabbithopping along or stopping to nibble and Soot followingwith 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'sarm and privately Ben Weatherstaff kept a sharp lookout,but now and then Colin took his hand from its supportand walked a few steps alone. His head was held up allthe time and he looked very grand.   "The Magic is in me!" he kept saying. "The Magicis making me strong! I can feel it! I can feel it!"It seemed very certain that something was upholdingand uplifting him. He sat on the seats in the alcoves,and once or twice he sat down on the grass and severaltimes he paused in the path and leaned on Dickon, but hewould not give up until he had gone all round the garden.   When he returned to the canopy tree his cheeks were flushedand he looked triumphant.   "I did it! The Magic worked!" he cried. "That is myfirst scientific discovery.".   "What will Dr. Craven say?" broke out Mary.   "He won't say anything," Colin answered, "because he willnot be told. This is to be the biggest secret of all.   No one is to know anything about it until I have grownso strong that I can walk and run like any other boy.   I shall come here every day in my chair and I shall betaken back in it. I won't have people whispering andasking questions and I won't let my father hear about ituntil the experiment has quite succeeded. Then sometimewhen he comes back to Misselthwaite I shall just walk intohis 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 beendone by a scientific experiment.'""He will think he is in a dream," cried Mary. "He won'tbelieve his eyes."Colin flushed triumphantly. He had made himself believethat he was going to get well, which was really morethan half the battle, if he had been aware of it.   And the thought which stimulated him more than any otherwas this imagining what his father would look like when hesaw that he had a son who was as straight and strong asother fathers' sons. One of his darkest miseries in theunhealthy morbid past days had been his hatred of beinga 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 Magicworks 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 hisforehead in salute. "I ought to have seed it wasn'ta jokin' matter," but his eyes twinkled and secretly hewas immensely pleased. He really did not mind beingsnubbed since the snubbing meant that the lad was gainingstrength and spirit. Chapter 24 "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 groundenclosed by a low wall of rough stones. Early in the morningand late in the fading twilight and on all the days Colinand Mary did not see him, Dickon worked there plantingor tending potatoes and cabbages, turnips and carrots andherbs 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 sangbits of Yorkshire moor songs or talked to Soot or Captainor 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 oneelse's an' they've got a flavor with 'em as nobody's has."When she found a moment to spare she liked to go outand talk to him. After supper there was still a longclear twilight to work in and that was her quiet time.   She could sit upon the low rough wall and look onand 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 nowand then and sown bright sweet-scented things amonggooseberry bushes and even cabbages and he grew bordersof mignonette and pinks and pansies and things whoseseeds he could save year after year or whose roots wouldbloom each spring and spread in time into fine clumps.   The low wall was one of the prettiest things in Yorkshirebecause he had tucked moorland foxglove and ferns androck-cress and hedgerow flowers into every crevice untilonly 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 feelas if I'd been a bad lad and somehow treated them heartless."It was in these twilight hours that Mrs. Sowerby heard of allthat happened at Misselthwaite Manor. At first she was onlytold that "Mester Colin" had taken a fancy to going out intothe grounds with Miss Mary and that it was doing him good.   But it was not long before it was agreed between the twochildren 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 therobin and the gray haze which had seemed like deadnessand 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 hisintroduction to the hidden domain, combined with theincident of Ben Weatherstaff's angry face peering overthe wall and Mester Colin's sudden indignant strength,made Mrs. Sowerby's nice-looking face quite change colorseveral times.   "My word!" she said. "It was a good thing that littlelass 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 werefull 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'tknow what to make of it," answered Dickon. "Every dayas 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 highlyentertained 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 onhis 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 daytill his father comes back an' then he's goin' to marchinto his room an' show him he's as straight as other lads.   But him an' Miss Mary thinks it's best plan to do abit o' groanin' an' frettin' now an' then to throw folkoff th' scent."Mrs. Sowerby was laughing a low comfortable laugh longbefore 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 whatthey do, Dickon lad." Dickon stopped weeding and satup on his heels to tell her. His eyes were twinkling with fun.   "Mester Colin is carried down to his chair every timehe goes out," he explained. "An' he flies out at John,th' footman, for not carryin' him careful enough. He makeshimself as helpless lookin' as he can an' never lifts his headuntil 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 hegroans an' complains she'll say, `Poor Colin! Does it hurtyou 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 laughtill they've no breath left to laugh with. An' they haveto stuff their faces into Mester Colin's cushions to keepthe 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'sbetter than pills any day o' th' year. That pair'llplump up for sure.""They are plumpin' up," said Dickon. "They're that hungrythey don't know how to get enough to eat without makin'   talk. Mester Colin says if he keeps sendin' for more foodthey won't believe he's an invalid at all. Miss Mary saysshe'll let him eat her share, but he says that if shegoes hungry she'll get thin an' they mun both get fat at once."Mrs. Sowerby laughed so heartily at the revelation of thisdifficulty that she quite rocked backward and forwardin her blue cloak, and Dickon laughed with her.   "I'll tell thee what, lad," Mrs. Sowerby said when shecould 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 orsome buns wi' currants in 'em, same as you children like.   Nothin's so good as fresh milk an' bread. Then they couldtake off th' edge o' their hunger while they were in theirgarden an' th, fine food they get indoors 'ud polishoff th' corners.""Eh! mother!" said Dickon admiringly, "what a wonder tha'   art! Tha' always sees a way out o' things. They wasquite in a pother yesterday. They didn't see how theywas to manage without orderin' up more food--they feltthat empty inside.""They're two young 'uns growin' fast, an' health's comin'   back to both of 'em. Children like that feels likeyoung wolves an' food's flesh an' blood to 'em," saidMrs. 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 mothercreature--and she had never been more so than when she saidtheir "play actin'" would be their joy. Colin and Mary foundit one of their most thrilling sources of entertainment.   