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[pg/etext94/gardn10.txt]

Th Secret Gardn, by Frances Hodgson Burnett
March 13, 1994  [Etext #113]

In Onr of Lisa Hart's 9th Birthday

This text is in th PUBLIC DOMAIN.




TH SECRET GARDN
BY FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT


Authr of

"Th Shutl,"
"Th Making of a Marchness,"
"Th Methods of Lady
Walderhurst,"
"Th Lass o' Lowries,"
"Thru One Administration,"
"Litl Lord Fauntleroy,"
"A Lady of Quality," etc.




                           CONTENTS

CHAPTR  TITLE

      I  THER IS NO ONE LEFT 
     II  MISTRESS MARY QUITE CONTRY 
    III  ACROSS TH MOOR  
     IV  MARTHA 
      V  TH CRY IN TH CORIDR  
     VI  "THER WAS SOM ONE CRYNG--THER WAS!"  
    VII  TH KE TO TH GARDN  
   VIII  TH ROBN HO SHOWD TH WAY 
     IX  TH STRANJEST HOUSE ANY ONE EVR LIVD IN  
      X  DICKON 
     XI  TH NEST OF TH MISSEL THRUSH  
    XII  "MYT I HAV A BIT OF ERTH?" 
   XIII  "I AM COLIN" 
    XIV  A YUNG RAJA  
     XV  NEST BILDNG  
    XVI  "I WONT!" SAID MARY 
   XVII  A TANTRM  
  XVIII  "THA' MUNNOT WASTE NO TIME"  
    XIX  "IT HAS COM!" 
     XX  "I SHAL LIV FOREVR--AND EVR--AND EVR!"  
    XXI  BEN WEATHERSTAFF 
   XXII  WEN TH SUN WENT DOWN 
  XXIII  MAJIC  
    XIV  "LET THEM LAF" 
    XXV  TH CURTN  
   XXVI  "IT'S MOTHR!" 
  XXVII  IN TH GARDN  





TH SECRET GARDN
BY FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT




CHAPTR I

THER IS NO ONE LEFT


Wen Mary Lennox was sent to Misselthwaite Manr
to liv with her uncl evrybody said she was th most
disagreeabl-lookng child evr seen.  It was tru, too. 
She had a litl thin face and a litl thin body,
thin lyt hair and a sour expression.  Her hair was yelo,
and her face was yelo because she had been born in
India and had always been il in one way or anothr. 
Her fathr had held a position undr th English
Govrnmnt and had always been busy and il himself,
and her mothr had been a gret buty ho cared only
to go to partis and amuse herself with gay peple. 
She had not wantd a litl girl at al, and wen Mary
was born she handd her over to th care of an Aya,
ho was made to undrstand that if she wishd to plese
th Mem Sahib she must keep th child out of syt as much
as posbl.  So wen she was a sikly, fretful, ugly litl
baby she was kept out of th way, and wen she became
a sikly, fretful, todlng thing she was kept out of
th way also.  She nevr remembrd seing familirly
anything but th dark faces of her Aya and th othr
nativ servnts, and as they always obeyd her and gave
her her own way in everything, because th Mem Sahib
wud be angry if she was disturbd by her cryng,
by th time she was six years old she was as tyranicl
and selfish a litl pig as evr livd.  Th yung English
govrness ho came to teach her to red and rite disliked
her so much that she gave up her place in thre months,
and wen othr govrnesses came to try to fil it they
always went away in a shortr time than th first one. 
So if Mary had not chosen to realy want to no how
to red books she wud nevr hav lernd her letrs at al. 

One frytfuly hot mornng, wen she was about nine
years old, she awakend feelng very cross, and she became
crosr stil wen she saw that th servnt ho stood
by her bedside was not her Aya. 

"Wy did u com?" she said to th stranje womn. 
"I wil not let u stay.  Send my Aya to me."

Th womn lookd frytnd, but she only stamrd
that th Aya cud not com and wen Mary threw herself
into a passion and beat and kikd her, she lookd only
mor frytnd and repeatd that it was not posbl
for th Aya to com to Missie Sahib. 

Ther was somthing mysterius in th air that mornng. 
Nothing was don in its regulr ordr and sevrl of th
nativ servnts seemd misng, wile those hom Mary
saw slunk or hurrid about with ashy and scared faces. 
But no one wud tel her anything and her Aya did not com. 
She was actuly left alone as th mornng went on,
and at last she wandrd out into th gardn and began
to play by herself undr a tre near th veranda. 
She pretendd that she was making a flowr-bed, and she stuk
big scarlet hibiscus blosms into litl heaps of erth,
al th time groing mor and mor angry and mutrng
to herself th things she wud say and th names she
wud cal Saidie wen she returnd. 

"Pig! Pig! Dautr of Pigs!" she said, because to cal
a nativ a pig is th worst insult of al. 

She was grindng her teeth and sayng this over and over
again wen she herd her mothr com out on th veranda
with som one.  She was with a fair yung man and they stood
talkng togethr in lo stranje voices.  Mary new th fair
yung man ho lookd like a boy.  She had herd that he
was a very yung oficer ho had just com from England. 
Th child stared at him, but she stared most at her mothr. 
She always did this wen she had a chance to se her,
because th Mem Sahib--Mary used to cal her that oftener
than anything else--was such a tal, slim, pretty persn
and wor such lovly clothes.  Her hair was like curly
silk and she had a delicat litl nose wich seemd
to be disdaining things, and she had larj lafng ys. 
Al her clothes wer thin and floatng, and Mary said they
wer "ful of lace." They lookd fulr of lace than evr
this mornng, but her ys wer not lafng at al. 
They wer larj and scared and liftd imploringly to th fair
boy officer's face. 

"Is it so very bad? O, is it?" Mary herd her say. 

"Awfuly," th yung man ansrd in a tremblng voice. 
"Awfuly, Mrs. Lennox.  U ot to hav gon to th hils
two weeks ago."

Th Mem Sahib rung her hands. 

"O, I no I ot!" she cryd.  "I only stayd to go
to that silly dinr party.  Wat a fool I was!"

At that very moment such a loud sound of wailng broke
out from th servants' quartrs that she cluchd th yung
man's arm, and Mary stood shivrng from hed to foot. 
Th wailng grew wildr and wildr.  "Wat is it? Wat is it?"
Mrs. Lennox gaspd. 

"Som one has died," ansrd th boy oficer.  "U did
not say it had broken out among yr servnts."

"I did not no!" th Mem Sahib cryd.  "Com with me!
Com with me!" and she turnd and ran into th house. 

Aftr that, apalng things hapnd, and th mysteriousness
of th mornng was explaind to Mary.  Th colra had
broken out in its most fatal form and peple wer dyng
like flys.  Th Aya had been taken il in th nyt,
and it was because she had just died that th servnts
had waild in th huts.  Befor th next day thre othr
servnts wer ded and othrs had run away in terr. 
Ther was panic on evry side, and dyng peple in al
th bunglos. 

During th confusion and bewildrmnt of th secnd day Mary
hid herself in th nursry and was forgotn by evryone. 
Nobody thot of her, nobody wantd her, and stranje things
hapnd of wich she new nothing.  Mary alternatly cryd
and slept thru th ours.  She only new that peple wer
il and that she herd mysterius and tytnng sounds. 
Once she crept into th dining-room and found it emty,
tho a partly finishd meal was on th table and chairs
and plates lookd as if they had been hastily pushd
bak wen th diners rose sudnly for som reasn. 
Th child ate som fruit and biscuits, and being thirsty
she drank a glass of wine wich stood nearly fild. 
It was sweet, and she did not no how strong it was. 
Very soon it made her intensly drowsy, and she went bak
to her nursry and shut herself in again, frytnd by crys
she herd in th huts and by th hurrying sound of feet. 
Th wine made her so sleepy that she cud scarcely keep her
ys open and she lay down on her bed and new nothing mor
for a long time. 

Many things hapnd during th ours in wich she slept
so hevily, but she was not disturbd by th wails and th
sound of things being carrid in and out of th bunglo. 

Wen she awakend she lay and stared at th wal. 
Th house was perfectly stil.  She had nevr nown
it to be so silent befor.  She herd neithr voices
nor footsteps, and wondrd if evrybody had got wel of
th colra and al th trubl was over.  She wondrd
also ho wud take care of her now her Aya was ded. 
Ther wud be a new Aya, and perhaps she wud no
som new storis.  Mary had been rathr tired of th
old ones.  She did not cry because her nurse had died. 
She was not an afectionat child and had nevr cared much
for any one.  Th noise and hurrying about and wailng
over th colra had frytnd her, and she had been angry
because no one seemd to remembr that she was alive. 
Evryone was too panic-strikn to think of a litl
girl no one was fond of.  Wen peple had th colra
it seemd that they remembrd nothing but themselvs. 
But if evryone had got wel again, surely som one wud
remembr and com to look for her. 

But no one came, and as she lay waitng th house seemd
to gro mor and mor silent.  She herd somthing ruslng
on th matng and wen she lookd down she saw a litl
snake gliding along and wachng her with ys like jewls. 
She was not frytnd, because he was a harmless litl
thing ho wud not hurt her and he seemd in a hurry
to get out of th room.  He slipd undr th dor as she
wachd him. 

"How queer and quiet it is," she said.  "It sounds as
if ther wer no one in th bunglo but me and th snake."

Almost th next minut she herd footsteps in th compound,
and then on th veranda.  They wer men's footsteps,
and th men entrd th bunglo and talkd in lo voices. 
No one went to meet or speak to them and they seemd
to open dors and look into rooms.  "Wat deslation!"
she herd one voice say.  "That pretty, pretty womn!
I supose th child, too.  I herd ther was a child,
tho no one evr saw her."

Mary was standng in th midl of th nursry wen they
opend th dor a few minuts later.  She lookd an ugly,
cross litl thing and was frownng because she was
beginng to be hungry and feel disgracefuly neglectd. 
Th first man ho came in was a larj oficer she had once
seen talkng to her fathr.  He lookd tired and trubld,
but wen he saw her he was so startld that he almost
jumpd bak. 

"Barny!" he cryd out.  "Ther is a child here! A child
alone! In a place like this! Mercy on us, ho is she!"

"I am Mary Lennox," th litl girl said, drawng herself
up stifly.  She thot th man was very rude to cal her
father's bunglo "A place like this!" "I fel asleep wen
evryone had th colra and I hav only just wakend up. 
Wy dos nobody com?"

"It is th child no one evr saw!" exclaimd th man,
turnng to his companions.  "She has actuly been forgotn!"

"Wy was I forgotn?" Mary said, stampng her foot. 
"Wy dos nobody com?"

Th yung man hos name was Barny lookedat her very sadly. 
Mary even thot she saw him wink his ys as if to wink
tears away. 

"Poor litl kid!" he said.  "Ther is nobody left to com."

It was in that stranje and sudn way that Mary found
out that she had neithr fathr nor mothr left;
that they had died and been carrid away in th nyt,
and that th few nativ servnts ho had not died also had
left th house as quikly as they cud get out of it,
non of them even remembrng that ther was a Missie Sahib. 
That was wy th place was so quiet.  It was tru that ther
was no one in th bunglo but herself and th litl
ruslng snake. 



Chaptr II

MISTRESS MARY QUITE CONTRY


Mary had liked to look at her mothr from a distnce
and she had thot her very pretty, but as she new
very litl of her she cud scarcely hav been expectd
to lov her or to miss her very much wen she was gon. 
She did not miss her at al, in fact, and as she was a
self-absorbd child she gave her entire thot to herself,
as she had always don.  If she had been oldr she wud
no dout hav been very anxius at being left alone in
th world, but she was very yung, and as she had always
been taken care of, she suposed she always wud be. 
Wat she thot was that she wud like to no if she was
going to nice peple, ho wud be polite to her and giv
her her own way as her Aya and th othr nativ servnts
had don. 

She new that she was not going to stay at th English
clergyman's house wher she was taken at first.  She did
not want to stay.  Th English clerjyman was poor and he
had five children nearly al th same aje and they wor
shabby clothes and wer always quarelng and snachng
toys from each othr.  Mary hated ther untidy bunglo
and was so disagreeabl to them that aftr th first day
or two nobody wud play with her.  By th secnd day
they had givn her a nikname wich made her furius. 

It was Basl ho thot of it first.  Basl was a litl
boy with impudent blu ys and a turnd-up nose, and Mary
hated him.  She was playng by herself undr a tre,
just as she had been playng th day th colra broke out. 
She was making heaps of erth and paths for a gardn
and Basl came and stood near to wach her.  Presntly he
got rathr intrestd and sudnly made a sujestion. 

"Wy dont u put a heap of stones ther and pretend
it is a rokry?" he said.  "Ther in th midl,"
and he leand over her to point. 

"Go away!" cryd Mary.  "I dont want boys.  Go away!"

For a moment Basl lookd angry, and then he began to tese. 
He was always tesing his sistrs.  He danced round
and round her and made faces and sang and lafd. 

         "Mistress Mary, quite contry,
          How dos yr gardn gro?
          With silvr bels, and cokl shels,
          And marigolds al in a ro."

He sang it until th othr children herd and lafd, too;
and th crosr Mary got, th mor they sang "Mistress Mary,
quite contry"; and aftr that as long as she stayd
with them they cald her "Mistress Mary Quite Contry"
wen they spoke of her to each othr, and ofn wen they
spoke to her. 

"U ar going to be sent home," Basl said to her,
"at th end of th week.  And we'r glad of it."

"I am glad of it, too," ansrd Mary.  "Wher is home?"

"She dosnt no wher home is!" said Basl,
with sevn-year-old scorn.  "It's England, of corse. 
Our grandmama lives ther and our sistr Mabel was sent
to her last year.  U ar not going to yr grandmama. 
U hav non.  U ar going to yr uncl.  His name is
Mr. Archibald Craven."

"I dont no anything about him," snapd Mary. 

"I no u dont," Basl ansrd.  "U dont no anything. 
Girls nevr do.  I herd fathr and mothr talkng about him. 
He lives in a gret, big, desolate old house in th
cuntry and no one gos near him.  He's so cross he wont
let them, and they wudnt com if he wud let them. 
He's a hunchbak, and he's horid." "I dont beleve u,"
said Mary; and she turnd her bak and stuk her fingrs
in her ears, because she wud not lisn any mor. 

But she thot over it a gret deal aftrwrd; and wen
Mrs. Crawford told her that nyt that she was going
to sail away to England in a few days and go to her uncl,
Mr. Archibald Craven, ho livd at Misselthwaite Manr,
she lookd so stony and stubrnly unintrestd that
they did not no wat to think about her.  They tryd
to be kind to her, but she only turnd her face away
wen Mrs. Crawford atemtd to kiss her, and held
herself stifly wen Mr. Crawford patd her sholdr. 

"She is such a plan child," Mrs. Crawford said pityingly,
aftrwrd.  "And her mothr was such a pretty creatur. 
She had a very pretty manr, too, and Mary has th most
unatractiv ways I evr saw in a child.  Th children
cal her `Mistress Mary Quite Contry,' and tho
it's nauty of them, one cant help undrstandng it."

"Perhaps if her mothr had carrid her pretty face
and her pretty manrs oftener into th nursry Mary
myt hav lernd som pretty ways too.  It is very sad,
now th poor butiful thing is gon, to remembr that
many peple nevr even new that she had a child at al."

"I beleve she scarcely evr lookd at her,"
syd Mrs. Crawford.  "Wen her Aya was ded ther
was no one to giv a thot to th litl thing. 
Think of th servnts runng away and leving her al
alone in that desertd bunglo.  Colnl Mcgrew said he
nearly jumpd out of his skin wen he opend th dor
and found her standng by herself in th midl of th room."

Mary made th long voyaj to England undr th care of
an officer's wife, ho was taking her children to leve
them in a bordng-scool. She was very much absorbd
in her own litl boy and girl, and was rathr glad to hand
th child over to th womn Mr. Archibald Craven sent
to meet her, in Londn.  Th womn was his houskeepr
at Misselthwaite Manr, and her name was Mrs. Medlock. 
She was a stout womn, with very red cheeks and sharp
blak ys.  She wor a very purpl dress, a blak
silk mantl with jet frinj on it and a blak bonet
with purpl velvet flowrs wich stuk up and trembld
wen she moved her hed.  Mary did not like her at al,
but as she very seldm liked peple ther was nothing
remarkbl in that; besides wich it was very evidnt
Mrs. Medlock did not think much of her. 

"My word! she's a plan litl pece of goods!" she said. 
"And we'd herd that her mothr was a buty.  She hasnt
handd much of it down, has she, mam?" "Perhaps she
wil improve as she gros oldr," th officer's wife
said good-naturedly. "If she wer not so salo and had
a nicer expression, her featurs ar rathr good. 
Children altr so much."