The idea of protecting themselves from suspicion had beenunconsciously suggested to them first by the puzzlednurse 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 seeingthe nurse looking at him curiously he suddenly rememberedthat 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 witha mystified expression. "But I must talk to Dr. Cravenabout 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 camethat morning he seemed puzzled, also. He asked a numberof 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 indifferenceto 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 keepout 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 hasdone you harm--I do not think so. The nurse saysthat 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 yourcolor is better.""Perhaps--perhaps I am bloated and feverish," said Colin,assuming a discouraging air of gloom. "People who arenot going to live are often--different." Dr. Craven shookhis head. He was holding Colin's wrist and he pushed uphis sleeve and felt his arm.   "You are not feverish," he said thoughtfully, "and suchflesh as you have gained is healthy. If you can keepthis up, my boy, we need not talk of dying. Your fatherwill 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 Imay 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 beingtalked over as much as I hate being stared at!""Hush-h! my boy," Dr. Craven soothed him. "Nothing shallbe written without your permission. You are too sensitiveabout things. You must not undo the good which hasbeen done."He said no more about writing to Mr. Craven and when he sawthe nurse he privately warned her that such a possibilitymust not be mentioned to the patient.   "The boy is extraordinarily better," he said.   "His advance seems almost abnormal. But of course heis doing now of his own free will what we could not makehim do before. Still, he excites himself very easilyand nothing must be said to irritate him." Mary andColin 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 enoughnow to work myself into a big one. Perhaps I couldn't haveone at all. That lump doesn't come in my throat now and Ikeep thinking of nice things instead of horrible ones.   But if they talk about writing to my father I shall haveto do something."He made up his mind to eat less, but unfortunately itwas not possible to carry out this brilliant idea when hewakened each morning with an amazing appetite and thetable near his sofa was set with a breakfast of home-madebread and fresh butter, snow-white eggs, raspberry jamand clotted cream. Mary always breakfasted with himand when they found themselves at the table--particularlyif there were delicate slices of sizzling ham sendingforth tempting odors from under a hot silver cover--theywould 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 sendaway some of the lunch and a great deal of the dinner."But they never found they could send away anythingand the highly polished condition of the empty platesreturned to the pantry awakened much comment.   "I do wish," Colin would say also, "I do wish the slicesof ham were thicker, and one muffin each is not enoughfor any one.""It's enough for a person who is going to die," answered Marywhen first she heard this, "but it's not enough for aperson who is going to live. I sometimes feel as if Icould eat three when those nice fresh heather and gorsesmells from the moor come pouring in at the open window."The morning that Dickon--after they had been enjoyingthemselves in the garden for about two hours--wentbehind a big rosebush and brought forth two tin pailsand revealed that one was full of rich new milk with creamon the top of it, and that the other held cottage-madecurrant 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 wonderfulthing for Mrs. Sowerby to think of! What a kind,clever woman she must be! How good the buns were! Andwhat 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 rathergrown-up phrases at times. He enjoyed them. He liked thisso much that he improved upon it.   "Tell her she has been most bounteous and our gratitudeis extreme."And then forgetting his grandeur he fell to and stuffedhimself with buns and drank milk out of the pail in copiousdraughts in the manner of any hungry little boy who hadbeen taking unusual exercise and breathing in moorlandair and whose breakfast was more than two hours behind him.   This was the beginning of many agreeable incidents of thesame kind. They actually awoke to the fact that as Mrs. Sowerbyhad fourteen people to provide food for she might not haveenough to satisfy two extra appetites every day. So theyasked her to let them send some of their shillings to buy things.   Dickon made the stimulating discovery that in the woodin the park outside the garden where Mary had firstfound him piping to the wild creatures there was a deeplittle hollow where you could build a sort of tinyoven with stones and roast potatoes and eggs in it.   Roasted eggs were a previously unknown luxury and very hotpotatoes with salt and fresh butter in them were fit fora woodland king --besides being deliciously satisfying.   You could buy both potatoes and eggs and eat as manyas you liked without feeling as if you were taking foodout of the mouths of fourteen people.   Every beautiful morning the Magic was worked by the mysticcircle under the plum-tree which provided a canopyof thickening green leaves after its brief blossom-timewas ended. After the ceremony Colin always took his walkingexercise and throughout the day he exercised his newlyfound power at intervals. Each day he grew strongerand could walk more steadily and cover more ground.   And each day his belief in the Magic grew stronger--aswell it might. He tried one experiment after anotheras he felt himself gaining strength and it was Dickonwho 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 Iseed Bob Haworth. He's the strongest chap on th' moor.   He's the champion wrestler an' he can jump higher than anyother chap an' throw th' hammer farther. He's gone all th'   way to Scotland for th' sports some years. He's knowed meever since I was a little 'un an' he's a friendly sort an'   I axed him some questions. Th' gentry calls him a athleteand 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 cameto Thwaite once showed me how to exercise my arms an'   legs an' every muscle in my body. An' I says, `Could adelicate 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 imitatedwhat 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 acarefully practical but simple series of muscle exercises.   Colin watched them with widening eyes. He could do a fewwhile he was sitting down. Presently he did a few gentlywhile he stood upon his already steadied feet. Mary beganto do them also. Soot, who was watching the performance,became much disturbed and left his branch and hoppedabout restlessly because he could not do them too.   From that time the exercises were part of the day's dutiesas much as the Magic was. It became possible for bothColin and Mary to do more of them each time they tried,and such appetites were the results that but for the basketDickon put down behind the bush each morning when hearrived they would have been lost. But the little ovenin the hollow and Mrs. Sowerby's bounties were so satisfyingthat Mrs. Medlock and the nurse and Dr. Craven becamemystified again. You can trifle with your breakfast andseem to disdain your dinner if you are full to the brimwith roasted eggs and potatoes and richly frothed newmilk 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 persuadedto take some nourishment. And yet see how they look.""Look!" exclaimed Mrs. Medlock indignantly. "Eh! I'm moitheredto death with them. They're a pair of young Satans.   Bursting their jackets one day and the next turning uptheir noses at the best meals Cook can tempt them with.   Not a mouthful of that lovely young fowl and bread saucedid they set a fork into yesterday--and the poor womanfair invented a pudding for them--and back it's sent.   She almost cried. She's afraid she'll be blamed if theystarve themselves into their graves."Dr. Craven came and looked at Colin long and carefully,He wore an extremely worried expression when the nursetalked with him and showed him the almost untouchedtray of breakfast she had saved for him to look at--butit was even more worried when he sat down by Colin'ssofa and examined him. He had been called to London onbusiness 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 showedthrough it; his beautiful eyes were clear and the hollowsunder them and in his cheeks and temples had filled out.   His once dark, heavy locks had begun to look as if theysprang healthily from his forehead and were soft and warmwith life. His lips were fuller and of a normal color.   In fact as an imitation of a boy who was a confirmed invalidhe was a disgraceful sight. Dr. Craven held his chin in hishand and thought him over.   "I am sorry to hear that you do not eat any- thing,"he said. "That will not do. You will lose all you havegained --and you have gained amazingly. You ate so wella short time ago.""I told you it was an unnatural appetite," answered Colin.   Mary was sitting on her stool nearby and she suddenlymade a very queer sound which she tried so violentlyto repress that she ended by almost choking.   "What is the matter?" said Dr. Craven, turning to lookat her.   Mary became quite severe in her manner.   "It was something between a sneeze and a cough," she repliedwith 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 helpremembering that last big potato you ate and the wayyour mouth stretched when you bit through that thicklovely crust with jam and clotted cream on it.""Is there any way in which those children can getfood secretly?" Dr. Craven inquired of Mrs. Medlock.   "There's no way unless they dig it out of the earth or pickit off the trees," Mrs. Medlock answered. "They stayout in the grounds all day and see no one but each other.   And if they want anything different to eat from what'ssent up to them they need only ask for it.""Well," said Dr. Craven, "so long as going withoutfood 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 bedownright pretty since she's filled out and lost her uglylittle sour look. Her hair's grown thick and healthylooking and she's got a bright color. The glummest,ill-natured little thing she used to be and now her and MasterColin 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 25 The Curtain And the secret garden bloomed and bloomed and everymorning revealed new miracles. In the robin's nest therewere Eggs and the robin's mate sat upon them keeping themwarm with her feathery little breast and careful wings.   At first she was very nervous and the robin himselfwas indignantly watchful. Even Dickon did not gonear the close-grown corner in those days, but waiteduntil by the quiet working of some mysterious spell heseemed to have conveyed to the soul of the little pairthat in the garden there was nothing which was not quitelike themselves--nothing which did not understand thewonderfulness of what was happening to them--the immense,tender, terrible, heart-breaking beauty and solemnityof Eggs. If there had been one person in that gardenwho had not known through all his or her innermost beingthat if an Egg were taken away or hurt the whole worldwould whirl round and crash through space and come toan end--if there had been even one who did not feel itand act accordingly there could have been no happinesseven in that golden springtime air. But they all knewit 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 Dickonhe knew he was not a stranger but a sort of robin withoutbeak or feathers. He could speak robin (which is a quitedistinct language not to be mistaken for any other). To speakrobin to a robin is like speaking French to a Frenchman.   Dickon always spoke it to the robin himself, so the queergibberish he used when he spoke to humans did not matterin the least. The robin thought he spoke this gibberishto them because they were not intelligent enough tounderstand feathered speech. His movements also were robin.   They never startled one by being sudden enough to seemdangerous or threatening. Any robin could understand Dickon,so his presence was not even disturbing.   But at the outset it seemed necessary to be on guardagainst the other two. In the first place the boycreature did not come into the garden on his legs.   He was pushed in on a thing with wheels and the skinsof wild animals were thrown over him. That in itselfwas doubtful. Then when he began to stand up and moveabout he did it in a queer unaccustomed way and theothers seemed to have to help him. The robin usedto 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 waspreparing to pounce, as cats do. When cats are preparingto pounce they creep over the ground very slowly.   The robin talked this over with his mate a great dealfor a few days but after that he decided not to speakof the subject because her terror was so great that hewas afraid it might be injurious to the Eggs.   When the boy began to walk by himself and even to move morequickly it was an immense relief. But for a long time--or itseemed a long time to the robin--he was a source of some anxiety.   He did not act as the other humans did. He seemed veryfond of walking but he had a way of sitting or lying downfor a while and then getting up in a disconcerting manner tobegin again.   One day the robin remembered that when he himself hadbeen made to learn to fly by his parents he had donemuch the same sort of thing. He had taken short flightsof a few yards and then had been obliged to rest.   So it occurred to him that this boy was learning to fly--orrather to walk. He mentioned this to his mate and when hetold her that the Eggs would probably conduct themselvesin the same way after they were fledged she was quitecomforted and even became eagerly interested and derivedgreat pleasure from watching the boy over the edge of hernest--though she always thought that the Eggs would bemuch cleverer and learn more quickly. But then she saidindulgently that humans were always more clumsy and slowthan Eggs and most of them never seemed really to learnto 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 legsand heads about in a way which was neither walking norrunning nor sitting down. They went through these movementsat intervals every day and the robin was never able toexplain to his mate what they were doing or tying to do.   He could only say that he was sure that the Eggs wouldnever flap about in such a manner; but as the boy who couldspeak robin so fluently was doing the thing with them,birds could be quite sure that the actions were notof a dangerous nature. Of course neither the robinnor his mate had ever heard of the champion wrestler,Bob Haworth, and his exercises for making the musclesstand out like lumps. Robins are not like human beings;their muscles are always exercised from the firstand 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 wastedaway through want of use).   When the boy was walking and running about and diggingand weeding like the others, the nest in the corner wasbrooded over by a great peace and content. Fears forthe Eggs became things of the past. Knowing that yourEggs were as safe as if they were locked in a bank vaultand the fact that you could watch so many curious thingsgoing on made setting a most entertaining occupation.   