"She'l hav to altr a good deal," ansrd Mrs. Medlock. 
"And, ther's nothing likely to improve children at
Misselthwaite--if u ask me!" They thot Mary was not
lisnng because she was standng a litl apart from them
at th windo of th privat hotel they had gon to. 
She was wachng th pasng buses and cabs and peple,
but she herd quite wel and was made very curius about
her uncl and th place he livd in.  Wat sort of a place
was it, and wat wud he be like? Wat was a hunchbak?
She had nevr seen one.  Perhaps ther wer non in India. 

Since she had been livng in othr people's houses
and had had no Aya, she had begun to feel lonely
and to think queer thots wich wer new to her. 
She had begun to wondr wy she had nevr seemd to belong
to anyone even wen her fathr and mothr had been alive. 
Othr children seemd to belong to ther fathrs and mothrs,
but she had nevr seemd to realy be anyone's litl girl. 
She had had servnts, and food and clothes, but no one
had taken any notice of her.  She did not no that this
was because she was a disagreeabl child; but then,
of corse, she did not no she was disagreeabl. 
She ofn thot that othr peple wer, but she did not
no that she was so herself. 

She thot Mrs. Medlock th most disagreeabl persn
she had evr seen, with her comn, hyly colord face
and her comn fine bonet.  Wen th next day they set
out on ther jurny to Yorkshr, she walkd thru
th station to th railway carrij with her hed up
and tryng to keep as far away from her as she cud,
because she did not want to seem to belong to her. 
It wud hav made her angry to think peple imajnd she
was her litl girl. 

But Mrs. Medlock was not in th least disturbd by her
and her thots.  She was th kind of womn ho wud
"stand no nonsnse from yung ones." At least, that is
wat she wud hav said if she had been askd.  She had
not wantd to go to Londn just wen her sistr Maria's
dautr was going to be marrid, but she had a comfrtbl,
wel paid place as houskeepr at Misselthwaite Manr
and th only way in wich she cud keep it was to do
at once wat Mr. Archibald Craven told her to do. 
She nevr dared even to ask a question. 

"Captn Lennox and his wife died of th colra,"
Mr. Craven had said in his short, cold way.  "Captn Lennox
was my wife's brothr and I am ther daughter's gardian. 
Th child is to be brot here.  U must go to Londn
and bring her yrself."

So she pakd her smal trunk and made th jurny. 

Mary sat in her cornr of th railway carrij and lookd
plan and fretful.  She had nothing to red or to look at,
and she had foldd her thin litl blak-glovd hands in
her lap.  Her blak dress made her look yellower than evr,
and her limp lyt hair stragld from undr her blak
crep hat. 

"A mor mard-lookng yung one I nevr saw in my life,"
Mrs. Medlock thot.  (Mard is a Yorkshr word and
means spoild and pettish.) She had nevr seen a child
ho sat so stil without doing anything; and at last she
got tired of wachng her and began to talk in a brisk,
hard voice. 

"I supose I may as wel tel u somthing about wher
u ar going to," she said.  "Do u no anything
about yr uncl?"

"No," said Mary. 

"Nevr herd yr fathr and mothr talk about him?"

"No," said Mary frownng.  She frownd because she
remembrd that her fathr and mothr had nevr talkd
to her about anything in particulr.  Certnly they
had nevr told her things. 

"Humf," mutrd Mrs. Medlock, staring at her queer,
unresponsiv litl face.  She did not say any mor for
a few moments and then she began again. 

"I supose u myt as wel be told somthing--to
prepare u.  U ar going to a queer place."

Mary said nothing at al, and Mrs. Medlock lookd rathr
discomfitd by her aparent indifrnce, but, aftr taking
a breth, she went on. 

"Not but that it's a grand big place in a gloomy way,
and Mr. Craven's proud of it in his way--and that's
gloomy enuf, too.  Th house is six hundred years old
and it's on th ej of th moor, and ther's near a hundred
rooms in it, tho most of them's shut up and lokd. 
And ther's picturs and fine old furnitur and things
that's been ther for ajes, and ther's a big park round
it and gardns and tres with branchs trailng to th
ground--som of them." She pausd and took anothr breth. 
"But ther's nothing else," she endd sudnly. 

Mary had begun to lisn in spite of herself.  It al soundd
so unlike India, and anything new rathr atractd her. 
But she did not intend to look as if she wer intrestd. 
That was one of her unhappy, disagreeabl ways.  So she
sat stil. 

"Wel," said Mrs. Medlock.  "Wat do u think of it?"

"Nothing," she ansrd.  "I no nothing about such places."

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

"Eh!" she said, "but u ar like an old womn. 
Dont u care?"

"It dosnt matr" said Mary, "wethr I care or not."

"U ar ryt enuf ther," said Mrs. Medlock. 
"It dosnt. Wat u'r to be kept at Misselthwaite Manr
for I dont no, unless because it's th esiest way. 
He's not going to trubl himself about u, that's sure
and certn.  He nevr trubls himself about no one."

She stopd herself as if she had just remembrd somthing
in time. 

"He's got a crooked bak," she said.  "That set him rong. 
He was a sour yung man and got no good of al his mony
and big place til he was marrid."

Mary's ys turnd toward her in spite of her intention
not to seem to care.  She had nevr thot of th
hunchback's being marrid and she was a trifle surprised. 
Mrs. Medlock saw this, and as she was a talkativ womn
she continud with mor intrest.  This was one way
of pasng som of th time, at any rate. 

"She was a sweet, pretty thing and he'd hav walkd
th world over to get her a blade o' grass she wantd. 
Nobody thot she'd marry him, but she did,
and peple said she marrid him for his mony. 
But she didnt--she didnt," positivly.  "Wen she died--"

Mary gave a litl involuntry jump. 

"O! did she die!" she exclaimd, quite without meanng to. 
She had just remembrd a French fairy story she had once
red cald "Riquet a la Houppe." It had been about a poor
hunchbak and a butiful princess and it had made her
sudnly sorry for Mr. Archibald Craven. 

"Yes, she died," Mrs. Medlock ansrd.  "And it
made him queerer than evr.  He cares about nobody. 
He wont se peple.  Most of th time he gos away,
and wen he is at Misselthwaite he shuts himself up in
th West Wing and wont let any one but Pichr se him. 
Pitcher's an old felo, but he took care of him wen he
was a child and he nos his ways."

It soundd like somthing in a book and it did not make
Mary feel cheerful.  A house with a hundred rooms,
nearly al shut up and with ther dors lokd--a house on
th ej of a moor--watsoevr a moor was--soundd dreary. 
A man with a crooked bak ho shut himself up also! She
stared out of th windo with her lips pinchd togethr,
and it seemd quite natrl that th rain shud hav begun
to por down in gray slantng lines and splash and stream
down th windo-panes. If th pretty wife had been alive
she myt hav made things cheerful by being somthing
like her own mothr and by runng in and out and going
to partis as she had don in froks "ful of lace."
But she was not ther any mor. 

"U neednt expect to se him, because ten to one u wont,"
said Mrs. Medlock.  "And u musnt expect that ther
wil be peple to talk to u.  U'l hav to play
about and look aftr yrself.  U'l be told wat rooms
u can go into and wat rooms u'r to keep out of. 
Ther's gardns enuf.  But wen u'r in th house
dont go wandrng and poking about.  Mr. Craven wont
hav it."

"I shal not want to go poking about," said sour litl
Mary and just as sudnly as she had begun to be rathr
sorry for Mr. Archibald Craven she began to cese to be
sorry and to think he was unplesnt enuf to deserv
al that had hapnd to him. 

And she turnd her face toward th streamng panes of th
windo of th railway carrij and gazed out at th gray
rain-storm wich lookd as if it wud go on forevr and evr. 
She wachd it so long and stedily that th grayness
grew hevir and hevir befor her ys and she fel asleep. 



CHAPTR III

ACROSS TH MOOR


She slept a long time, and wen she awakend Mrs. Medlock
had bot a lunchbasket at one of th stations and they
had som chikn and cold beef and bred and butr and
som hot te.  Th rain seemd to be streamng down mor
hevily than evr and evrybody in th station wor wet
and glisnng waterproofs.  Th gard lytd th lamps
in th carrij, and Mrs. Medlock cheerd up very much
over her te and chikn and beef.  She ate a gret deal
and aftrwrd fel asleep herself, and Mary sat and stared
at her and wachd her fine bonet slip on one side until she
herself fel asleep once mor in th cornr of th carrij,
luld by th splashng of th rain against th windos. 
It was quite dark wen she awakend again.  Th train
had stopd at a station and Mrs. Medlock was shaking her. 

"U hav had a sleep!" she said.  "It's time to open
yr ys! We'r at Thwaite Station and we'v got a long
drive befor us."

Mary stood up and tryd to keep her ys open wile
Mrs. Medlock colectd her parcels.  Th litl
girl did not ofr to help her, because in India
nativ servnts always pikd up or carrid things
and it seemd quite propr that othr peple shud wait on one. 

Th station was a smal one and nobody but themselvs
seemd to be getng out of th train.  Th station-mastr
spoke to Mrs. Medlock in a ruf, good-naturd way,
pronouncing his words in a queer brod fashn wich Mary
found out aftrwrd was Yorkshr. 

"I se tha's got bak," he said.  "An' tha's browt th'
yung 'un with thee."

"Y, that's her," ansrd Mrs. Medlock, speakng with
a Yorkshr accent herself and jerkng her hed over
her sholdr toward Mary.  "How's thy Missus?"

"Wel enow.  Th' carrij is waitn' outside for thee."

A brougham stood on th road befor th litl
outside platform.  Mary saw that it was a smart carrij
and that it was a smart footman ho helpd her in. 
His long watrproof coat and th watrproof covrng of his
hat wer shining and dripng with rain as everything was,
th burly station-mastr included. 

Wen he shut th dor, mountd th box with th coachman,
and they drove off, th litl girlfound herself seatd
in a comfrtbly cushnd cornr, but she was not inclined
to go to sleep again.  She sat and lookd out of th windo,
curius to se somthing of th road over wich she
was being drivn to th queer place Mrs. Medlock had
spoken of.  She was not at al a timid child and she was
not exactly frytnd, but she felt that ther was no
noing wat myt hapn in a house with a hundred rooms
nearly al shut up--a house standng on th ej of a moor. 

"Wat is a moor?" she said sudnly to Mrs. Medlock. 

"Look out of th windo in about ten minuts and u'l se,"
th womn ansrd.  "We'v got to drive five miles across
Missel Moor befor we get to th Manr.  U wont se
much because it's a dark nyt, but u can se somthing."

Mary askd no mor questions but waitd in th darkns
of her cornr, keepng her ys on th windo.  Th carrij
lamps cast rays of lyt a litl distnce ahed of them
and she caut glimpses of th things they pasd. 
Aftr they had left th station they had drivn thru a
tiny vilaj and she had seen witewashd cotajs and th
lyts of a public house.  Then they had pasd a church
and a vicraj and a litl shop-windo or so in a cotaj
with toys and sweets and od things set our for sale. 
Then they wer on th hyroad and she saw hejs and tres. 
Aftr that ther seemd nothing difrnt for a long
time--or at least it seemd a long time to her. 

At last th horses began to go mor sloly, as if they
wer climbng up-hil, and presntly ther seemd to be
no mor hejs and no mor tres.  She cud se nothing,
in fact, but a dense darkns on eithr side.  She leand
forwrd and presd her face against th windo just
as th carrij gave a big jolt. 

"Eh! We'r on th moor now sure enuf," said Mrs. Medlock. 

Th carrij lamps shed a yelo lyt on a ruf-lookng
road wich seemd to be cut thru bushs and lo-groing
things wich endd in th gret expanse of dark aparently
spred out befor and around them.  A wind was rising
and making a singulr, wild, lo, rushng sound. 

"It's--it's not th se, is it?" said Mary, lookng round
at her companion. 

"No, not it," ansrd Mrs. Medlock.  "Nor it isnt fields
nor mountns, it's just miles and miles and miles of wild
land that nothing gros on but hethr and gorse and broom,
and nothing lives on but wild ponis and sheep."

"I feel as if it myt be th se, if ther wer watr
on it," said Mary.  "It sounds like th se just now."

"That's th wind bloing thru th bushs," Mrs. Medlock said. 
"It's a wild, dreary enuf place to my mind, tho ther's
plenty that likes it--particulrly wen th heather's in bloom."

On and on they drove thru th darkns, and tho
th rain stopd, th wind rushd by and wisld and made
stranje sounds.  Th road went up and down, and sevrl
times th carrij pasd over a litl brij beneath
wich watr rushd very fast with a gret deal of noise. 
Mary felt as if th drive wud nevr com to an end
and that th wide, bleak moor was a wide expanse of blak
ocen thru wich she was pasng on a strip of dry land. 

"I dont like it," she said to herself.  "I dont like it,"
and she pinchd her thin lips mor tytly togethr. 

Th horses wer climbng up a hilly pece of road
wen she first caut syt of a lyt.  Mrs. Medlock
saw it as soon as she did and drew a long sy of relief. 

"Eh, I am glad to se that bit o' lyt twinklng,"
she exclaimd.  "It's th lyt in th loj windo. 
We shal get a good cup of te aftr a bit, at al events."

It was "aftr a bit," as she said, for wen th carrij
pasd thru th park gates ther was stil two miles
of avnu to drive thru and th tres (wich nearly
met overhed) made it seem as if they wer driving
thru a long dark valt. 

They drove out of th valt into a clear space
and stopd befor an imensly long but lo-bilt
house wich seemd to rambl round a stone cort. 
At first Mary thot that ther wer no lyts at al
in th windos, but as she got out of th carrij
she saw that one room in a cornr upstairs showd a dul glo. 

Th entrnce dor was a huje one made of massiv, curiusly
shaped panls of oak studd with big iron nails and bound
with gret iron bars.  It opend into an enormus hal,
wich was so dimly lytd that th faces in th portrits
on th walls and th figrs in th suits of armr
made Mary feel that she did not want to look at them. 
As she stood on th stone flor she lookd a very smal,
od litl blak figr, and she felt as smal and lost
and od as she lookd. 

A neat, thin old man stood near th manservnt ho opend
th dor for them. 

"U ar to take her to her room," he said in a husky voice. 
"He dosnt want to se her.  He's going to Londn
in th mornng."

"Very wel, Mr. Pichr," Mrs. Medlock ansrd. 
"So long as I no wat's expectd of me, I can manaj."

"Wat's expectd of u, Mrs. Medlock," Mr. Pichr said,
"is that u make sure that he's not disturbd and that he
dosnt se wat he dosnt want to se."

And then Mary Lennox was led up a brod staircase
and down a long coridr and up a short flyt
of steps and thru anothr coridr and anothr,
until a dor opend in a wal and she found herself
in a room with a fire in it and a supr on a table. 

Mrs. Medlock said unceremoniusly:

"Wel, here u ar! This room and th next ar wher u'l
liv--and u must keep to them.  Dont u forget that!"

It was in this way Mistress Mary arived at Misselthwaite
Manr and she had perhaps nevr felt quite so contry
in al her life. 



CHAPTR IV

MARTHA


Wen she opend her ys in th mornng it was because
a yung housmaid had com into her room to lyt
th fire and was neelng on th harth-rug raking
out th cindrs noisily.  Mary lay and wachd her for
a few moments and then began to look about th room. 
She had nevr seen a room at al like it and thot it
curius and gloomy.  Th walls wer covrd with tapestry
with a forest sene embroidrd on it.  Ther wer
fantasticly dresd peple undr th tres and in th
distnce ther was a glimps of th turets of a casl. 
Ther wer huntrs and horses and dogs and ladis. 
Mary felt as if she wer in th forest with them. 
Out of a deep windo she cud se a gret climbng
strech of land wich seemd to hav no tres on it,
and to look rathr like an endless, dul, purplish se. 

"Wat is that?" she said, pointng out of th windo. 

Martha, th yung housmaid, ho had just risn to her feet,
lookd and pointd also.  "That ther?" she said. 

"Yes."

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

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

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

"Do u?" inquired Mary. 

"Y, that I do," ansrd Martha, cheerfuly polishng
away at th grate.  "I just lov it.  It's non bare. 
It's covrd wi' growin' things as smels sweet. 
It's fair lovly in spring an' sumr wen th' gorse an'
broom an' heather's in flowr.  It smels o' hony an'
ther's such a lot o' fresh air--an' th' sky looks
so hy an' th' bes an' skylarks makes such a nice
noise hummin' an' singin'. Eh! I wudnt liv away from th'
moor for anythin'."

Mary lisnd to her with a grave, puzld expression. 
Th nativ servnts she had been used to in India
wer not in th least like this.  They wer obsequius
and servl and did not presume to talk to ther mastrs
as if they wer ther equals.  They made salaams and cald
them "protectr of th poor" and names of that sort. 
Indian servnts wer comandd to do things, not askd. 
It was not th custm to say "plese" and "thank u"
and Mary had always slapd her Aya in th face wen she
was angry.  She wondrd a litl wat this girl wud
do if one slapd her in th face.  She was a round,
rosy, good-naturd-lookng creatur, but she had a sturdy
way wich made Mistress Mary wondr if she myt not
even slap bak--if th persn ho slapd her was only a
litl girl. 