On wet days the Eggs' mother sometimes felt even a littledull because the children did not come into the garden.   But even on wet days it could not be said that Mary andColin were dull. One morning when the rain streamed downunceasingly and Colin was beginning to feel a little restive,as he was obliged to remain on his sofa because it wasnot safe to get up and walk about, Mary had an inspiration.   "Now that I am a real boy," Colin had said, "my legs and armsand all my body are so full of Magic that I can't keepthem 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 shoutingoutside and everything seems just shouting for joy--eventhe trees and things we can't really hear--I feel as if Imust 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 wouldcome running and they would be sure you had gone crazyand they'd send for the doctor," she said.   Colin giggled himself. He could see how they wouldall look--how horrified by his outbreak and how amazedto see him standing upright.   "I wish my father would come home," he said. "I wantto tell him myself. I'm always thinking about it--but wecouldn't go on like this much longer. I can't stand lyingstill 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 manyrooms 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 atthe end of your corridor. That was the second time Iheard you crying."Colin started up on his sofa.   "A hundred rooms no one goes into," he said. "It soundsalmost 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 dareto follow us. There are galleries where you could run.   We could do our exercises. There is a little Indianroom 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 goingto look at the part of the house which is not used.   John can push me as far as the picture-gallery because thereare some stairs. Then he must go away and leave us aloneuntil I send for him again."Rainy days lost their terrors that morning. When thefootman had wheeled the chair into the picture-galleryand left the two together in obedience to orders,Colin and Mary looked at each other delighted. As soonas Mary had made sure that John was really on his way backto 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 willdo Bob Haworth's exercises."And they did all these things and many others. They lookedat the portraits and found the plain little girl dressedin 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 looksrather like you, Mary--not as you look now but as youlooked when you came here. Now you are a great dealfatter and better looking.""So are you," said Mary, and they both laughed.   They went to the Indian room and amused themselves withthe ivory elephants. They found the rose-colored brocadeboudoir 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 Maryhad made on her first pilgrimage. They found new corridorsand corners and flights of steps and new old pictures theyliked and weird old things they did not know the use of.   It was a curiously entertaining morning and the feelingof wandering about in the same house with other peoplebut at the same time feeling as if one were miles awayfrom them was a fascinating thing.   "I'm glad we came," Colin said. "I never knew Ilived in such a big queer old place. I like it.   We will ramble about every rainy day. We shall alwaysbe finding new queer corners and things."That morning they had found among other things suchgood appetites that when they returned to Colin's roomit was not possible to send the luncheon away untouched.   When the nurse carried the tray down-stairs she slapped itdown 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 strongyoung footman John, "there'd be small wonder that heweighs twice as much to-day as he did a month ago.   I should have to give up my place in time, for fearof doing my muscles an injury."That afternoon Mary noticed that something new had happenedin Colin's room. She had noticed it the day before buthad said nothing because she thought the change mighthave been made by chance. She said nothing today but shesat 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 whenyou want me to tell you something. You are wondering whythe 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 agoand felt as if the Magic was filling the room and makingeverything so splendid that I couldn't lie still.   I got up and looked out of the window. The room was quitelight and there was a patch of moonlight on the curtainand somehow that made me go and pull the cord. She lookedright down at me as if she were laughing because she was gladI 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 Ithink perhaps you are her ghost made into a boy."That idea seemed to impress Colin. He thought it overand 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 hegrew fond of me I think I should tell him about the Magic.   It might make him more cheerful." Chapter 26 "IT'S MOTHER!" Their belief in the Magic was an abiding thing.   After the morning's incantations Colin sometimes gavethem Magic lectures.   "I like to do it," he explained, "because when I growup and make great scientific discoveries I shall beobliged 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 inchurch and he would go to sleep.""Th' best thing about lecturin'," said Ben, "is that a chap canget up an' say aught he pleases an' no other chap can answerhim back. I wouldn't be agen' lecturin' a bit mysel' sometimes."But when Colin held forth under his tree old Ben fixeddevouring eyes on him and kept them there. He lookedhim over with critical affection. It was not so muchthe lecture which interested him as the legs which lookedstraighter and stronger each day, the boyish head which helditself up so well, the once sharp chin and hollow cheekswhich had filled and rounded out and the eyes which hadbegun to hold the light he remembered in another pair.   Sometimes when Colin felt Ben's earnest gaze meant that hewas much impressed he wondered what he was reflecting onand 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 theeon a pair o' scales.""It's the Magic and--and Mrs. Sowerby's buns and milkand things," said Colin. "You see the scientificexperiment has succeeded."That morning Dickon was too late to hear the lecture.   When he came he was ruddy with running and his funny facelooked more twinkling than usual. As they had a good dealof 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 goodfor the weeds which thrust up tiny blades of grass and pointsof leaves which must be pulled up before their roots tooktoo firm hold. Colin was as good at weeding as any onein these days and he could lecture while he was doing it.   "The Magic works best when you work, yourself," he saidthis morning. "You can feel it in your bones and muscles.   I am going to read books about bones and muscles, but I amgoing 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 helaid down his trowel and stood up on his feet.   He had been silent for several minutes and they had seenthat he was thinking out lectures, as he often did.   When he dropped his trowel and stood upright it seemedto Mary and Dickon as if a sudden strong thought had madehim do it. He stretched himself out to his tallest heightand he threw out his arms exultantly. Color glowed inhis 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 animalcharmer he could see more things than most people couldand 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 rememberedit myself--when I looked at my hand digging with thetrowel--and I had to stand up on my feet to see if itwas 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 wentquite red all over.   