"U ar a stranje servnt," she said from her pilos,
rathr hautily. 

Martha sat up on her heels, with her blackingbrush in her hand,
and lafd, without seemng th least out of tempr. 

"Eh! I no that," she said.  "If ther was a grand Missus
at Misselthwaite I shud nevr hav been even one of th'
undr house-maids. I myt hav been let to be scullerymaid
but I'd nevr hav been let upstairs.  I'm too comn an'
I talk too much Yorkshr.  But this is a funny house for
al it's so grand.  Seems like ther's neithr Mastr nor
Mistress exept Mr. Pichr an' Mrs. Medlock.  Mr. Craven,
he wont be trubld about anythin' wen he's here, an'
he's nearly always away.  Mrs. Medlock gave me th'
place out o' kindness.  She told me she cud nevr hav
don it if Misselthwaite had been like othr big houses."
"Ar u going to be my servnt?" Mary askd, stil in her
imperius litl Indian way. 

Martha began to rub her grate again. 

"I'm Mrs. Medlock's servnt," she said stoutly. 
"An' she's Mr. Craven's--but I'm to do th housemaid's
work up here an' wait on u a bit.  But u wont need
much waitn' on."

"Ho is going to dress me?" demandd Mary. 

Martha sat up on her heels again and stared.  She spoke
in brod Yorkshr in her amazemnt. 

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

"Wat do u mean? I dont undrstand yr languaj,"
said Mary. 

"Eh! I forgot," Martha said.  "Mrs. Medlock told me I'd
hav to be careful or u wudnt no wat I was sayin'.
I mean cant u put on yr own clothes?"

"No," ansrd Mary, quite indignntly.  "I nevr did
in my life.  My Aya dresd me, of corse."

"Wel," said Martha, evidntly not in th least aware
that she was impudent, "it's time tha' shud lern. 
Tha' canot begin yungr.  It'l do thee good to wait
on thysen a bit.  My mothr always said she cudnt
se wy grand people's children didnt turn out fair
fools--wat with nurses an' bein' washd an' dresd an'
took out to walk as if they was puppis!"

"It is difrnt in India," said Mistress Mary disdainfuly. 
She cud scarcely stand this. 

But Martha was not at al crushd. 

"Eh! I can se it's difrnt," she ansrd almost
sympatheticly.  "I dare say it's because ther's such
a lot o' blaks ther insted o' respectbl wite peple. 
Wen I herd u was comin' from India I thot u was a blak too."

Mary sat up in bed furius. 

"Wat!" she said.  "Wat! U thot I was a nativ. 
U--u dautr of a pig!"

Martha stared and lookd hot. 

"Ho ar u callin' names?" she said.  "U neednt be
so vexd.  That's not th' way for a yung lady to talk. 
I'v nothin' against th' blaks.  Wen u red about 'em
in tracts they'r always very relijus.  U always red
as a black's a man an' a brothr.  I'v nevr seen a blak an'
I was fair plesed to think I was goin' to se one close. 
Wen I com in to lyt yr fire this mornn' I crep'
up to yr bed an' puld th' covr bak careful to look
at u.  An' ther u was," disappointedly, "no mor blak
than me--for al u'r so yeller."

Mary did not even try to control her raje and humiliation. 
"U thot I was a nativ! U dared! U dont no
anything about nativs! They ar not peple--they'r servnts
ho must salaam to u.  U no nothing about India. 
U no nothing about anything!"

She was in such a raje and felt so helpless befor th girl's
simpl stare, and somhow she sudnly felt so horibly
lonely and far away from everything she undrstood
and wich undrstood her, that she threw herself face
downwrd on th pilos and burst into passionat sobng. 
She sobd so unrestrainedly that good-naturd Yorkshr
Martha was a litl frytnd and quite sorry for her. 
She went to th bed and bent over her. 

"Eh! u musnt cry like that ther!" she begd. 
"U musnt for sure.  I didnt no u'd be vexd. 
I dont no anythin' about anythin'--just like u said. 
I beg yr pardn, Miss. Do stop cryin'."

Ther was somthing comfrtng and realy frendly in her
queer Yorkshr speech and sturdy way wich had a good efect
on Mary.  She graduly cesed cryng and became quiet. 
Martha lookd releved. 

"It's time for thee to get up now," she said. 
"Mrs. Medlock said I was to carry tha' brekfast an'
te an' dinr into th' room next to this.  It's been
made into a nursry for thee.  I'l help thee on with thy
clothes if tha'll get out o' bed.  If th' butns ar at th'
bak tha' canot butn them up tha'self."

Wen Mary at last decided to get up, th clothes Martha
took from th wardrobe wer not th ones she had worn
wen she arived th nyt befor with Mrs. Medlock. 

"Those ar not mine," she said.  "Mine ar blak."

She lookd th thik wite wool coat and dress over,
and add with cool aproval:

"Those ar nicer than mine."

"These ar th' ones tha' must put on," Martha ansrd. 
"Mr. Craven ordrd Mrs. Medlock to get 'em in Londn. 
He said `I wont hav a child dresd in blak wanderin'
about like a lost sol,' he said.  `It'd make th place
sadr than it is.  Put color on her.' Mothr she said she
new wat he ment.  Mothr always nos wat a body means. 
She dosnt hold with blak hersel'."

"I hate blak things," said Mary. 

Th dresng process was one wich taut them both somthing. 
Martha had "butnd up" her litl sistrs and brothrs but she
had nevr seen a child ho stood stil and waitd for anothr
persn to do things for her as if she had neithr hands nor feet of her own. 

"Wy dosnt tha' put on tha' own shoes?" she said
wen Mary quietly held out her foot. 

"My Aya did it," ansrd Mary, staring.  "It was th custm."

She said that very ofn--"It was th custm." Th nativ
servnts wer always sayng it.  If one told them to do
a thing ther ancestrs had not don for a thousnd years
they gazed at one mildly and said, "It is not th custm"
and one new that was th end of th matr. 

It had not been th custm that Mistress Mary shud
do anything but stand and alow herself to be dresd
like a dol, but befor she was redy for brekfast she
began to suspect that her life at Misselthwaite Manr
wud end by teachng her a numbr of things quite
new to her--things such as putng on her own shoes
and stokngs, and pikng up things she let fal. 
If Martha had been a wel-traind fine yung lady's maid
she wud hav been mor subservient and respectful and
wud hav nown that it was her busness to brush hair,
and butn boots, and pik things up and lay them away. 
She was, howevr, only an untraind Yorkshr rustic
ho had been brot up in a moorland cotaj with a
swarm of litl brothrs and sistrs ho had nevr
dreamd of doing anything but waitng on themselvs
and on th yungr ones ho wer eithr babis in arms
or just lernng to totr about and tumbl over things. 

If Mary Lennox had been a child ho was redy to be amused
she wud perhaps hav lafd at Martha's rediness to talk,
but Mary only lisnd to her coldly and wondrd at her
fredm of manr.  At first she was not at al intrestd,
but graduly, as th girl ratld on in her good-temprd,
homely way, Mary began to notice wat she was sayng. 

"Eh! u shud se 'em al," she said.  "Ther's twelv
of us an' my fathr only gets sixteen shilng a week.  I can
tel u my mother's put to it to get porij for 'em al. 
They tumbl about on th' moor an' play ther al day an'
mothr says th' air of th' moor fattens 'em. She says she
beleves they eat th' grass same as th' wild ponis do. 
Our Dickon, he's twelv years old and he's got a yung pony
he cals his own."

"Wher did he get it?" askd Mary. 

"He found it on th' moor with its mothr wen it was
a litl one an' he began to make frends with it an'
giv it bits o' bred an' pluk yung grass for it. 
And it got to like him so it folos him about an'
it lets him get on its bak.  Dickon's a kind lad an'
anmls likes him."

Mary had nevr posesd an anml pet of her own
and had always thot she shud like one.  So she
began to feel a slyt intrest in Dickon, and as she
had nevr befor been intrestd in any one but herself,
it was th dawnng of a helthy sentmnt.  Wen she went
into th room wich had been made into a nursry for her,
she found that it was rathr like th one she had slept in. 
It was not a child's room, but a grown-up person's room,
with gloomy old picturs on th walls and hevy old
oak chairs.  A table in th centr was set with a good
substantial brekfast.  But she had always had a very
smal apetite, and she lookd with somthing mor than
indifrnce at th first plate Martha set befor her. 

"I dont want it," she said. 

"Tha' dosnt want thy porij!" Martha exclaimd incredulusly. 

"No."

"Tha' dosnt no how good it is.  Put a bit o'
treacl on it or a bit o' sugr."

"I dont want it," repeatd Mary. 

"Eh!" said Martha.  "I cant abide to se good victuals
go to waste.  If our children was at this table they'd
clean it bare in five minuts."

"Wy?" said Mary coldly.  "Wy!" ecod Martha.  "Because they
scarce evr had ther stomacs ful in ther lives. 
They'r as hungry as yung hawks an' foxs."

"I dont no wat it is to be hungry," said Mary,
with th indifrnce of ignrnce. 

Martha lookd indignnt. 

"Wel, it wud do thee good to try it.  I can se
that plan enuf," she said outspokenly.  "I'v no
patience with folk as sits an' just stares at good
bred an' meat.  My word! dont I wish Dickon and Fil an'
Jane an' th' rest of 'em had wat's here undr ther pinafores."

"Wy dont u take it to them?" sujestd Mary. 

"It's not mine," ansrd Martha stoutly.  "An' this
isnt my day out.  I get my day out once a month same
as th' rest.  Then I go home an' clean up for mothr an'
giv her a day's rest."

Mary drank som te and ate a litl toast and som marmlade. 

"U rap up warm an' run out an' play u," said Martha. 
"It'l do u good and giv u som stomac for yr meat."

Mary went to th windo.  Ther wer gardns and paths
and big tres, but everything lookd dul and wintry. 

"Out? Wy shud I go out on a day like this?" "Wel, if tha'
dosnt go out tha'lt hav to stay in, an' wat has tha'
got to do?"

Mary glanced about her.  Ther was nothing to do. 
Wen Mrs. Medlock had prepared th nursry she had not
thot of amusemnt.  Perhaps it wud be betr to go
and se wat th gardns wer like. 

"Ho wil go with me?" she inquired. 

Martha stared. 

"U'l go by yrself," she ansrd.  "U'l hav to
lern to play like othr children dos wen they havnt
got sistrs and brothrs.  Our Dickon gos off on th'
moor by himself an' plays for ours.  That's how he made
frends with th' pony.  He's got sheep on th' moor that
nos him, an' birds as coms an' eats out of his hand. 
Howevr litl ther is to eat, he always saves a bit o'
his bred to coax his pets."

It was realy this mention of Dickon wich made Mary decide
to go out, tho she was not aware of it.  Ther wud be,
birds outside tho ther wud not be ponis or sheep. 
They wud be difrnt from th birds in India and it
myt amuse her to look at them. 

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

"If tha' gos round that way tha'll com to th' gardns,"
she said, pointng to a gate in a wal of shrubry. 
"Ther's lots o' flowrs in sumr-time, but ther's
nothin' bloomin' now." She seemd to hesitate a secnd
befor she add, "One of th' gardns is lokd up. 
No one has been in it for ten years."

"Wy?" askd Mary in spite of herself.  Here was anothr
lokd dor add to th hundred in th stranje house. 

"Mr. Craven had it shut wen his wife died so sudn. 
He wont let no one go inside.  It was her gardn. 
He lokd th' dor an' dug a hole and burid th' ke. 
Ther's Mrs. Medlock's bel ringng--I must run."

Aftr she was gon Mary turnd down th walk wich led
to th dor in th shrubry.  She cud not help thinkng
about th gardn wich no one had been into for ten years. 
She wondrd wat it wud look like and wethr ther
wer any flowrs stil alive in it.  Wen she had pasd
thru th shrubry gate she found herself in gret gardns,
with wide lawns and windng walks with clipd bordrs. 
Ther wer tres, and flowr-beds, and evrgreens clipd
into stranje shapes, and a larj pool with an old gray
fountn in its midst.  But th flowr-beds wer bare
and wintry and th fountn was not playng.  This was not
th gardn wich was shut up.  How cud a gardn be shut
up? U cud always walk into a gardn. 

She was just thinkng this wen she saw that, at th end
of th path she was foloing, ther seemd to be a
long wal, with ivy groing over it.  She was not familir
enuf with England to no that she was comng upon th
kichn-gardns wher th vejtbls and fruit wer groing. 
She went toward th wal and found that ther was a green
dor in th ivy, and that it stood open.  This was
not th closed gardn, evidntly, and she cud go into it. 

She went thru th dor and found that it was a gardn
with walls al round it and that it was only one of sevrl
wald gardns wich seemd to open into one anothr. 
She saw anothr open green dor, revealng bushs and
pathways between beds containng wintr vejtbls. 
Fruit-tres wer traind flat against th wal,
and over som of th beds ther wer glass frames. 
Th place was bare and ugly enuf, Mary thot, as she
stood and stared about her.  It myt be nicer in sumr
wen things wer green, but ther was nothing pretty about
it now. 

Presntly an old man with a spade over his sholdr walkd
thru th dor leadng from th secnd gardn.  He lookd
startld wen he saw Mary, and then tuchd his cap. 
He had a surly old face, and did not seem at al plesed
to se her--but then she was displesed with his gardn
and wor her "quite contry" expression, and certnly
did not seem at al plesed to se him. 

"Wat is this place?" she askd. 

"One o' th' kichn-gardns," he ansrd. 

"Wat is that?" said Mary, pointng thru th othr
green dor. 

"Anothr of 'em," shortly.  "Ther's anothr on t'other
side o' th' wal an' ther's th' orchrd t'other side o' that."

"Can I go in them?" askd Mary. 

"If tha' likes.  But ther's nowt to se."

Mary made no response.  She went down th path and thru
th secnd green dor.  Ther, she found mor walls
and wintr vejtbls and glass frames, but in th secnd
wal ther was anothr green dor and it was not open. 
Perhaps it led into th gardn wich no one had seen for
ten years.  As she was not at al a timid child and always
did wat she wantd to do, Mary went to th green dor
and turnd th handl.  She hoped th dor wud not open
because she wantd to be sure she had found th mysterius
gardn--but it did open quite esily and she walkd
thru it and found herself in an orchrd.  Ther wer
walls al round it also and tres traind against them,
and ther wer bare fruit-tres groing in th wintr-brownd
grass--but ther was no green dor to be seen anywher. 
Mary lookd for it, and yet wen she had entrd th
upr end of th gardn she had noticed that th wal
did not seem to end with th orchrd but to extend
beyond it as if it enclosed a place at th othr side. 
She cud se th tops of tres abov th wal,
and wen she stood stil she saw a bird with a bryt
red brest sitng on th topmost branch of one of them,
and sudnly he burst into his wintr song--almost
as if he had caut syt of her and was calng to her. 

She stopd and lisnd to him and somhow his cheerful,
frendly litl wisl gave her a plesed feelng--even
a disagreeabl litl girl may be lonely, and th big closed
house and big bare moor and big bare gardns had made this
one feel as if ther was no one left in th world but herself. 
If she had been an afectionat child, ho had been
used to being lovd, she wud hav broken her hart,
but even tho she was "Mistress Mary Quite Contry"
she was desolate, and th bryt-brestd litl bird
brot a look into her sour litl face wich was almost
a smile.  She lisnd to him until he flew away. 
He was not like an Indian bird and she liked him and
wondrd if she shud evr se him again.  Perhaps he
livd in th mysterius gardn and new al about it. 

Perhaps it was because she had nothing watevr to do
that she thot so much of th desertd gardn.  She was
curius about it and wantd to se wat it was like. 
Wy had Mr. Archibald Craven burid th ke? If he
had liked his wife so much wy did he hate her gardn?
She wondrd if she shud evr se him, but she new
that if she did she shud not like him, and he wud
not like her, and that she shud only stand and stare
at him and say nothing, tho she shud be wantng
dredfuly to ask him wy he had don such a queer thing. 

"Peple nevr like me and I nevr like peple," she thot. 
"And I nevr can talk as th Crawford children cud. 
They wer always talkng and lafng and making noises."

She thot of th robn and of th way he seemd to sing
his song at her, and as she remembrd th tre-top he
perchd on she stopd rathr sudnly on th path. 

"I beleve that tre was in th secret gardn--I feel sure
it was," she said.  "Ther was a wal round th place
and ther was no dor."

She walkd bak into th first kichn-gardn she had entrd
and found th old man digng ther.  She went and stood beside
him and wachd him a few moments in her cold litl way. 
He took no notice of her and so at last she spoke to him. 

"I hav been into th othr gardns," she said. 

"Ther was nothin' to prevent thee," he ansrd crustily. 

"I went into th orchrd."

"Ther was no dog at th' dor to bite thee," he ansrd. 

"Ther was no dor ther into th othr gardn,"
said Mary. 