He had known it before in a way, he had hoped it and feltit and thought about it, but just at that minute somethinghad rushed all through him--a sort of rapturous beliefand realization and it had been so strong that he couldnot 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 everythingthat 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 shoutout 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 hisdryest grunt. He had no opinion of the Doxology and hedid not make the suggestion with any particular reverence.   But Colin was of an exploring mind and he knew nothingabout 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 shebelieves 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 hedid not know it was understanding. He pulled off his capand 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 histhick hair as he watched Dickon intently. Ben Weatherstaffscrambled up from his knees and bared his head too witha sort of puzzled half-resentful look on his old faceas if he didn't know exactly why he was doing this remarkablething.   Dickon stood out among the trees and rose-bushesand began to sing in quite a simple matter-of-factway 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 standingquite still with his jaws set obstinately but with adisturbed look in his eyes fixed on Colin. Colin's facewas thoughtful and appreciative.   "It is a very nice song," he said. "I like it. Perhaps itmeans just what I mean when I want to shout out that I amthankful to the Magic." He stopped and thought in a puzzled way.   "Perhaps they are both the same thing. How can we knowthe 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 theirvoices as musically as they could and Dickon's swelled quiteloud and beautiful--and at the second line Ben Weatherstaffraspingly cleared his throat and at the third line he joinedin with such vigor that it seemed almost savage and whenthe "Amen" came to an end Mary observed that the very samething had happened to him which had happened when he foundout that Colin was not a cripple--his chin was twitchingand he was staring and winking and his leathery old cheeks werewet.   "I never seed no sense in th' Doxology afore," he said hoarsely,"but I may change my mind i' time. I should say tha'dgone up five pound this week Mester Colin--five on 'em!"Colin was looking across the garden at something attractinghis 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 openand a woman had entered. She had come in with the lastline of their song and she had stood still listening andlooking at them. With the ivy behind her, the sunlightdrifting through the trees and dappling her long blue cloak,and her nice fresh face smiling across the greeneryshe was rather like a softly colored illustration inone of Colin's books. She had wonderful affectionateeyes which seemed to take everything in--all of them,even Ben Weatherstaff and the "creatures" and every flowerthat 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 acrossthe 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 royalshyness 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 wantedto see any one or anything before."The sight of his uplifted face brought about a suddenchange in her own. She flushed and the corners of hermouth 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 didnot say, "Mester Colin," but just "dear lad" quite suddenly.   She might have said it to Dickon in the same way if shehad 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 mistout of her eyes. "Aye, that I am!" she said; "but tha'rtso like thy mother tha' made my heart jump.""Do you think," said Colin a little awkwardly, "that willmake my father like me?""Aye, for sure, dear lad," she answered and she gavehis shoulder a soft quick pat. "He mun come home--hemun come home.""Susan Sowerby," said Ben Weatherstaff, getting closeto her. "Look at th' lad's legs, wilt tha'? They waslike drumsticks i' stockin' two month' ago--an' I heardfolk 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 lookedher little face over in a motherly fashion.   "An' thee, too!" she said. "Tha'rt grown near as heartyas our 'Lisabeth Ellen. I'll warrant tha'rt like thymother too. Our Martha told me as Mrs. Medlock heard shewas 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 saidthat she had no confidence whatever in what Mrs. Medlockhad heard. "It doesn't stand to reason that a prettywoman could be th' mother o' such a fou' little lass,"she had added obstinately.   Mary had not had time to pay much attention to herchanging face. She had only known that she looked"different" and seemed to have a great deal more hairand that it was growing very fast. But rememberingher pleasure in looking at the Mem Sahib in the pastshe was glad to hear that she might some day look like her.   Susan Sowerby went round their garden with them and wastold the whole story of it and shown every bush and treewhich had come alive. Colin walked on one side of herand Mary on the other. Each of them kept looking upat her comfortable rosy face, secretly curious aboutthe delightful feeling she gave them--a sort of warm,supported feeling. It seemed as if she understood themas Dickon understood his "creatures." She stooped over theflowers and talked about them as if they were children.   Soot followed her and once or twice cawed at her and flewupon her shoulder as if it were Dickon's. When they toldher about the robin and the first flight of the young onesshe 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 allin a worrit if mine had wings instead o' legs," she said.   It was because she seemed such a wonderful woman in hernice moorland cottage way that at last she was toldabout the Magic.   "Do you believe in Magic?" asked Colin after he hadexplained about Indian fakirs. "I do hope you do.""That I do, lad," she answered. "I never knowed it bythat name but what does th' name matter? I warrant theycall 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 iscalled out of our names. Th' Big Good Thing doesn't stopto 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 Icome into th' garden.""I felt so joyful," said Colin, opening his beautifulstrange eyes at her. "Suddenly I felt how different Iwas--how strong my arms and legs were, you know--andhow I could dig and stand--and I jumped up and wantedto 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 softpat again.   She had packed a basket which held a regular feastthis morning, and when the hungry hour came and Dickonbrought it out from its hiding place, she sat down withthem under their tree and watched them devour their food,laughing and quite gloating over their appetites. She wasfull of fun and made them laugh at all sorts of odd things.   She told them stories in broad Yorkshire and taught themnew words. She laughed as if she could not help itwhen they told her of the in- creasing difficulty therewas in pretending that Colin was still a fretful invalid.   "You see we can't help laughing nearly all the timewhen we are together," explained Colin. "And itdoesn't sound ill at all. We try to choke it backbut 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 thinkof it suddenly. I keep thinking suppose Colin's faceshould get to look like a full moon. It isn't like oneyet but he gets a tiny bit fatter every day--and supposesome 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 keepit 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 foundout 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 Ijust want to run into his room." "That'd be a finestart for him," said Susan Sowerby. "I'd like to seehis face, lad. I would that! He mun come back --thathe mun."One of the things they talked of was the visit theywere to make to her cottage. They planned it all.   They were to drive over the moor and lunch out of doorsamong the heather. They would see all the twelve childrenand Dickon's garden and would not come back until theywere tired.   Susan Sowerby got up at last to return to the houseand Mrs. Medlock. It was time for Colin to be wheeledback also. But before he got into his chair he stoodquite close to Susan and fixed his eyes on her with akind of bewildered adoration and he suddenly caughthold of the fold of her blue cloak and held it fast.   "You are just what I--what I wanted," he said. "I wishyou were my mother--as well as Dickon's!"All at once Susan Sowerby bent down and drew himwith her warm arms close against the bosom underthe 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 'erevery garden, I do believe. She couldna' keep out of it.   Thy father mun come back to thee--he mun!" Chapter 27 In The Garden In each century since the beginning of the world wonderfulthings have been discovered. In the last century moreamazing things were found out than in any century before.   In this new century hundreds of things still moreastounding will be brought to light. At first peoplerefuse to believe that a strange new thing can be done,then they begin to hope it can be done, then they see itcan be done--then it is done and all the world wonderswhy it was not done centuries ago. One of the new thingspeople began to find out in the last century was thatthoughts--just mere thoughts--are as powerful as electricbatteries--as good for one as sunlight is, or as badfor one as poison. To let a sad thought or a bad one getinto your mind is as dangerous as letting a scarlet fevergerm get into your body. If you let it stay there afterit has got in you may never get over it as long as you live.   So long as Mistress Mary's mind was full of disagreeablethoughts about her dislikes and sour opinions of peopleand her determination not to be pleased by or interestedin anything, she was a yellow-faced, sickly, bored andwretched child. Circumstances, however, were verykind to her, though she was not at all aware of it.   They began to push her about for her own good. When hermind gradually filled itself with robins, and moorlandcottages crowded with children, with queer crabbedold gardeners and common little Yorkshire housemaids,with springtime and with secret gardens coming alive dayby day, and also with a moor boy and his "creatures," therewas no room left for the disagreeable thoughts which affectedher liver and her digestion and made her yellow and tired.   So long as Colin shut himself up in his room and thoughtonly of his fears and weakness and his detestationof people who looked at him and reflected hourly onhumps and early death, he was a hysterical half-crazylittle hypochondriac who knew nothing of the sunshineand the spring and also did not know that he could getwell and could stand upon his feet if he tried to do it.   When new beautiful thoughts began to push out the oldhideous ones, life began to come back to him, his blood ranhealthily through his veins and strength poured into himlike a flood. His scientific experiment was quite practicaland 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 outby 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 childrenwere coming alive with it, there was a man wandering aboutcertain far-away beautiful places in the Norwegian fiordsand the valleys and mountains of Switzerland and he wasa man who for ten years had kept his mind filled with darkand heart-broken thinking. He had not been courageous;he had never tried to put any other thoughts in the place ofthe dark ones. He had wandered by blue lakes and thought them;he had lain on mountain-sides with sheets of deep bluegentians blooming all about him and flower breaths fillingall the air and he had thought them. A terrible sorrowhad fallen upon him when he had been happy and he hadlet his soul fill itself with blackness and had refusedobstinately 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 thatthe sight of him was a wrong done to other people becauseit was as if he poisoned the air about him with gloom.   Most strangers thought he must be either half mad or a manwith some hidden crime on his soul. He, was a tall manwith a drawn face and crooked shoulders and the name healways entered on hotel registers was, "Archibald Craven,Misselthwaite Manor, Yorkshire, England."He had traveled far and wide since the day he saw MistressMary in his study and told her she might have her "bitof 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 werein the clouds and had looked down on other mountainswhen the sun rose and touched them with such lightas made it seem as if the world were just being born.   But the light had never seemed to touch himself untilone day when he realized that for the first time in tenyears a strange thing had happened. He was in a wonderfulvalley in the Austrian Tyrol and he had been walking alonethrough such beauty as might have lifted, any man's soulout of shadow. He had walked a long way and it had notlifted his. But at last he had felt tired and had thrownhimself down to rest on a carpet of moss by a stream.   It was a clear little stream which ran quite merrily alongon its narrow way through the luscious damp greenness.   Sometimes it made a sound rather like very low laughteras it bubbled over and round stones. He saw birdscome and dip their heads to drink in it and then flicktheir wings and fly away. It seemed like a thing aliveand 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 bodyboth 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 beganto see things growing at its edge. There was one lovelymass of blue forget-me-nots growing so close to the streamthat its leaves were wet and at these he found himself lookingas he remembered he had looked at such things years ago.   He was actually thinking tenderly how lovely it was andwhat wonders of blue its hundreds of little blossoms were.   He did not know that just that simple thought was slowlyfilling his mind--filling and filling it until other thingswere softly pushed aside. It was as if a sweet clearspring had begun to rise in a stagnant pool and had risenand risen until at last it swept the dark water away.   But of course he did not think of this himself. He onlyknew that the valley seemed to grow quieter and quieteras he sat and stared at the bright delicate blueness.   He did not know how long he sat there or what was happeningto him, but at last he moved as if he were awakeningand 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 passedhis hand over his forehead. "I almost feel as if--Iwere alive!"I do not know enough about the wonderfulness of undiscoveredthings to be able to explain how this had happened to him.   