"Wat gardn?" he said in a ruf voice, stopng his
digng for a moment. 

"Th one on th othr side of th wal," ansrd Mistress Mary. 
"Ther ar tres ther--I saw th tops of them.  A bird
with a red brest was sitng on one of them and he sang."

To her surprise th surly old wethr-beatn face
actuly chanjed its expression.  A slo smile spred
over it and th gardnr lookd quite difrnt.  It made
her think that it was curius how much nicer a persn
lookd wen he smiled.  She had not thot of it befor. 

He turnd about to th orchrd side of his gardn and began
to wisl--a lo soft wisl.  She cud not undrstand
how such a surly man cud make such a coaxng sound. 
Almost th next moment a wondrful thing hapnd. 
She herd a soft litl rushng flyt thru th air--and
it was th bird with th red brest flyng to them,
and he actuly alytd on th big clod of erth quite near
to th gardener's foot. 

"Here he is," chukld th old man, and then he spoke
to th bird as if he wer speakng to a child. 

"Wher has tha' been, tha' cheeky litl begr?"
he said.  "I'v not seen thee befor today.  Has tha,
begun tha' courtin' this erly in th' seasn? Tha'rt
too forrad."

Th bird put his tiny hed on one side and lookd up at him
with his soft bryt y wich was like a blak dewdrop. 
He seemd quite familir and not th least afraid. 
He hopd about and pekd th erth briskly, lookng for
seeds and insects.  It actuly gave Mary a queer feelng
in her hart, because he was so pretty and cheerful
and seemd so like a persn.  He had a tiny plump body
and a delicat beak, and slendr delicat legs. 

"Wil he always com wen u cal him?" she askd almost
in a wispr. 

"Y, that he wil.  I'v noed him evr since he was
a flejlng.  He com out of th' nest in th' othr gardn an'
wen first he flew over th' wal he was too weak to fly
bak for a few days an' we got frendly.  Wen he went
over th' wal again th' rest of th' brood was gon an'
he was lonely an' he com bak to me."

"Wat kind of a bird is he?" Mary askd. 

"Dosnt tha' no? He's a robn redbreast an'
they'r th' frendliest, curiousest birds alive. 
They'r almost as frendly as dogs--if u no how to get
on with 'em. Wach him peckin' about ther an' lookn'
round at us now an' again.  He nos we'r talkn about him."

It was th queerest thing in th world to se th old felo. 
He lookd at th plump litl scarlet-waistcoated bird
as if he wer both proud and fond of him. 

"He's a conceitd one," he chukld.  "He likes to hear
folk talk about him.  An' curius--bless me, ther nevr
was his like for curiosity an' meddlin'. He's always comin'
to se wat I'm plantin'. He nos al th' things Mester
Craven nevr trubls hissel' to find out.  He's th'
hed gardnr, he is."

Th robn hopd about busily pekng th soil and now
and then stopd and lookd at them a litl.  Mary thot
his blak dewdrop ys gazed at her with gret curiosity. 
It realy seemd as if he wer findng out al about her. 
Th queer feelng in her hart incresed.  "Wher did th
rest of th brood fly to?" she askd. 

"Ther's no knowin'. Th old ones turn 'em out o' ther nest an'
make 'em fly an' they'r scatrd befor u no it. 
This one was a knowin' one an, he new he was lonely."

Mistress Mary went a step nearr to th robn and lookd
at him very hard. 

"I'm lonely," she said. 

She had not nown befor that this was one of th things
wich made her feel sour and cross.  She seemd to find
it out wen th robn lookd at her and she lookd
at th robn. 

Th old gardnr pushd his cap bak on his bald hed
and stared at her a minut. 

"Art tha' th' litl wench from India?" he askd. 

Mary nodd. 

"Then no wondr tha'rt lonely.  Tha'lt be lonlier befor
tha's don," he said. 

He began to dig again, driving his spade deep into
th rich blak gardn soil wile th robn hopd
about very busily employd. 

"Wat is yr name?" Mary inquired. 

He stood up to ansr her. 

"Ben Weatherstaff," he ansrd, and then he add with a
surly chukl, "I'm lonely mysel' exept wen he's with me,"
and he jerkd his thum toward th robn.  "He's th'
only frend I'v got."

"I hav no frends at al," said Mary.  "I nevr had. 
My Aya didnt like me and I nevr playd with any one."

It is a Yorkshr habit to say wat u think with
blunt frankness, and old Ben Weatherstaff was a Yorkshr
moor man. 

"Tha' an' me ar a good bit alike," he said. 
"We was wove out of th' same cloth.  We'r neithr of us
good lookn' an' we'r both of us as sour as we look. 
We'v got th same nasty temprs, both of us, I'l warant."

This was plan speakng, and Mary Lennox had nevr herd
th truth about herself in her life.  Nativ servnts
always salaamed and submitd to u, watevr u did. 
She had nevr thot much about her looks, but she wondrd
if she was as unatractiv as Ben Weatherstaff and she
also wondrd if she lookd as sour as he had lookd
befor th robn came.  She actuly began to wondr
also if she was "nasty temprd." She felt uncomfrtbl. 

Sudnly a clear riplng litl sound broke out near
her and she turnd round.  She was standng a few feet
from a yung apl-tre and th robn had flown on to one
of its branchs and had burst out into a scrap of a song. 
Ben Weatherstaff lafd outryt. 

"Wat did he do that for?" askd Mary. 

"He's made up his mind to make frends with thee,"
replyd Ben.  "Dang me if he hasnt took a fancy to thee."

"To me?" said Mary, and she moved toward th litl tre
softly and lookd up. 

"Wud u make frends with me?" she said to th robn
just as if she was speakng to a persn.  "Wud u?"
And she did not say it eithr in her hard litl voice
or in her imperius Indian voice, but in a tone so soft
and eagr and coaxng that Ben Weatherstaff was as surprised
as she had been wen she herd him wisl. 

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

"Do u no Dickon?" Mary askd, turnng round rathr
in a hurry. 

"Evrybody nos him.  Dickon's wanderin' about evrywher. 
Th' very blakberris an' hethr-bels nos him. 
I warant th' foxs shos him wher ther cubs
lies an' th' skylarks dosnt hide ther nests from him."

Mary wud hav liked to ask som mor questions. 
She was almost as curius about Dickon as she was about
th desertd gardn.  But just that moment th robn,
ho had endd his song, gave a litl shake of his wings,
spred them and flew away.  He had made his visit and had
othr things to do. 

"He has flown over th wal!" Mary cryd out, wachng him. 
"He has flown into th orchrd--he has flown across th
othr wal--into th gardn wher ther is no dor!"

"He lives ther," said old Ben.  "He came out o' th' eg ther. 
If he's courtin', he's makin' up to som yung madm
of a robn that lives among th' old rose-tres ther."

"Rose-tres," said Mary.  "Ar ther rose-tres?"

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

"Ther was ten year' ago," he mumbld. 

"I shud like to se them," said Mary.  "Wher is
th green dor? Ther must be a dor somwher."

Ben drove his spade deep and lookd as uncompanionable
as he had lookd wen she first saw him. 

"Ther was ten year' ago, but ther isnt now," he said. 

"No dor!" cryd Mary.  "Ther must be." "Non as any
one can find, an' non as is any one's busness. 
Dont u be a meddlesome wench an' poke yr nose wher
it's no cause to go.  Here, I must go on with my work. 
Get u gon an' play u.  I'v no mor time."

And he actuly stopd digng, threw his spade over
his sholdr and walkd off, without even glancing
at her or sayng good-by.



CHAPTR V

TH CRY IN TH CORIDR


At first each day wich pasd by for Mary Lennox
was exactly like th othrs.  Evry mornng she awoke
in her tapestried room and found Martha neelng upon
th harth bildng her fire; evry mornng she ate her
brekfast in th nursry wich had nothing amusing in it;
and aftr each brekfast she gazed out of th windo
across to th huje moor wich seemd to spred out on al
sides and climb up to th sky, and aftr she had stared
for a wile she realized that if she did not go out she
wud hav to stay in and do nothing--and so she went out. 
She did not no that this was th best thing she cud
hav don, and she did not no that, wen she began to walk
quikly or even run along th paths and down th avnu,
she was stirng her slo blod and making herself strongr
by fytng with th wind wich swept down from th moor. 
She ran only to make herself warm, and she hated th wind
wich rushd at her face and rord and held her bak
as if it wer som jiant she cud not se.  But th big
breths of ruf fresh air blown over th hethr fild
her lungs with somthing wich was good for her hole
thin body and wipd som red color into her cheeks and
brytnd her dul ys wen she did not no anything
about it. 

But aftr a few days spent almost entirely out of dors
she wakend one mornng noing wat it was to be hungry,
and wen she sat down to her brekfast she did not glance
disdainfuly at her porij and push it away, but took
up her spoon and began to eat it and went on eatng it
until her bol was emty. 

"Tha' got on wel enuf with that this mornn', didnt tha'?"
said Martha. 

"It tastes nice today," said Mary, feelng a litl
surprised her self. 

"It's th' air of th' moor that's givin' thee stomac
for tha' victuals," ansrd Martha.  "It's lucky
for thee that tha's got victuals as wel as apetite. 
Ther's been twelv in our cotaj as had th' stomac an'
nothin' to put in it.  U go on playin' u out o'
dors evry day an' u'l get som flesh on yr bones an'
u wont be so yeller."

"I dont play," said Mary.  "I hav nothing to play with."

"Nothin' to play with!" exclaimd Martha.  "Our children
plays with stiks and stones.  They just runs about an'
shouts an' looks at things." Mary did not shout,
but she lookd at things.  Ther was nothing else to do. 
She walkd round and round th gardns and wandrd
about th paths in th park.  Somtimes she lookd for
Ben Weatherstaff, but tho sevrl times she saw him
at work he was too busy to look at her or was too surly. 
Once wen she was walkng toward him he pikd up his spade
and turnd away as if he did it on purpos. 

One place she went to oftener than to any othr. 
It was th long walk outside th gardns with th walls
round them.  Ther wer bare flowr-beds on eithr
side of it and against th walls ivy grew thikly. 
Ther was one part of th wal wher th creepng dark
green leavs wer mor bushy than elswher.  It seemd
as if for a long time that part had been neglectd. 
Th rest of it had been clipd and made to look neat,
but at this loer end of th walk it had not been trimd
at al. 

A few days aftr she had talkd to Ben Weatherstaff,
Mary stopd to notice this and wondrd wy it was so. 
She had just pausd and was lookng up at a long spray of ivy
swingng in th wind wen she saw a gleam of scarlet and
herd a briliant chirp, and ther, on th top of th wal,
forwrd perchd Ben Weatherstaff's robn redbreast,
tiltng forwrd to look at her with his smal hed on
one side. 

"O!" she cryd out, "is it u--is it u?" And it
did not seem at al queer to her that she spoke to him
as if she wer sure that he wud undrstand and ansr her. 

He did ansr.  He twittered and chirped and hopd along
th wal as if he wer telng her al sorts of things. 
It seemd to Mistress Mary as if she undrstood him, too,
tho he was not speakng in words.  It was as if he
said:

"Good mornng! Isnt th wind nice? Isnt th sun nice? Isnt
everything nice? Let us both chirp and hop and twitr. 
Com on! Com on!"

Mary began to laf, and as he hopd and took litl flyts
along th wal she ran aftr him.  Poor litl thin, salo,
ugly Mary--she actuly lookd almost pretty for a moment. 

"I like u! I like u!" she cryd out, patrng down th walk;
and she chirped and tryd to wisl, wich last she did
not no how to do in th least.  But th robn seemd
to be quite satisfyd and chirped and wisld bak at her. 
At last he spred his wings and made a dartng flyt
to th top of a tre, wher he perchd and sang loudly. 
That remindd Mary of th first time she had seen him. 
He had been swingng on a tre-top then and she had been
standng in th orchrd.  Now she was on th othr side
of th orchrd and standng in th path outside a wal--much
loer down--and ther was th same tre inside. 

"It's in th gardn no one can go into," she said to herself. 
"It's th gardn without a dor.  He lives in ther. 
How I wish I cud se wat it is like!"

She ran up th walk to th green dor she had entrd
th first mornng.  Then she ran down th path thru
th othr dor and then into th orchrd, and wen she
stood and lookd up ther was th tre on th othr side
of th wal, and ther was th robn just finishng his
song and, beginng to preen his fethrs with his beak. 

"It is th gardn," she said.  "I am sure it is."

She walkd round and lookd closely at that side of th
orchrd wal, but she only found wat she had found
befor--that ther was no dor in it.  Then she ran
thru th kichn-gardns again and out into th walk
outside th long ivy-covrd wal, and she walkd to
th end of it and lookd at it, but ther was no dor;
and then she walkd to th othr end, lookng again,
but ther was no dor. 

"It's very queer," she said.  "Ben Weatherstaff said
ther was no dor and ther is no dor.  But ther must
hav been one ten years ago, because Mr. Craven burid
th ke."

This gave her so much to think of that she began to be
quite intrestd and feel that she was not sorry that she
had com to Misselthwaite Manr.  In India she had always
felt hot and too languid to care much about anything. 
Th fact was that th fresh wind from th moor had begun
to blo th cobwebs out of her yung brain and to waken
her up a litl. 

She stayd out of dors nearly al day, and wen she sat
down to her supr at nyt she felt hungry and drowsy
and comfrtbl.  She did not feel cross wen Martha
chatrd away.  She felt as if she rathr liked to hear her,
and at last she thot she wud ask her a question. 
She askd it aftr she had finishd her supr and had sat
down on th harth-rug befor th fire. 

"Wy did Mr. Craven hate th gardn?" she said. 

She had made Martha stay with her and Martha had not
objectd at al.  She was very yung, and used to a crowdd
cotaj ful of brothrs and sistrs, and she found it
dul in th gret servants' hal downstairs wher th
footman and upr-housmaids made fun of her Yorkshr
speech and lookd upon her as a comn litl thing,
and sat and wisprd among themselvs.  Martha liked
to talk, and th stranje child ho had livd in India,
and been waitd upon by "blaks," was novlty enuf
to atract her. 

She sat down on th harth herself without waitng
to be askd. 

"Art tha' thinkin' about that gardn yet?" she said. 
"I new tha' wud.  That was just th way with me wen I
first herd about it."

"Wy did he hate it?" Mary persistd. 

Martha tukd her feet undr her and made herself
quite comfrtbl. 

"Lisn to th' wind wutherin' round th house," she said. 
"U cud bare stand up on th moor if u was out on
it tonyt."

Mary did not no wat "wutherin'" ment until she lisnd,
and then she undrstood.  It must mean that holo
shudrng sort of ror wich rushd round and round th
house as if th jiant no one cud se wer bufetng it
and beatng at th walls and windos to try to brek in. 
But one new he cud not get in, and somhow it made
one feel very safe and warm inside a room with a red
coal fire. 

"But wy did he hate it so?" she askd, aftr she
had lisnd.  She intendd to no if Martha did. 

Then Martha gave up her stor of nolej. 

"Mind," she said, "Mrs. Medlock said it's not to be
talkd about.  Ther's lots o' things in this place that's
not to be talkd over.  That's Mr. Craven's ordrs. 
His trubls ar non servants' busness, he says. 
But for th' gardn he wudnt be like he is.  It was
Mrs. Craven's gardn that she had made wen first they
wer marrid an' she just lovd it, an' they used to 'tend
th flowrs themselvs.  An' non o' th' gardnrs was
evr let to go in.  Him an' her used to go in an'
shut th' dor an' stay ther ours an' ours, readin'
and talkn. An, she was just a bit of a girl an'
ther was an old tre with a branch bent like a seat
on it.  An' she made roses gro over it an' she used
to sit ther.  But one day wen she was sittin' ther th'
branch broke an' she fel on th' ground an' was hurt
so bad that next day she died.  Th' doctrs thot he'd
go out o' his mind an' die, too.  That's wy he hates it. 
No one's nevr gon in since, an' he wont let any one talk
about it."

Mary did not ask any mor questions.  She lookd at
th red fire and lisnd to th wind "wutherin'."
It seemd to be "wutherin'" loudr than evr. 
At that moment a very good thing was hapnng to her. 
Four good things had hapnd to her, in fact, since she
came to Misselthwaite Manr.  She had felt as if she
had undrstood a robn and that he had undrstood her;
she had run in th wind until her blod had grown warm;
she had been helthily hungry for th first time in her life;
and she had found out wat it was to be sorry for som one. 

But as she was lisnng to th wind she began to lisn
to somthing else.  She did not no wat it was,
because at first she cud scarcely distinguish it from
th wind itself.  It was a curius sound--it seemd almost
as if a child wer cryng somwher.  Somtimes th wind
soundd rathr like a child cryng, but presntly Mistress
Mary felt quite sure this sound was inside th house,
not outside it.  It was far away, but it was inside. 
She turnd round and lookd at Martha. 

"Do u hear any one cryng?" she said. 