Neither does any one else yet. He did not understandat all himself--but he remembered this strange hourmonths afterward when he was at Misselthwaite againand he found out quite by accident that on this very dayColin 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 theevening and he slept a new reposeful sleep; but it wasnot with him very long. He did not know that it couldbe kept. By the next night he had opened the doorswide to his dark thoughts and they had come troopingand rushing back. He left the valley and went on hiswandering way again. But, strange as it seemed to him,there were minutes--sometimes half-hours--when, withouthis knowing why, the black burden seemed to lift itselfagain 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 hewent to the Lake of Como. There he found the lovelinessof a dream. He spent his days upon the crystal bluenessof the lake or he walked back into the soft thick verdureof the hills and tramped until he was tired so that hemight 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 rarepeaceful hours when his thoughts were changed--his soulwas slowly growing stronger, too. He began to thinkof Misselthwaite and wonder if he should not go home.   Now and then he wondered vaguely about his boy and askedhimself what he should feel when he went and stoodby the carved four-posted bed again and looked down atthe 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 hereturned the moon was high and full and all the worldwas purple shadow and silver. The stillness of lakeand shore and wood was so wonderful that he did not gointo the villa he lived in. He walked down to a littlebowered terrace at the water's edge and sat upon a seatand breathed in all the heavenly scents of the night.   He felt the strange calmness stealing over him and it grewdeeper and deeper until he fell asleep.   He did not know when he fell asleep and when he beganto dream; his dream was so real that he did not feelas if he were dreaming. He remembered afterward howintensely wide awake and alert he had thought he was.   He thought that as he sat and breathed in the scent ofthe late roses and listened to the lapping of the waterat his feet he heard a voice calling. It was sweetand clear and happy and far away. It seemed very far,but he heard it as distinctly as if it had been at hisvery 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 heshould hear it.   "Lilias! Lilias!" he answered. "Lilias! where are you?""In the garden," it came back like a sound froma 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 aservant was standing staring at him. He was an Italianservant and was accustomed, as all the servants of thevilla were, to accepting without question any strange thinghis foreign master might do. No one ever knew when hewould go out or come in or where he would choose to sleepor if he would roam about the garden or lie in the boaton the lake all night. The man held a salver with someletters on it and he waited quietly until Mr. Craventook them. When he had gone away Mr. Craven sat a fewmoments holding them in his hand and looking at the lake.   His strange calm was still upon him and something more--alightness as if the cruel thing which had been done hadnot 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 thegarden! But the door is locked and the key is buried deep."When he glanced at the letters a few minutes later hesaw that the one lying at the top of the rest was anEnglish letter and came from Yorkshire. It was directedin a plain woman's hand but it was not a hand he knew.   He opened it, scarcely thinking of the writer, but thefirst words attracted his attention at once.   "Dear Sir:   I am Susan Sowerby that made bold to speak to youonce on the moor. It was about Miss Mary I spoke.   I will make bold to speak again. Please, sir, I wouldcome home if I was you. I think you would be glad to comeand--if you will excuse me, sir--I think your lady wouldask you to come if she was here.   Your obedient servant,Susan Sowerby."Mr. Craven read the letter twice before he put it backin its envelope. He kept thinking about the dream.   "I will go back to Misselthwaite," he said. "Yes, I'llgo at once."And he went through the garden to the villa and orderedPitcher to prepare for his return to England.   In a few days he was in Yorkshire again, and on his longrailroad journey he found himself thinking of his boyas 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 madmanbecause the child was alive and the mother was dead.   He had refused to see it, and when he had gone to lookat it at last it had been, such a weak wretched thingthat everyone had been sure it would die in a few days.   But to the surprise of those who took care of it the dayspassed and it lived and then everyone believed it would be adeformed and crippled creature.   He had not meant to be a bad father, but he had not feltlike a father at all. He had supplied doctors and nursesand luxuries, but he had shrunk from the mere thoughtof the boy and had buried himself in his own misery.   The first time after a year's absence he returnedto Misselthwaite and the small miserable looking thinglanguidly and indifferently lifted to his face the greatgray eyes with black lashes round them, so like and yetso horribly unlike the happy eyes he had adored, he couldnot 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 couldonly be kept from furies dangerous to himself by beinggiven his own way in every detail.   All this was not an uplifting thing to recall, but asthe train whirled him through mountain passes and goldenplains the man who was "coming alive" began to thinkin 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 Sowerbyhad taken courage and written to him only because themotherly creature had realized that the boy was muchworse--was fatally ill. If he had not been under thespell of the curious calmness which had taken possessionof 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 actuallyfound he was trying to believe in better things.   "Could it be possible that she sees that I may be ableto do him good and control him? " he thought. "I will goand see her on my way to Misselthwaite."But when on his way across the moor he stopped the carriageat the cottage, seven or eight children who were playingabout gathered in a group and bobbing seven or eightfriendly and polite curtsies told him that their motherhad gone to the other side of the moor early in the morningto help a woman who had a new baby. "Our Dickon,"they volunteered, was over at the Manor working in oneof the gardens where he went several days each week.   Mr. Craven looked over the collection of sturdy littlebodies and round red-cheeked faces, each one grinningin its own particular way, and he awoke to the factthat they were a healthy likable lot. He smiled at theirfriendly grins and took a golden sovereign from his pocketand gave it to "our 'Lizabeth Ellen" who was the oldest.   "If you divide that into eight parts there will be halfa crown for each of, you," he said.   Then amid grins and chuckles and bobbing of curtsies hedrove away, leaving ecstasy and nudging elbows and littlejumps of joy behind.   The drive across the wonderfulness of the moor wasa soothing thing. Why did it seem to give him a senseof homecoming which he had been sure he could never feelagain--that sense of the beauty of land and sky and purplebloom of distance and a warming of the heart at drawing,nearer to the great old house which had held those ofhis blood for six hundred years? How he had drivenaway from it the last time, shuddering to think of itsclosed rooms and the boy lying in the four-posted bedwith the brocaded hangings. Was it possible that perhapshe might find him changed a little for the betterand that he might overcome his shrinking from him?   How real that dream had been--how wonderful and clearthe voice which called back to him, "In the garden--In thegarden!""I will try to find the key," he said. "I will tryto open the door. I must--though I don't know why."When he arrived at the Manor the servants whoreceived him with the usual ceremony noticed that helooked better and that he did not go to the remoterooms 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 mannerof speaking.""Worse?" he suggested.   