Martha sudnly lookd confused. 

"No," she ansrd.  "It's th' wind.  Somtimes it
sounds like as if som one was lost on th' moor an'
wailin'. It's got al sorts o' sounds."

"But lisn," said Mary.  "It's in th house--down one
of those long coridrs."

And at that very moment a dor must hav been opend
somwher downstairs; for a gret rushng draft blew along
th passaj and th dor of th room they sat in was blown
open with a crash, and as they both jumpd to ther feet
th lyt was blown out and th cryng sound was swept down
th far coridr so that it was to be herd mor plainly than evr. 

"Ther!" said Mary.  "I told u so! It is som one
cryng--and it isnt a grown-up persn."

Martha ran and shut th dor and turnd th ke, but befor
she did it they both herd th sound of a dor in som far
passaj shutng with a bang, and then everything was quiet,
for even th wind cesed "wutherin'" for a few moments. 

"It was th' wind," said Martha stubrnly. 
"An' if it wasnt, it was litl Betty Butterworth,
th' sculry-maid. She's had th' toothache al day."

But somthing trubld and awkwrd in her manr made
Mistress Mary stare very hard at her.  She did not beleve
she was speakng th truth. 



CHAPTR VI

"THER WAS SOM ONE CRYNG--THER WAS!"


Th next day th rain pord down in torents again,
and wen Mary lookd out of her windo th moor was almost
hidn by gray mist and cloud.  Ther cud be no going
out today. 

"Wat do u do in yr cotaj wen it rains like this?"
she askd Martha. 

"Try to keep from undr each other's feet mostly,"
Martha ansrd.  "Eh! ther dos seem a lot of us then. 
Mother's a good-temprd womn but she gets fair moithered. 
Th bigst ones gos out in th' cow-shed and plays ther. 
Dickon he dosnt mind th' wet.  He gos out just th'
same as if th' sun was shinin'. He says he ses things
on rainy days as dosnt sho wen it's fair wethr. 
He once found a litl fox cub half drownd in its hole and he
brot it home in th' bosm of his shirt to keep it warm. 
Its mothr had been kild nearby an' th' hole was swum
out an' th' rest o' th' litr was ded.  He's got it at
home now.  He found a half-drownd yung cro anothr time an'
he brot it home, too, an' tamed it.  It's named Soot
because it's so blak, an' it hops an' flys about with
him evrywher."

Th time had com wen Mary had forgotn to resent
Martha's familir talk.  She had even begun to find it
intrestng and to be sorry wen she stopd or went away. 
Th storis she had been told by her Aya wen she livd
in India had been quite unlike those Martha had to tel about
th moorland cotaj wich held forteen peple ho livd
in four litl rooms and nevr had quite enuf to eat. 
Th children seemd to tumbl about and amuse themselvs
like a litr of ruf, good-naturd colli puppis. 
Mary was most atractd by th mothr and Dickon. 
Wen Martha told storis of wat "mothr" said or did they
always soundd comfrtbl. 

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

Martha lookd perplexd. 

"Can tha' nit?" she askd. 

"No," ansrd Mary. 

"Can tha'sew?"

"No."

"Can tha' red?"

"Yes."

"Then wy dosnt tha, red somethin', or lern a bit o'
spellin'? Tha'st old enuf to be learnin' thy book a good
bit now."

"I havnt any books," said Mary.  "Those I had wer left
in India."

"That's a pity," said Martha.  "If Mrs. Medlock'd let thee
go into th' libry, ther's thousnds o' books ther."

Mary did not ask wher th libry was, because she was
sudnly inspired by a new idea.  She made up her mind
to go and find it herself.  She was not trubld about
Mrs. Medlock.  Mrs. Medlock seemd always to be in her
comfrtbl housekeeper's sitng-room downstairs. 
In this queer place one scarcely evr saw any one at al. 
In fact, ther was no one to se but th servnts,
and wen ther mastr was away they livd a luxurius
life belo stairs, wher ther was a huje kichn hung
about with shining brass and pewtr, and a larj servants'
hal wher ther wer four or five abundnt meals eatn
evry day, and wher a gret deal of lively rompng went on
wen Mrs. Medlock was out of th way. 

Mary's meals wer servd regulrly, and Martha waitd on her,
but no one trubld themselvs about her in th least. 
Mrs. Medlock came and lookd at her evry day or two,
but no one inquired wat she did or told her wat to do. 
She suposed that perhaps this was th English way of
treatng children.  In India she had always been atendd
by her Aya, ho had folod her about and waitd on her,
hand and foot.  She had ofn been tired of her compny. 
Now she was folod by nobody and was lernng to dress
herself because Martha lookd as tho she thot she was
silly and stupid wen she wantd to hav things handd to her
and put on. 

"Hasnt tha' got good sense?" she said once, wen Mary
had stood waitng for her to put on her glovs for her. 
"Our Susan Ann is twice as sharp as thee an' she's only
four year' old.  Somtimes tha' looks fair soft in th' hed."

Mary had worn her contry scowl for an our aftr that,
but it made her think sevrl entirely new things. 

She stood at th windo for about ten minuts this mornng
aftr Martha had swept up th harth for th last time
and gon downstairs.  She was thinkng over th new idea
wich had com to her wen she herd of th libry. 
She did not care very much about th libry itself,
because she had red very few books; but to hear of it brot
bak to her mind th hundred rooms with closed dors. 
She wondrd if they wer al realy lokd and wat
she wud find if she cud get into any of them. 
Wer ther a hundred realy? Wy shudnt she go and se
how many dors she cud count? It wud be somthing
to do on this mornng wen she cud not go out. 
She had nevr been taut to ask permission to do things,
and she new nothing at al about authority, so she wud
not hav thot it necesry to ask Mrs. Medlock if she
myt walk about th house, even if she had seen her. 

She opend th dor of th room and went into th coridr,
and then she began her wandrngs.  It was a long coridr
and it branchd into othr coridrs and it led her up
short flyts of steps wich mountd to othrs again. 
Ther wer dors and dors, and ther wer picturs
on th walls.  Somtimes they wer picturs of dark,
curius landscapes, but oftenest they wer portrits
of men and women in queer, grand costumes made of satn
and velvet.  She found herself in one long galry
hos walls wer covrd with these portrits.  She had
nevr thot ther cud be so many in any house. 
She walkd sloly down this place and stared at th faces
wich also seemd to stare at her.  She felt as if they
wer wondrng wat a litl girl from India was doing
in ther house.  Som wer picturs of children--litl
girls in thik satn froks wich reachd to ther feet
and stood out about them, and boys with pufd sleves
and lace colrs and long hair, or with big rufs around
ther neks.  She always stopd to look at th children,
and wondr wat ther names wer, and wher they had gon,
and wy they wor such od clothes.  Ther was a stif,
plan litl girl rathr like herself.  She wor a green
brocade dress and held a green parot on her fingr. 
Her ys had a sharp, curius look. 

"Wher do u liv now?" said Mary aloud to her. 
"I wish u wer here."

Surely no othr litl girl evr spent such a queer mornng. 
It seemd as if ther was no one in al th huje ramblng
house but her own smal self, wandrng about upstairs
and down, thru naro passajs and wide ones, wher it
seemd to her that no one but herself had evr walkd. 
Since so many rooms had been bilt, peple must hav livd
in them, but it al seemd so emty that she cud not quite
beleve it tru. 

It was not until she climbd to th secnd flor that she
thot of turnng th handl of a dor.  Al th dors
wer shut, as Mrs. Medlock had said they wer, but at last she
put her hand on th handl of one of them and turnd it. 
She was almost frytnd for a moment wen she felt
that it turnd without dificlty and that wen she pushd
upon th dor itself it sloly and hevily opend. 
It was a massiv dor and opend into a big bedroom. 
Ther wer embroidrd hangngs on th wal, and inlaid
furnitur such as she had seen in India stood about th room. 
A brod windo with ledd panes lookd out upon th moor;
and over th mantl was anothr portrit of th stif,
plan litl girl ho seemd to stare at her mor curiusly
than evr. 

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

Aftr that she opend mor dors and mor.  She saw
so many rooms that she became quite tired and began
to think that ther must be a hundred, tho she had not
countd them.  In al of them ther wer old picturs
or old tapestris with stranje senes workd on them. 
Ther wer curius peces of furnitur and curius
ornmnts in nearly al of them. 

In one room, wich lookd like a lady's sitng-room,
th hangngs wer al embroidrd velvet, and in a cabnet
wer about a hundred litl elefnts made of ivory. 
They wer of difrnt sizes, and som had ther mahouts
or palanquins on ther baks.  Som wer much bigr than th
othrs and som wer so tiny that they seemd only babis. 
Mary had seen carvd ivory in India and she new al
about elefnts.  She opend th dor of th cabnet
and stood on a footstool and playd with these for quite
a long time.  Wen she got tired she set th elefnts
in ordr and shut th dor of th cabnet. 

In al her wandrngs thru th long coridrs and th
emty rooms, she had seen nothing alive; but in this
room she saw somthing.  Just aftr she had closed th
cabnet dor she herd a tiny ruslng sound.  It made
her jump and look around at th sofa by th fireplace,
from wich it seemd to com.  In th cornr of th sofa
ther was a cushn, and in th velvet wich covrd
it ther was a hole, and out of th hole peepd a tiny
hed with a pair of tytnd ys in it. 

Mary crept softly across th room to look.  Th bryt ys
belongd to a litl gray mouse, and th mouse had eatn
a hole into th cushn and made a comfrtbl nest ther. 
Six baby mice wer cudld up asleep near her.  If ther
was no one else alive in th hundred rooms ther wer
sevn mice ho did not look lonely at al. 

"If they wudnt be so frytnd I wud take them bak
with me," said Mary. 

She had wandrd about long enuf to feel too tired
to wandr any farthr, and she turnd bak.  Two or thre
times she lost her way by turnng down th rong coridr
and was oblijed to rambl up and down until she found
th ryt one; but at last she reachd her own flor again,
tho she was som distnce from her own room and did
not no exactly wher she was. 

"I beleve I hav taken a rong turnng again," she said,
standng stil at wat seemd th end of a short passaj
with tapestry on th wal.  "I dont no wich way to go. 
How stil everything is!"

It was wile she was standng here and just aftr she
had said this that th stilness was broken by a sound. 
It was anothr cry, but not quite like th one she had herd
last nyt; it was only a short one, a fretful childish
wine mufld by pasng thru walls. 

"It's nearr than it was," said Mary, her hart beatng
rathr fastr.  "And it is cryng."

She put her hand accidently upon th tapestry near her,
and then sprang bak, feelng quite startld.  Th tapestry
was th covrng of a dor wich fel open and showd
her that ther was anothr part of th coridr behind it,
and Mrs. Medlock was comng up it with her bunch of kes
in her hand and a very cross look on her face. 

"Wat ar u doing here?" she said, and she took Mary
by th arm and puld her away.  "Wat did I tel u?"

"I turnd round th rong cornr," explaind Mary. 
"I didnt no wich way to go and I herd som one cryng."
She quite hated Mrs. Medlock at th moment, but she hated
her mor th next. 

"U didnt hear anything of th sort," said th houskeepr. 
"U com along bak to yr own nursry or I'l box
yr ears."

And she took her by th arm and half pushd, half puld
her up one passaj and down anothr until she pushd
her in at th dor of her own room. 

"Now," she said, "u stay wher u'r told to stay
or u'l find yrself lokd up.  Th mastr had
betr get u a govrness, same as he said he wud. 
U'r one that needs som one to look sharp aftr u. 
I'v got enuf to do."

She went out of th room and slamd th dor aftr her,
and Mary went and sat on th harth-rug, pale with raje. 
She did not cry, but ground her teeth. 

"Ther was som one cryng--ther was--ther was!"
she said to herself. 

She had herd it twice now, and somtime she wud find out. 
She had found out a gret deal this mornng.  She felt
as if she had been on a long jurny, and at any rate
she had had somthing to amuse her al th time, and she
had playd with th ivory elefnts and had seen th gray
mouse and its babis in ther nest in th velvet cushn. 



CHAPTR VII

TH KE TO TH GARDN


Two days aftr this, wen Mary opend her ys she sat
upryt in bed imediatly, and cald to Martha. 

"Look at th moor! Look at th moor!"

Th rainstorm had endd and th gray mist and clouds
had been swept away in th nyt by th wind.  Th wind
itself had cesed and a briliant, deep blu sky archd
hy over th moorland.  Nevr, nevr had Mary dreamd
of a sky so blu.  In India skys wer hot and blazing;
this was of a deep cool blu wich almost seemd to
sparkl like th watrs of som lovly botmless lake,
and here and ther, hy, hy in th archd bluness
floatd smal clouds of sno-wite fleece.  Th far-reachng
world of th moor itself lookd softly blu insted
of gloomy purpl-blak or awful dreary gray. 

"Y," said Martha with a cheerful grin.  "Th' storm's
over for a bit.  It dos like this at this time o'
th' year.  It gos off in a nyt like it was pretendin'
it had nevr been here an' nevr ment to com again. 
That's because th' springtime's on its way.  It's a long
way off yet, but it's comin'."

"I thot perhaps it always raind or lookd dark
in England," Mary said. 

"Eh! no!" said Martha, sitng up on her heels among
her blak led brushs.  "Nowt o' th' soart!"

"Wat dos that mean?" askd Mary seriusly.  In India
th nativs spoke difrnt dialects wich only a few
peple undrstood, so she was not surprised wen Martha
used words she did not no. 

Martha lafd as she had don th first mornng. 

"Ther now," she said.  "I'v talkd brod Yorkshr again
like Mrs. Medlock said I musnt. `Nowt o' th' soart'
means `nothin'-of-th-sort,'" sloly and carefuly,
"but it takes so long to say it.  Yorkshire's th'
sunniest place on erth wen it is sunny.  I told thee
tha'd like th' moor aftr a bit.  Just u wait til u
se th' gold-colord gorse blosms an' th' blosms o'
th' broom, an' th' hethr flowerin', al purpl bels, an'
hundreds o' butrflys flutterin' an' bes hummin' an'
skylarks soarin' up an' singin'. U'l want to get out on
it as sunrise an' liv out on it al day like Dickon dos."
"Cud I evr get ther?" askd Mary wistfuly,
lookng thru her windo at th far-off blu. 
It was so new and big and wondrful and such a hevnly color. 

"I dont no," ansrd Martha.  "Tha's nevr used tha'
legs since tha' was born, it seems to me.  Tha' cudnt walk
five mile.  It's five mile to our cotaj."

"I shud like to se yr cotaj."

Martha stared at her a moment curiusly befor she took
up her polishng brush and began to rub th grate again. 
She was thining that th smal plan face did not look quite
as sour at this moment as it had don th first mornng
she saw it.  It lookd just a trifle like litl Susan
Ann's wen she wantd somthing very much. 

"I'l ask my mothr about it," she said.  "She's one o'
them that nearly always ses 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' mothr.  Perhaps she cud talk
to her."

"I like yr mothr," said Mary. 

"I shud think tha' did," agreed Martha, polishng away. 

"I'v nevr seen her," said Mary. 

"No, tha' hasnt," replyd Martha. 

She sat up on her heels again and rubd th end of her
nose with th bak of her hand as if puzld for a moment,
but she endd quite positivly. 

"Wel, she's that sensbl an' hard workn' an' goodnatured an'
clean that no one cud help likin' her wethr they'd
seen her or not.  Wen I'm goin' home to her on my day
out I just jump for joy wen I'm crossin' th moor."

"I like Dickon," add Mary.  "And I'v nevr seen him."

"Wel," said Martha stoutly, "I'v told thee that th'
very birds likes him an' th' rabits an' wild sheep an'
ponis, an' th' foxs themselvs.  I wondr," staring at
her reflectivly, "wat Dickon wud think of thee?"

"He wudnt like me," said Mary in her stif,
cold litl way.  "No one dos."

Martha lookd reflectiv again. 

"How dos tha' like thysel'?" she inquired, realy quite
as if she wer curius to no. 

Mary hesitated a moment and thot it over. 

"Not at al--realy," she ansrd.  "But I nevr thot
of that befor."

Martha grinnd a litl as if at som homely reclection. 

"Mothr said that to me once," she said.  "She was at her
wash- tub an' I was in a bad tempr an' talkn il of folk,
an' she turns round on me an' says: `Tha' yung vixn,
tha'! Ther tha' stands sayin' tha' dosnt like this one an'
tha' dosnt like that one.  How dos tha' like thysel'?'
It made me laf an' it brot me to my senses in a minut."

She went away in hy spirits as soon as she had givn
Mary her brekfast.  She was going to walk five miles
across th moor to th cotaj, and she was going to help
her mothr with th washng and do th week's baking
and enjoy herself thoroly. 

Mary felt lonelir than evr wen she new she was no longr
in th house.  She went out into th gardn as quikly
as posbl, and th first thing she did was to run
round and round th fountn flowr gardn ten times. 
She countd th times carefuly and wen she had finishd
she felt in betr spirits.  Th sunshine made th
hole place look difrnt.  Th hy, deep, blu sky
archd over Misselthwaite as wel as over th moor,
and she kept liftng her face and lookng up into it,
tryng to imajn wat it wud be like to lie down on
one of th litl sno-wite clouds and float about. 
She went into th first kichn-gardn and found Ben
Weatherstaff workng ther with two othr gardnrs. 
Th chanje in th wethr seemd to hav don him good. 
He spoke to her of his own acord.  "Springtime's comin,'"
he said.  "Canot tha' smel it?"

Mary snifd and thot she cud. 

"I smel somthing nice and fresh and damp," she said. 

"That's th' good rich erth," he ansrd, digng away. 
"It's in a good humor makin' redy to gro things. 
It's glad wen plantin' time coms.  It's dul in th'
wintr wen it's got nowt to do.  In th' flowr gardns out
ther things wil be stirrin' down belo in th' dark.  Th'
sun's warmin' 'em. U'l se bits o' green spikes stickin'
out o' th' blak erth aftr a bit."

"Wat wil they be?" askd Mary. 

"Crocuses an' snowdrops an' daffydowndillys.  Has tha'
nevr seen them?"

"No. Everything is hot, and wet, and green aftr th
rains in India," said Mary.  "And I think things gro
up in a nyt."

"These wont gro up in a nyt," said Weatherstaff. 
"Tha'll hav to wait for 'em. They'l poke up a bit
hyr here, an' push out a spike mor ther, an' uncurl a
leaf this day an' anothr that.  U wach 'em."

"I am going to," ansrd Mary. 

Very soon she herd th soft ruslng flyt of wings
again and she new at once that th robn had com again. 
He was very pert and lively, and hopd about so close
to her feet, and put his hed on one side and lookd at
her so slyly that she askd Ben Weatherstaff a question. 

"Do u think he remembrs me?" she said. 

"Remembrs thee!" said Weatherstaff indignntly. 
"He nos evry cabaj stump in th' gardns, let
alone th' peple.  He's nevr seen a litl wench
here befor, an' he's bent on findin' out al about thee. 
Tha's no need to try to hide anything from him."

"Ar things stirng down belo in th dark in that gardn
wher he lives?" Mary inquired. 

"Wat gardn?" gruntd Weatherstaff, becomng surly again. 

"Th one wher th old rose-tres ar." She cud
not help askng, because she wantd so much to no. 
"Ar al th flowrs ded, or do som of them com again
in th sumr? Ar ther evr any roses?"

"Ask him," said Ben Weatherstaff, hunchng his sholdrs
toward th robn.  "He's th only one as nos. 
No one else has seen inside it for ten year'."

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

She walkd away, sloly thinkng.  She had begun to
like th gardn just as she had begun to like th robn
and Dickon and Martha's mothr.  She was beginng
to like Martha, too.  That seemd a good many peple
to like--wen u wer not used to liking.  She thot
of th robn as one of th peple.  She went to her walk
outside th long, ivy-covrd wal over wich she cud
se th tre-tops; and th secnd time she walkd up
and down th most intrestng and exiting thing hapnd
to her, and it was al thru Ben Weatherstaff's robn. 

She herd a chirp and a twitr, and wen she lookd
at th bare flowr-bed at her left side ther he was
hopng about and pretendng to pek things out of th
erth to persuade her that he had not folod her. 
But she new he had folod her and th surprise so fild
her with delyt that she almost trembld a litl. 

"U do remembr me!" she cryd out.  "U do! U ar
prettir than anything else in th world!"

She chirped, and talkd, and coaxd and he hopd,
and flirtd his tail and twittered.  It was as if he
wer talkng.  His red waistcoat was like satn and he
pufd his tiny brest out and was so fine and so grand
and so pretty that it was realy as if he wer shoing her
how importnt and like a human persn a robn cud be. 
Mistress Mary forgot that she had evr been contry
in her life wen he alowd her to draw closer and closer
to him, and bend down and talk and try to make somthing
like robn sounds. 

O! to think that he shud actuly let her com as near
to him as that! He new nothing in th world wud make
her put out her hand toward him or startl him in th
least tiniest way.  He new it because he was a real
persn--only nicer than any othr persn in th world. 
She was so happy that she scarcely dared to brethe. 

Th flowr-bed was not quite bare.  It was bare of flowrs
because th perenial plants had been cut down for ther
wintr rest, but ther wer tal shrubs and lo ones wich grew
togethr at th bak of th bed, and as th robn hopd
about undr them she saw him hop over a smal pile of freshly
turnd up erth.  He stopd on it to look for a worm. 
Th erth had been turnd up because a dog had been tryng
to dig up a mole and he had scrachd quite a deep hole. 

Mary lookd at it, not realy noing wy th hole was ther,
and as she lookd she saw somthing almost burid in th
newly-turnd soil.  It was somthing like a ring of rusty
iron or brass and wen th robn flew up into a tre
nearby she put out her hand and pikd th ring up. 
It was mor than a ring, howevr; it was an old ke
wich lookd as if it had been burid a long time. 

Mistress Mary stood up and lookd at it with an almost
frytnd face as it hung from her fingr. 

"Perhaps it has been burid for ten years," she said
in a wispr.  "Perhaps it is th ke to th gardn!"



CHAPTR VIII

TH ROBN HO SHOWD TH WAY


She lookd at th ke quite a long time.  She turnd it
over and over, and thot about it.  As I hav said befor,
she was not a child ho had been traind to ask permission
or consult her eldrs about things.  Al she thot about
th ke was that if it was th ke to th closed gardn,
and she cud find out wher th dor was, she cud
perhaps open it and se wat was inside th walls,
and wat had hapnd to th old rose-tres. It was because
it had been shut up so long that she wantd to se it. 
It seemd as if it must be difrnt from othr places
and that somthing stranje must hav hapnd to it
during ten years.  Besides that, if she liked it she
cud go into it evry day and shut th dor behind her,
and she cud make up som play of her own and play it
quite alone, because nobody wud evr no wher she was,
but wud think th dor was stil lokd and th ke
burid in th erth.  Th thot of that plesed her
very much. 

Livng as it wer, al by herself in a house with a hundred
mysteriusly closed rooms and havng nothing watevr
to do to amuse herself, had set her inactiv brain
to workng and was actuly awakenng her imajnation. 
Ther is no dout that th fresh, strong, pure air from th
moor had a gret deal to do with it.  Just as it had givn
her an apetite, and fytng with th wind had stird
her blod, so th same things had stird her mind. 
In India she had always been too hot and languid and weak
to care much about anything, but in this place she
was beginng to care and to want to do new things. 
Alredy she felt less "contry," tho she did not
no wy. 

She put th ke in her poket and walkd up and down
her walk.  No one but herself evr seemd to com ther,
so she cud walk sloly and look at th wal, or, rathr,
at th ivy groing on it.  Th ivy was th baflng thing. 
Howsoever carefuly she lookd she cud se nothing
but thikly groing, glossy, dark green leavs.  She was
very much disapointd.  Somthing of her contrariness
came bak to her as she paced th walk and lookd over it
at th tre-tops inside.  It seemd so silly, she said
to herself, to be near it and not be able to get in. 
She took th ke in her poket wen she went bak to
th house, and she made up her mind that she wud always
carry it with her wen she went out, so that if she evr
shud find th hidn dor she wud be redy. 

Mrs. Medlock had alowd Martha to sleep al nyt at
th cotaj, but she was bak at her work in th mornng
with cheeks redr than evr and in th best of spirits. 

"I got up at four oclok," she said.  "Eh! it was pretty on th'
moor with th' birds gettin' up an' th' rabits scamperin'
about an' th' sun risin'. I didnt walk al th' way.  A man
gave me a ride in his cart an' I did enjoy myself."

She was ful of storis of th delyts of her day out. 
Her mothr had been glad to se her and they had got th
baking and washng al out of th way.  She had even made
each of th children a doughcake with a bit of brown sugr
in it. 

"I had 'em al pipin' hot wen they came in from playin'
on th' moor.  An' th' cotaj al smelt o' nice, clean hot bakin'
an' ther was a good fire, an' they just shoutd for joy. 
Our Dickon he said our cotaj was good enuf for a king."

In th evenng they had al sat round th fire,
and Martha and her mothr had sewd pachs on torn
clothes and mendd stokngs and Martha had told them
about th litl girl ho had com from India and ho had
been waitd on al her life by wat Martha cald "blaks"
until she didnt no how to put on her own stokngs. 

"Eh! they did like to hear about u," said Martha. 
"They wantd to no al about th' blaks an' about th'
ship u came in.  I cudnt tel 'em enuf."

Mary reflectd a litl. 

"I'l tel u a gret deal mor befor yr next day out,"
she said, "so that u wil hav mor to talk about. 
I dare say they wud like to hear about riding on elefnts
and camls, and about th oficers going to hunt tigers."

"My word!" cryd delytd Martha.  "It wud set 'em
clean off ther heds.  Wud tha' realy do that,
Miss? It wud be same as a wild beast sho like we herd
they had in York once."

"India is quite difrnt from Yorkshr," Mary said sloly,
as she thot th matr over.  "I nevr thot of that. 
Did Dickon and yr mothr like to hear u talk about me?"

"Wy, our Dickon's ys nearly startd out o' his hed,
they got that round," ansrd Martha.  "But mothr, she was
put out about yr seemin' to be al by yrself like. 
She said, 'hasn't Mr. Craven got no govrness for her,
nor no nurse?' and I said, 'no, he hasnt, tho Mrs. Medlock
says he wil wen he thinks of it, but she says he mayn't
think of it for two or thre years.'"

"I dont want a govrness," said Mary sharply. 

"But mothr says u ot to be learnin' yr book by this time an'
u ot to hav a womn to look aftr u, an' she says:
`Now, Martha, u just think how u'd feel yrself, in a big
place like that, wanderin' about al alone, an' no mothr. 
U do yr best to cheer her up,' she says, an' I said I wud."

Mary gave her a long, stedy look. 

"U do cheer me up," she said.  "I like to hear u talk."

Presntly Martha went out of th room and came bak
with somthing held in her hands undr her apron. 

"Wat dos tha' think," she said, with a cheerful grin. 
"I'v brot thee a presnt."

"A presnt!" exclaimd Mistress Mary.  How cud a cotaj
ful of forteen hungry peple giv any one a presnt!

"A man was drivin' across th moor peddlin'," Martha explaind. 
"An' he stopd his cart at our dor.  He had pots an'
pans an' ods an' ends, but mothr had no mony to by
anythin'. Just as he was goin' away our 'lizabeth Elen
cald out, `Mothr, he's got skippin'-ropes with red an'
blu handls.' An' mothr she cals out quite sudn,
`Here, stop, mistr! How much ar they?' An' he says
`Tuppence', an' mothr she began fumblin' in her poket an'
she says to me, `Martha, tha's brot me thy wajes like
a good lass, an' I'v got four places to put evry penny,
but I'm just goin' to take tupnce out of it to by
that child a skippin'-rope,' an' she bot one an'
here it is."

She brot it out from undr her apron and exibitd
it quite proudly.  It was a strong, slendr rope
with a striped red and blu handl at each end,
but Mary Lennox had nevr seen a skipng-rope befor. 
She gazed at it with a mystifyd expression. 

"Wat is it for?" she askd curiusly. 

"For!" cryd out Martha.  "Dos tha' mean that they'v not
got skippin'-ropes in India, for al they'v got elefnts
and tigers and camls! No wondr most of 'em's blak. 
This is wat it's for; just wach me."

And she ran into th midl of th room and, taking a
handl in each hand, began to skip, and skip, and skip,
wile Mary turnd in her chair to stare at her, and th
queer faces in th old portrits seemd to stare at her,
too, and wondr wat on erth this comn litl cottager
had th impudnce to be doing undr ther very noses. 
But Martha did not even se them.  Th intrest and curiosity
in Mistress Mary's face delytd her, and she went on skipng
and countd as she skipd until she had reachd a hundred. 

"I cud skip longr than that," she said wen she stopd. 
"I'v skipd as much as five hundred wen I was twelv,
but I wasnt as fat then as I am now, an' I was in practis."

Mary got up from her chair beginng to feel exited herself. 

"It looks nice," she said.  "Yr mothr is a kind womn. 
Do u think I cud evr skip like that?"

"U just try it," urjd Martha, handng her th skipng- rope. 
"U cant skip a hundred at first, but if u practis
u'l mount up.  That's wat mothr said.  She says,
`Nothin' wil do her mor good than skippin' rope.  It's th'
sensiblest toy a child can hav.  Let her play out in th'
fresh air skippin' an' it'l strech her legs an' arms an'
giv her som strength in 'em.'"

It was plan that ther was not a gret deal of strength
in Mistress Mary's arms and legs wen she first began
to skip.  She was not very clevr at it, but she liked
it so much that she did not want to stop. 

"Put on tha' things and run an' skip out o' dors,"
said Martha.  "Mothr said I must tel u to keep out o'
dors as much as u cud, even wen it rains a bit,
so as tha' rap up warm."

Mary put on her coat and hat and took her skipng-rope
over her arm.  She opend th dor to go out, and then
sudnly thot of somthing and turnd bak rathr sloly. 

"Martha," she said, "they wer yr wajes.  It was yr
two-pence realy.  Thank u." She said it stifly
because she was not used to thankng peple or noticing
that they did things for her.  "Thank u," she said,
and held out her hand because she did not no wat else
to do. 

Martha gave her hand a clumsy litl shake, as if she
was not acustmd to this sort of thing eithr. 
Then she lafd. 

"Eh! th' art a queer, old-womnish thing," she said. 
"If tha'd been our 'lizabeth Elen tha'd hav givn me
a kiss."

Mary lookd stifr than evr. 

"Do u want me to kiss u?"

Martha lafd again. 

"Nay, not me," she ansrd.  "If tha' was difrnt,
praps tha'd want to thysel'. But tha' isnt. Run off
outside an' play with thy rope."

Mistress Mary felt a litl awkwrd as she went out of
th room.  Yorkshr peple seemd stranje, and Martha was
always rathr a puzl to her.  At first she had disliked
her very much, but now she did not.  Th skipng-rope
was a wondrful thing.  She countd and skipd,
and skipd and countd, until her cheeks wer quite red,
and she was mor intrestd than she had evr been since
she was born.  Th sun was shining and a litl wind was
bloing--not a ruf wind, but one wich came in delytful
litl gusts and brot a fresh sent of newly turnd
erth with it.  She skipd round th fountn gardn,
and up one walk and down anothr.  She skipd at last
into th kichn-gardn and saw Ben Weatherstaff digng
and talkng to his robn, wich was hopng about him. 
She skipd down th walk toward him and he liftd
his hed and lookd at her with a curius expression. 
She had wondrd if he wud notice her.  She wantd him
to se her skip. 

"Wel!" he exclaimd.  "Upon my word.  Praps tha'
art a yung 'un, aftr al, an' praps tha's got
child's blod in thy veins insted of sour butrmilk. 
Tha's skipd red into thy cheeks as sure as my name's
Ben Weatherstaff.  I wudnt hav beleved tha'
cud do it."

"I nevr skipd befor," Mary said.  "I'm just beginng. 
I can only go up to twenty."

"Tha' keep on," said Ben.  "Tha' shapes wel enuf at it
for a yung 'un that's livd with heathn.  Just se how
he's watchin' thee," jerkng his hed toward th robn. 
"He folod aftr thee yestrday.  He'l be at it again today. 
He'l be bound to find out wat th' skippin'-rope is. 
He's nevr seen one.  Eh!" shaking his hed at th bird,
"tha' curiosity wil be th' deth of thee somtime if tha'
dosnt look sharp."

Mary skipd round al th gardns and round th orchrd,
restng evry few minuts.  At length she went to her
own special walk and made up her mind to try if she
cud skip th hole length of it.  It was a good long
skip and she began sloly, but befor she had gon
half-way down th path she was so hot and brethless
that she was oblijed to stop.  She did not mind much,
because she had alredy countd up to thirty. 
She stopd with a litl laf of plesur, and ther,
lo and behold, was th robn swayng on a long branch of ivy. 
He had folod her and he greetd her with a chirp. 
As Mary had skipd toward him she felt somthing hevy
in her poket strike against her at each jump, and wen she
saw th robn she lafd again. 

"U showd me wher th ke was yestrday," she said. 
"U ot to sho me th dor today; but I dont beleve
u no!"

Th robn flew from his swingng spray of ivy on to th
top of th wal and he opend his beak and sang a loud,
lovly tril, merely to sho off.  Nothing in th world
is quite as adorably lovly as a robn wen he shos
off--and they ar nearly always doing it. 

Mary Lennox had herd a gret deal about Majic in her
Ayah's storis, and she always said that wat hapnd
almost at that moment was Majic. 