Mrs. Medlock really was flushed.   "Well, you see, sir," she tried to explain, "neitherDr. Craven, nor the nurse, nor me can exactly make him out.""Why is that?""To tell the truth, sir, Master Colin might be betterand 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 youcompare him with what he used to be. He used to eat nothingand then suddenly he began to eat something enormous --andthen he stopped again all at once and the meals were sentback 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 inhis chair would leave a body trembling like a leaf.   He'd throw himself into such a state that Dr. Craven saidhe couldn't be responsible for forcing him. Well, sir,just without warning--not long after one of his worsttantrums he suddenly insisted on being taken out every dayby Miss Mary and Susan Sowerby's boy Dickon that could pushhis chair. He took a fancy to both Miss Mary and Dickon,and Dickon brought his tame animals, and, if you'llcredit it, sir, out of doors he will stay from morning untilnight.""How does he look?" was the next question.   "If he took his food natural, sir, you'd think he was puttingon flesh--but we're afraid it may be a sort of bloat.   He laughs sometimes in a queer way when he's alone withMiss Mary. He never used to laugh at all. Dr. Cravenis 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--thoughnot a human creature is allowed to go near for fearthey'll look at him."Mr. Craven scarcely heard her last words.   "In the garden," he said, and after he had sent Mrs. Medlockaway he stood and repeated it again and again.   "In the garden!"He had to make an effort to bring himself back tothe place he was standing in and when he felt he wason earth again he turned and went out of the room.   He took his way, as Mary had done, through the door in theshrubbery and among the laurels and the fountain beds.   The fountain was playing now and was encircled by bedsof brilliant autumn flowers. He crossed the lawn andturned into the Long Walk by the ivied walls. He did notwalk quickly, but slowly, and his eyes were on the path.   He felt as if he were being drawn back to the placehe 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 thickover it--but he did not know exactly where it lay--thatburied key.   So he stopped and stood still, looking about him,and almost the moment after he had paused he startedand listened--asking himself if he were walking in a dream.   The ivy hung thick over the door, the key was buriedunder the shrubs, no human being had passed that portalfor ten lonely years--and yet inside the garden therewere sounds. They were the sounds of running scufflingfeet seeming to chase round and round under the trees,they were strange sounds of lowered suppressedvoices--exclamations and smothered joyous cries.   It seemed actually like the laughter of young things,the uncontrollable laughter of children who were trying notto be heard but who in a moment or so--as their excitementmounted--would burst forth. What in heaven's name was hedreaming of--what in heaven's name did he hear? Was helosing his reason and thinking he heard things which werenot for human ears? Was it that the far clear voice had meant?   And then the moment came, the uncontrollable momentwhen the sounds forgot to hush themselves. The feet ranfaster and faster--they were nearing the garden door--therewas quick strong young breathing and a wild outbreakof laughing shows which could not be contained--and thedoor in the wall was flung wide open, the sheet of ivyswinging 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 himfrom falling as a result of his unseeing dash against him,and when he held him away to look at him in amazementat his being there he truly gasped for breath.   He was a tall boy and a handsome one. He was glowingwith life and his running had sent splendid color leapingto his face. He threw the thick hair back from his foreheadand lifted a pair of strange gray eyes--eyes full of boyishlaughter 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 hehad planned. He had never thought of such a meeting.   And yet to come dashing out--winning a race--perhaps itwas even better. He drew himself up to his very tallest.   Mary, who had been running with him and had dashed throughthe door too, believed that he managed to make himselflook 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 fathermeant when he said hurriedly:   "In the garden! In the garden!""Yes," hurried on Colin. "It was the garden that didit--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 bean athlete."He said it all so like a healthy boy--his face flushed,his words tumbling over each other in his eagerness--thatMr. 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 shouldersand held him still. He knew he dared not even tryto 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 purpleand violet blue and flaming scarlet and on every side weresheaves of late lilies standing together--lilies which werewhite or white and ruby. He remembered well when thefirst of them had been planted that just at this seasonof the year their late glories should reveal themselves.   Late roses climbed and hung and clustered and the sunshinedeepening the hue of the yellowing trees made one feelthat one, stood in an embowered temple of gold.   The newcomer stood silent just as the children had donewhen 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 Craventhought, as it was poured forth in headlong boy fashion.   Mystery and Magic and wild creatures, the weird midnightmeeting--the coming of the spring--the passion of insultedpride which had dragged the young Rajah to his feet to defyold 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 andsometimes tears came into his eyes when he was not laughing.   The Athlete, the Lecturer, the Scientific Discovererwas a laughable, lovable, healthy young human thing.   "Now," he said at the end of the story, "it need not bea secret any more. I dare say it will frighten themnearly into fits when they see me--but I am never goingto 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 somevegetables to the kitchen and being invited into the servants'   hall by Mrs. Medlock to drink a glass of beer he was onthe spot--as he had hoped to be--when the most dramaticevent Misselthwaite Manor had seen during the presentgeneration actually took place. One of the windows lookingupon 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 masterand 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 lipswith 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 hisbeer-mug in her excitement.   "Together, ma'am," and Ben gulped down half of his newmug at one gulp.   "Where was Master Colin? How did he look? What did theysay 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 peopleknows nowt about. An' what tha'll find out tha'll findout soon."And it was not two minutes before he swallowed the lastof his beer and waved his mug solemnly toward the windowwhich 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 gavea little shriek and every man and woman servant within hearingbolted across the servants' hall and stood looking throughthe window with their eyes almost starting out of their heads.   Across the lawn came the Master of Misselthwaite and helooked as many of them had never seen him. And by his,side with his head up in the air and his eyes fullof laughter walked as strongly and steadily as any boyin Yorkshire--Master Colin. The End