One of th nice litl gusts of wind rushd down
th walk, and it was a strongr one than th rest. 
It was strong enuf to wave th branchs of th tres,
and it was mor than strong enuf to sway th trailng
sprays of untrimmed ivy hangng from th wal.  Mary had
stepd close to th robn, and sudnly th gust of wind
swung aside som loose ivy trails, and mor sudnly
stil she jumpd toward it and caut it in her hand. 
This she did because she had seen somthing undr it--a round
nob wich had been covrd by th leavs hangng over it. 
It was th nob of a dor. 

She put her hands undr th leavs and began to pul
and push them aside.  Thik as th ivy hung, it nearly
al was a loose and swingng curtn, tho som had crept
over wood and iron.  Mary's hart began to thump and her
hands to shake a litl in her delyt and exitemnt. 
Th robn kept singng and twitrng away and tiltng
his hed on one side, as if he wer as exited as she was. 
Wat was this undr her hands wich was square and made
of iron and wich her fingrs found a hole in?

It was th lok of th dor wich had been closed ten
years and she put her hand in her poket, drew out th ke
and found it fitd th kehole.  She put th ke in and
turnd it.  It took two hands to do it, but it did turn. 

And then she took a long breth and lookd behind
her up th long walk to se if any one was comng. 
No one was comng.  No one evr did com, it seemd,
and she took anothr long breth, because she cud not
help it, and she held bak th swingng curtn of ivy
and pushd bak th dor wich opend sloly--sloly.

Then she slipd thru it, and shut it behind her,
and stood with her bak against it, lookng about her
and brething quite fast with exitemnt, and wondr,
and delyt. 

She was standng inside th secret gardn. 



CHAPTR IX

TH STRANJEST HOUSE ANY ONE EVR LIVD IN


It was th sweetst, most mysterius-lookng place
any one cud imajn.  Th hy walls wich shut it
in wer covrd with th leafless stems of climbng roses
wich wer so thik that they wer matd togethr. 
Mary Lennox new they wer roses because she had seen
a gret many roses in India.  Al th ground was covrd
with grass of a wintry brown and out of it grew clumps
of bushs wich wer surely rosebushes if they wer alive. 
Ther wer numbrs of standrd roses wich had so spred
ther branchs that they wer like litl tres. 
Ther wer othr tres in th gardn, and one of th
things wich made th place look stranjest and lovliest
was that climbng roses had run al over them and swung
down long tendrls wich made lyt swayng curtns,
and here and ther they had caut at each othr or
at a far-reachng branch and had crept from one tre
to anothr and made lovly brijs of themselvs. 
Ther wer neithr leavs nor roses on them now and Mary
did not no wethr they wer ded or alive, but ther
thin gray or brown branchs and sprays lookd like a sort
of hazy mantl spredng over everything, walls, and tres,
and even brown grass, wher they had falen from ther
fasnngs and run along th ground.  It was this hazy tangl
from tre to tre wich made it al look so mysterius. 
Mary had thot it must be difrnt from othr gardns
wich had not been left al by themselvs so long;
and indeed it was difrnt from any othr place she had
evr seen in her life. 

"How stil it is!" she wisprd.  "How stil!"

Then she waitd a moment and lisnd at th stilness. 
Th robn, ho had flown to his treetop, was stil
as al th rest.  He did not even flutr his wings;
he sat without stirng, and lookd at Mary. 

"No wondr it is stil," she wisprd again.  "I am
th first persn ho has spoken in here for ten years."

She moved away from th dor, stepng as softly as if she
wer afraid of awakenng som one.  She was glad that ther
was grass undr her feet and that her steps made no sounds. 
She walkd undr one of th fairy-like gray archs
between th tres and lookd up at th sprays and tendrls
wich formd them.  "I wondr if they ar al quite ded,"
she said.  "Is it al a quite ded gardn? I wish it wasnt."

If she had been Ben Weatherstaff she cud hav told
wethr th wood was alive by lookng at it, but she
cud only se that ther wer only gray or brown sprays
and branchs and non showd any syns of even a tiny
leaf-bud anywher. 

But she was inside th wondrful gardn and she cud
com thru th dor undr th ivy any time and she
felt as if she had found a world al her own. 

Th sun was shining inside th four walls and th hy arch
of blu sky over this particulr pece of Misselthwaite
seemd even mor briliant and soft than it was over
th moor.  Th robn flew down from his tre-top and
hopd about or flew aftr her from one bush to anothr. 
He chirped a good deal and had a very busy air, as if he
wer shoing her things.  Everything was stranje and
silent and she seemd to be hundreds of miles away from
any one, but somhow she did not feel lonely at al. 
Al that trubld her was her wish that she new wethr
al th roses wer ded, or if perhaps som of them had
livd and myt put out leavs and buds as th wethr
got warmr.  She did not want it to be a quite ded gardn. 
If it wer a quite alive gardn, how wondrful it wud be,
and wat thousnds of roses wud gro on evry side!

Her skipng-rope had hung over her arm wen she came
in and aftr she had walkd about for a wile she thot
she wud skip round th hole gardn, stopng wen she
wantd to look at things.  Ther seemd to hav been
grass paths here and ther, and in one or two cornrs
ther wer alcoves of evrgreen with stone seats or tal
moss-covrd flowr urns in them. 

As she came near th secnd of these alcoves she
stopd skipng.  Ther had once been a flowerbed in it,
and she thot she saw somthing stikng out of th
blak erth- -som sharp litl pale green points. 
She remembrd wat Ben Weatherstaff had said and she
nelt down to look at them. 

"Yes, they ar tiny groing things and they myt be
crocuses or snowdrops or dafodls," she wisprd. 

She bent very close to them and snifd th fresh sent
of th damp erth.  She liked it very much. 

"Perhaps ther ar som othr ones comng up in othr places,"
she said.  "I wil go al over th gardn and look."

She did not skip, but walkd.  She went sloly and kept
her ys on th ground.  She lookd in th old bordr
beds and among th grass, and aftr she had gon round,
tryng to miss nothing, she had found evr so many mor sharp,
pale green points, and she had becom quite exited again. 

"It isnt a quite ded gardn," she cryd out softly to herself. 
"Even if th roses ar ded, ther ar othr things alive."

She did not no anything about gardnng, but th grass
seemd so thik in som of th places wher th green
points wer pushng ther way thru that she thot
they did not seem to hav room enuf to gro. 
She serchd about until she found a rathr sharp pece
of wood and nelt down and dug and weedd out th weeds
and grass until she made nice litl clear places around them. 

"Now they look as if they cud brethe," she said,
aftr she had finishd with th first ones.  "I am
going to do evr so many mor.  I'l do al I can se. 
If I havnt time today I can com tomoro."

She went from place to place, and dug and weedd,
and enjoyd herself so imensly that she was led on
from bed to bed and into th grass undr th tres. 
Th exrcise made her so warm that she first threw her
coat off, and then her hat, and without noing it she
was smiling down on to th grass and th pale green points
al th time. 

Th robn was tremendusly busy.  He was very much
plesed to se gardnng begun on his own estate. 
He had ofn wondrd at Ben Weatherstaff.  Wher gardnng
is don al sorts of delytful things to eat ar turnd
up with th soil.  Now here was this new kind of creatur
ho was not half Ben's size and yet had had th sense
to com into his gardn and begin at once. 

Mistress Mary workd in her gardn until it was time
to go to her miday dinr.  In fact, she was rathr
late in remembrng, and wen she put on her coat
and hat, and pikd up her skipng-rope, she cud not
beleve that she had been workng two or thre ours. 
She had been actuly happy al th time; and dozns
and dozns of th tiny, pale green points wer to be seen
in cleard places, lookng twice as cheerful as they had
lookd befor wen th grass and weeds had been smothrng them. 

"I shal com bak this aftrnoon," she said, lookng al
round at her new kingdm, and speakng to th tres
and th rose-bushs as if they herd her. 

Then she ran lytly across th grass, pushd open
th slo old dor and slipd thru it undr th ivy. 
She had such red cheeks and such bryt ys and ate such
a dinr that Martha was delytd. 

"Two peces o' meat an' two helps o' rice puddin'!" she said. 
"Eh! mothr wil be plesed wen I tel her wat th'
skippin'-rope's don for thee."

In th corse of her digng with her pointd stik
Mistress Mary had found herself digng up a sort of wite
root rathr like an onion.  She had put it bak in its
place and patd th erth carefuly down on it and just
now she wondrd if Martha cud tel her wat it was. 

"Martha," she said, "wat ar those wite roots that look
like onions?"

"They'r bulbs," ansrd Martha.  "Lots o' spring flowrs
gro from 'em. Th' very litl ones ar snowdrops an'
crocuses an' th' big ones ar narcissuses an' jonquils
and daffydowndillys.  Th' bigst of al is lilis an'
purpl flags.  Eh! they ar nice.  Dickon's got a hole
lot of 'em plantd in our bit o' gardn."

"Dos Dickon no al about them?" askd Mary, a new idea
taking posession of her. 

"Our Dickon can make a flowr gro out of a brik walk. 
Mothr says he just wisprs things out o' th' ground."

"Do bulbs liv a long time? Wud they liv years and
years if no one helpd them?" inquired Mary anxiusly. 

"They'r things as helps themselvs," said Martha.  "That's wy
poor folk can aford to hav 'em. If u dont trubl 'em,
most of 'em'll work away undrground for a lifetime an'
spred out an' hav litl 'uns. Ther's a place in th'
park woods here wher ther's snowdrops by thousnds. 
They'r th prettiest syt in Yorkshr wen th'
spring coms.  No one nos wen they was first plantd."

"I wish th spring was here now," said Mary.  "I want
to se al th things that gro in England."

She had finishd her dinr and gon to her favorit seat
on th harth-rug.

"I wish--I wish I had a litl spade," she said. 
"Watevr dos tha' want a spade for?" askd Martha, lafng. 
"Art tha' goin' to take to diggin'? I must tel mothr that, too."

Mary lookd at th fire and pondrd a litl.  She must
be careful if she ment to keep her secret kingdm. 
She wasnt doing any harm, but if Mr. Craven found out
about th open dor he wud be fearfuly angry and get
a new ke and lok it up forevermore.  She realy cud
not ber that. 

"This is such a big lonely place," she said sloly, as if she
wer turnng matrs over in her mind.  "Th house is lonely,
and th park is lonely, and th gardns ar lonely. 
So many places seem shut up.  I nevr did many things
in India, but ther wer mor peple to look at--nativs
and soldirs marchng by--and somtimes bands playng,
and my Aya told me storis.  Ther is no one to talk to
here exept u and Ben Weatherstaff.  And u hav to do
yr work and Ben Weatherstaff wont speak to me ofn. 
I thot if I had a litl spade I cud dig somwher
as he dos, and I myt make a litl gardn if he wud
giv me som seeds."

Martha's face quite lytd up. 

"Ther now!" she exclaimd, "if that wasnt one of th'
things mothr said.  She says, `Ther's such a lot o'
room in that big place, wy dont they giv her a
bit for herself, even if she dosnt plant nothin'
but parsly an' radishs? She'd dig an' rake away an'
be ryt down happy over it.' Them was th very words
she said."

"Wer they?" said Mary.  "How many things she nos,
dosnt she?"

"Eh!" said Martha.  "It's like she says: `A womn as
brings up twelv children lerns somthing besides her A
B C. Children's as good as 'rithmetic to set u findin'
out things.'"

"How much wud a spade cost--a litl one?" Mary askd. 

"Wel," was Martha's reflectiv ansr, "at Thwaite
vilaj ther's a shop or so an' I saw litl gardn sets
with a spade an' a rake an' a fork al tied togethr for
two shilngs.  An' they was stout enuf to work with, too."

"I'v got mor than that in my purse," said Mary. 
"Mrs. Morrison gave me five shilngs and Mrs. Medlock
gave me som mony from Mr. Craven."

"Did he remembr thee that much?" exclaimd Martha. 

"Mrs. Medlock said I was to hav a shilng a week to spend. 
She givs me one evry Satrday.  I didnt no wat to
spend it on."

"My word! that's richs," said Martha.  "Tha' can by
anything in th' world tha' wants.  Th' rent of our
cotaj is only one an' threpnce an' it's like pullin'
y-teeth to get it.  Now I'v just thot of somethin',"
putng her hands on her hips. 

"Wat?" said Mary eagrly. 

"In th shop at Thwaite they sel pakajs o'
flowr-seeds for a penny each, and our Dickon he nos
wich is th' prettiest ones an, how to make 'em gro. 
He walks over to Thwaite many a day just for th' fun of it. 
Dos tha' no how to print letrs?" sudnly. 

"I no how to rite," Mary ansrd. 

Martha shook her hed. 

"Our Dickon can only red printin'. If tha' cud print we
cud rite a letr to him an' ask him to go an' by th'
gardn tools an' th' seeds at th' same time."

"O! u'r a good girl!" Mary cryd.  "U ar, realy! I
didnt no u wer so nice.  I no I can print letrs
if I try.  Let's ask Mrs. Medlock for a pen and ink and som paper."

"I'v got som of my own," said Martha.  "I bot 'em
so I cud print a bit of a letr to mothr of a Sunday. 
I'l go and get it." She ran out of th room, and Mary stood
by th fire and twistd her thin litl hands togethr
with sheer plesur. 

"If I hav a spade," she wisprd, "I can make th erth
nice and soft and dig up weeds.  If I hav seeds and can
make flowrs gro th gardn wont be ded at al--it
wil com alive."

She did not go out again that aftrnoon because wen Martha
returnd with her pen and ink and paper she was oblijed
to clear th table and carry th plates and dishs
downstairs and wen she got into th kichn Mrs. Medlock
was ther and told her to do somthing, so Mary waitd
for wat seemd to her a long time befor she came bak. 
Then it was a serius pece of work to rite to Dickon. 
Mary had been taut very litl because her govrnesses
had disliked her too much to stay with her.  She cud
not spel particulrly wel but she found that she cud
print letrs wen she tryd.  This was th letr Martha
dictated to her: "My Dear Dickon:

This coms hoping to find u wel as it leavs me at presnt. 
Miss Mary has plenty of mony and wil u go to Thwaite
and by her som flowr seeds and a set of gardn tools
to make a flowr-bed. Pik th prettiest ones and esy
to gro because she has nevr don it befor and livd
in India wich is difrnt.  Giv my lov to mothr
and evry one of u.  Miss Mary is going to tel me a lot
mor so that on my next day out u can hear about elefnts
and camls and jentlmen going huntng lions and tigers. 

                     "Yr lovng sistr,                  
                     Martha Febe Sowerby."

"We'l put th mony in th' envlope an' I'l get th'
buchr boy to take it in his cart.  He's a gret
frend o' Dickon's," said Martha. 

"How shal I get th things wen Dickon bys them?"

"He'l bring 'em to u himself.  He'l like to walk
over this way."

"O!" exclaimd Mary, "then I shal se him! I nevr
thot I shud se Dickon."

"Dos tha' want to se him?" askd Martha sudnly,
for Mary had lookd so plesed. 

"Yes, I do.  I nevr saw a boy foxs and cros lovd. 
I want to se him very much."

Martha gave a litl start, as if she remembrd somthing. 
"Now to think," she broke out, "to think o' me forgettin'
that ther; an' I thot I was goin' to tel u first
thing this mornn'. I askd mothr--and she said she'd ask
Mrs. Medlock her own self."

"Do u mean--" Mary began. 

"Wat I said Tuesday.  Ask her if u myt be drivn over
to our cotaj som day and hav a bit o' mother's hot
oat cake, an' butr, an' a glass o' milk."

It seemd as if al th intrestng things wer hapnng
in one day.  To think of going over th moor in th
daylyt and wen th sky was blu! To think of going
into th cotaj wich held twelv children!

"Dos she think Mrs. Medlock wud let me go?" she askd,
quite anxiusly. 

"Y, she thinks she wud.  She nos wat a tidy womn
mothr is and how clean she keeps th cotaj."

"If I went I shud se yr mothr as wel as Dickon,"
said Mary, thinkng it over and liking th idea very much. 
"She dosnt seem to be like th mothrs in India."

Her work in th gardn and th exitemnt of th aftrnoon
endd by making her feel quiet and thotful.  Martha stayd
with her until te-time, but they sat in comfrtbl
quiet and talkd very litl.  But just befor Martha
went downstairs for th te-tray, Mary askd a question. 

"Martha," she said, "has th sculry-maid had th
toothache again today?"

Martha certnly startd slytly. 

"Wat makes thee ask that?" she said. 

"Because wen I waitd so long for u to com bak I
opend th dor and walkd down th coridr to se if u
wer comng.  And I herd that far-off cryng again,
just as we herd it th othr nyt.  Ther isnt
a wind today, so u se it cudnt hav been th wind."

"Eh!" said Martha restlesly.  "Tha' musnt go walkin'
about in coridrs an' listenin'. Mr. Craven wud be
that ther angry ther's no knowin' wat he'd do."

"I wasnt lisnng," said Mary.  "I was just waitng
for u--and I herd it.  That's thre times."

"My word! Ther's Mrs. Medlock's bel," said Martha,
and she almost ran out of th room. 

"It's th stranjest house any one evr livd in,"
said Mary drowsily, as she dropd her hed on th cushnd
seat of th armchair near her.  Fresh air, and digng,
and skipng-rope had made her feel so comfrtbly tired
that she fel asleep. 



CHAPTR X

DICKON


Th sun shon down for nearly a week on th secret gardn. 
Th Secret Gardn was wat Mary cald it wen she was
thinkng of it.  She liked th name, and she liked stil
mor th feelng that wen its butiful old walls shut
her in no one new wher she was.  It seemd almost like
being shut out of th world in som fairy place.  Th few
books she had red and liked had been fairy-story books,
and she had red of secret gardns in som of th storis. 
Somtimes peple went to sleep in them for a hundred years,
wich she had thot must be rathr stupid.  She had no
intention of going to sleep, and, in fact, she was becomng
wider awake evry day wich pasd at Misselthwaite. 
She was beginng to like to be out of dors; she no longr
hated th wind, but enjoyd it.  She cud run fastr,
and longr, and she cud skip up to a hundred.  Th bulbs
in th secret gardn must hav been much astonishd. 
Such nice clear places wer made round them that they
had al th brething space they wantd, and realy,
if Mistress Mary had nown it, they began to cheer up
undr th dark erth and work tremendusly.  Th sun cud
get at them and warm them, and wen th rain came down
it cud reach them at once, so they began to feel very
much alive. 

Mary was an od, determnd litl persn, and now she
had somthing intrestng to be determnd about,
she was very much absorbd, indeed.  She workd and dug
and puld up weeds stedily, only becomng mor plesed
with her work evry our insted of tiring of it. 
It seemd to her like a fasnating sort of play. 
She found many mor of th sproutng pale green points than
she had evr hoped to find.  They seemd to be startng up
evrywher and each day she was sure she found tiny new ones,
som so tiny that they barely peepd abov th erth. 
Ther wer so many that she remembrd wat Martha had
said about th "snowdrops by th thousnds," and about
bulbs spredng and making new ones.  These had been left
to themselvs for ten years and perhaps they had spred,
like th snowdrops, into thousnds.  She wondrd how long
it wud be befor they showd that they wer flowrs. 
Somtimes she stopd digng to look at th gardn and
try to imajn wat it wud be like wen it was covrd
with thousnds of lovly things in bloom.  During that week
of sunshine, she became mor intmat with Ben Weatherstaff. 
She surprised him sevrl times by seemng to start
up beside him as if she sprang out of th erth. 
Th truth was that she was afraid that he wud pik up
his tools and go away if he saw her comng, so she always
walkd toward him as silently as posbl.  But, in fact,
he did not object to her as strongly as he had at first. 
Perhaps he was secretly rathr flatrd by her evidnt
desire for his eldrly compny.  Then, also, she was mor
civl than she had been.  He did not no that wen she
first saw him she spoke to him as she wud hav spoken
to a nativ, and had not nown that a cross, sturdy old
Yorkshr man was not acustmd to salaam to his mastrs,
and be merely comandd by them to do things. 

"Tha'rt like th' robn," he said to her one mornng
wen he liftd his hed and saw her standng by him. 
"I nevr nos wen I shal se thee or wich side tha'll
com from."

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

"That's like him," snapd Ben Weatherstaff.  "Makin' up
to th' women folk just for vanity an' flightiness. 
Ther's nothin' he wudnt do for th' sake o' showin'
off an' flirtin' his tail-fethrs. He's as ful o'
pride as an egg's ful o' meat."

He very seldm talkd much and somtimes did not even ansr
Mary's questions exept by a grunt, but this mornng he
said mor than usul.  He stood up and restd one hobnaild
boot on th top of his spade wile he lookd her over. 

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

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

"Tha's beginnin' to do Misselthwaite credit," he said. 
"Tha's a bit fatr than tha' was an' tha's not quite
so yeller.  Tha' lookd like a yung plukd cro wen tha'
first came into this gardn.  Thinks I to myself I nevr set
ys on an uglir, sourer faced yung 'un."

Mary was not vain and as she had nevr thot much
of her looks she was not gretly disturbd. 

"I no I'm fatr," she said.  "My stokngs
ar getng tytr.  They used to make rinkls. 
Ther's th robn, Ben Weatherstaff."

Ther, indeed, was th robn, and she thot he lookd
nicer than evr.  His red waistcoat was as glossy as satn
and he flirtd his wings and tail and tiltd his hed
and hopd about with al sorts of lively graces. 
He seemd determnd to make Ben Weatherstaff admire him. 
But Ben was sarcastic. 

"Y, ther tha' art!" he said.  "Tha' can put up with
me for a bit somtimes wen tha's got no one betr. 
Tha's been reddenin' up thy waistcoat an' polishin'
thy fethrs this two weeks.  I no wat tha's up to. 
Tha's courtin' som bold yung madm somwher tellin'
thy lies to her about bein' th' finest cok robn on Missel
Moor an' redy to fyt al th' rest of 'em."

"O! look at him!" exclaimd Mary. 

Th robn was evidntly in a fasnating, bold mood. 
He hopd closer and closer and lookd at Ben Weatherstaff
mor and mor engajingly.  He flew on to th nearst
curant bush and tiltd his hed and sang a litl song
ryt at him. 

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

Th robn spred his wings--Mary cud scarcely beleve
her ys.  He flew ryt up to th handl of Ben
Weatherstaff's spade and alytd on th top of it. 
Then th old man's face rinkld itself sloly into
a new expression.  He stood stil as if he wer afraid
to brethe--as if he wud not hav stird for th world,
lest his robn shud start away.  He spoke quite in a wispr. 

"Wel, I'm danged!" he said as softly as ifhe wer sayng
somthing quite difrnt.  "Tha' dos no how to get at
a chap--tha' dos! Tha's fair unerthly, tha's so knowin'."

And he stood without stirng--almost without drawng
his breth--until th robn gave anothr flirt to his
wings and flew away.  Then he stood lookng at th handl
of th spade as if ther myt be Majic in it, and then
he began to dig again and said nothing for sevrl minuts. 

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

"Hav u a gardn of yr own?" she askd. 

"No. I'm bachelder an' loj with Martn at th' gate."

"If u had one," said Mary, "wat wud u plant?"

"Cabajs an' 'taters an' onions."

"But if u wantd to make a flowr gardn," persistd Mary,
"wat wud u plant?"

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

Mary's face lytd up. 

"Do u like roses?" she said. 

Ben Weatherstaff rootd up a weed and threw it aside
befor he ansrd. 

"Wel, yes, I do.  I was lernd that by a yung lady I
was gardnr to.  She had a lot in a place she was fond
of, an' she lovd 'em like they was children--or robns. 
I'v seen her bend over an' kiss 'em." He dragd out anothr
weed and scowld at it.  "That wer as much as ten year' ago."

"Wher is she now?" askd Mary, much intrestd. 

"Hevn," he ansrd, and drove his spade deep into
th soil, "'cording to wat parsn says."

"Wat hapnd to th roses?" Mary askd again,
mor intrestd than evr. 

"They was left to themselvs."

Mary was becomng quite exited. 

"Did they quite die? Do roses quite die wen they ar
left to themselvs?" she venturd. 

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

"Wen they hav no leavs and look gray and brown and dry,
how can u tel wethr they ar ded or alive?"
inquired Mary. 

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

"How--how?" cryd Mary, forgetng to be careful. 
"Look along th' twigs an' branchs an' if tha' se a bit
of a brown lump swelng here an' ther, wach it aftr th'
warm rain an' se wat hapns." He stopd sudnly
and lookd curiusly at her eagr face.  "Wy dos tha'
care so much about roses an' such, al of a sudn?"
he demandd. 

Mistress Mary felt her face gro red.  She was almost
afraid to ansr. 

"I--I want to play that--that I hav a gardn of my own,"
she stamrd.  "I--ther is nothing for me to do. 
I hav nothing--and no one."

"Wel," said Ben Weatherstaff sloly, as he wachd her,
"that's tru.  Tha' hasnt."

He said it in such an od way that Mary wondrd if he
was actuly a litl sorry for her.  She had nevr felt
sorry for herself; she had only felt tired and cross,
because she disliked peple and things so much. 
But now th world seemd to be chanjing and getng nicer. 
If no one found out about th secret gardn, she shud
enjoy herself always. 

She stayd with him for ten or fifteen minuts longr and
askd him as many questions as she dared.  He ansrd evry
one of them in his queer gruntng way and he did not seem
realy cross and did not pik up his spade and leve her. 
He said somthing about roses just as she was going away
and it remindd her of th ones he had said he had been
fond of. 

"Do u go and se those othr roses now?" she askd. 

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

He said it in his grumblng voice, and then quite sudnly
he seemd to get angry with her, tho she did not se
wy he shud. 

"Now look here!" he said sharply.  "Dont tha'
ask so many questions.  Tha'rt th' worst wench for askin'
questions I'v evr com a cross.  Get thee gon an'
play thee.  I'v don talkn for today."

And he said it so crosly that she new ther was not
th least use in stayng anothr minut.  She went
skipng sloly down th outside walk, thinkng him over
and sayng to herself that, queer as it was, here was
anothr persn hom she liked in spite of his crossness. 
She liked old Ben Weatherstaff.  Yes, she did like him. 
She always wantd to try to make him talk to her. 
Also she began to beleve that he new everything in th
world about flowrs. 

Ther was a laurel-hejd walk wich curvd round th secret
gardn and endd at a gate wich opend into a wood,
in th park.  She thot she wud slip round this walk
and look into th wood and se if ther wer any rabits
hopng about.  She enjoyd th skipng very much and
wen she reachd th litl gate she opend it and went
thru because she herd a lo, peculir wislng
sound and wantd to find out wat it was. 

It was a very stranje thing indeed.  She quite caut her
breth as she stopd to look at it.  A boy was sitng
undr a tre, with his bak against it, playng on a ruf
woodn pipe.  He was a funny lookng boy about twelv. 
He lookd very clean and his nose turnd up and his
cheeks wer as red as poppis and nevr had Mistress Mary
seen such round and such blu ys in any boy's face. 
And on th trunk of th tre he leand against, a brown
squirel was clingng and wachng him, and from behind
a bush nearby a cok fesnt was delicatly strechng
his nek to peep out, and quite near him wer two rabits
sitng up and snifng with tremulus noses--and actuly
it apeard as if they wer al drawng near to wach him
and lisn to th stranje lo litl cal his pipe seemd
to make. 

Wen he saw Mary he held up his hand and spoke to her
in a voice almost as lo as and rathr like his piping. 

"Dont tha' move," he said.  "It'd flyt 'em." Mary
remaind motionless.  He stopd playng his pipe and began
to rise from th ground.  He moved so sloly that it scarcely
seemd as tho he wer moving at al, but at last he
stood on his feet and then th squirel scamprd bak
up into th branchs of his tre, th fesnt withdrew
his hed and th rabits dropd on al fours and began
to hop away, tho not at al as if they wer frytnd. 

"I'm Dickon," th boy said.  "I no tha'rt Miss Mary."

Then Mary realized that somhow she had nown at first that
he was Dickon.  Ho else cud hav been charmng rabits
and fesnts as th nativs charm snakes in India? He had
a wide, red, curvng mouth and his smile spred al over his face. 

"I got up slo," he explaind, "because if tha' makes a
quik move it startles 'em. A body 'as to move jentl an'
speak lo wen wild things is about."

He did not speak to her as if they had nevr seen
each othr befor but as if he new her quite wel. 
Mary new nothing about boys and she spoke to him a litl
stifly because she felt rathr shy. 

"Did u get Martha's letr?" she askd. 

He nodd his curly, rust-colord hed.  "That's wy
I com."

He stoopd to pik up somthing wich had been lyng
on th ground beside him wen he piped. 

"I'v got th' gardn tools.  Ther's a litl spade an'
rake an' a fork an' hoe.  Eh! they ar good 'uns. Ther's
a trowl, too.  An' th' womn in th' shop threw in a paket o'
wite poppy an' one o' blu larkspur wen I bot th'
othr seeds."

"Wil u sho th seeds to me?" Mary said. 

She wishd she cud talk as he did.  His speech
was so quik and esy.  It soundd as if he liked her
and was not th least afraid she wud not like him,
tho he was only a comn moor boy, in pachd clothes
and with a funny face and a ruf, rusty-red hed. 
As she came closer to him she noticed that ther was a clean
fresh sent of hethr and grass and leavs about him,
almost as if he wer made of them.  She liked it very much
and wen she lookd into his funny face with th red
cheeks and round blu ys 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 litl brown paper
pakaj out of his coat poket.  He untied th string
and inside ther wer evr so many neatr and smalr
pakajs with a pictur of a flowr on each one. 

"Ther's a lot o' mignonette an' poppis," he said. 
"Mignonette's th' sweetst smellin' thing as gros, an'
it'l gro wherevr u cast it, same as poppis wil. 
Them as'll com up an' bloom if u just wisl to 'em,
them's th' nicest of al." He stopd and turnd his
hed quikly, his poppy-cheekd face lytng up. 

"Wher's that robn as is callin' us?" he said. 

Th chirp came from a thik holly bush, bryt with
scarlet berris, and Mary thot she new hos it was. 

"Is it realy calng us?" she askd. 

"Y," said Dickon, as if it was th most natrl thing
in th world, "he's callin' som one he's frends with. 
That's same as sayin' `Here I am.  Look at me. 
I wants a bit of a chat.' Ther he is in th bush. 
Hos is he?"

"He's Ben Weatherstaff's, but I think he nos me a litl,"
ansrd Mary. 

"Y, he nos thee," said Dickon in his lo voice again. 
"An' he likes thee.  He's took thee on.  He'l tel me al
about thee in a minut."

He moved quite close to th bush with th slo movemnt Mary
had noticed befor, and then he made a sound almost like
th robin's own twitr.  Th robn lisnd a few secnds,
intently, and then ansrd quite as if he wer replyng to a question. 

"Y, he's a frend o' yrs," chukld Dickon. 

"Do u think he is?" cryd Mary eagrly.  She did so want
to no.  "Do u think he realy likes me?"

"He wudnt com near thee if he didnt," ansrd Dickon. 
"Birds is rare choosrs an' a robn can flout a body worse
than a man.  Se, he's making up to thee now.  `Canot tha'
se a chap?' he's sayin'."

And it realy seemd as if it must be tru.  He so sidled
and twittered and tiltd as he hopd on his bush. 

"Do u undrstand everything birds say?" said Mary. 

Dickon's grin spred until he seemd al wide, red,
curvng mouth, and he rubd his ruf hed. 

"I think I do, and they think I do," he said.  "I'v livd on th'
moor with 'em so long.  I'v wachd 'em brek shel an'
com out an' fledge an' lern to fly an' begin to sing,
til I think I'm one of 'em. Somtimes I think praps
I'm a bird, or a fox, or a rabit, or a squirel,
or even a beetl, an' I dont no it."

He lafd and came bak to th log and began to talk
about th flowr seeds again.  He told her wat they lookd
like wen they wer flowrs; he told her how to plant them,
and wach them, and feed and watr them. 

"Se here," he said sudnly, turnng round to look at her. 
"I'l plant them for thee myself.  Wher is tha' gardn?"

Mary's thin hands cluchd each othr as they lay on
her lap.  She did not no wat to say, so for a hole
minut she said nothing.  She had nevr thot of this. 
She felt misrbl.  And she felt as if she went red
and then pale. 

"Tha's got a bit o' gardn, hasnt tha'?" Dickon said. 

It was tru that she had turnd red and then pale. 
Dickon saw her do it, and as she stil said nothing,
he began to be puzld. 

"Wudnt they giv thee a bit?" he askd.  "Hasnt tha'
got any yet?"

She held her hands tytr and turnd her ys toward him. 

"I dont no anything about boys," she said sloly. 
"Cud u keep a secret, if I told u one? It's a gret secret. 
I dont no wat I shud do if any one found it out. 
I beleve I shud die!" She said th last sentnce
quite fiercely. 

Dickon lookd mor puzld than evr and even rubd
his hand over his ruf hed again, but he ansrd quite
good-humoredly. "I'm keepin' secrets al th' time," he said. 
"If I cudnt keep secrets from th' othr lads,
secrets about foxes' cubs, an' birds' nests, an' wild things'
holes, ther'd be naut safe on th' moor.  Y, I can
keep secrets."

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

"I'v stolen a gardn," she said very fast.  "It isnt mine. 
It isnt anybody's. Nobody wants it, nobody cares for it,
nobody evr gos into it.  Perhaps everything is ded in
it alredy.  I dont no."

She began to feel hot and as contry as she had evr
felt in her life. 

"I dont care, I dont care! Nobody has any ryt
to take it from me wen I care about it and they
dont. They'r letng it die, al shut in by itself,"
she endd passionatly, and she threw her arms over
her face and burst out cryng-poor litl Mistress Mary. 

Dickon's curius blu ys grew roundr and roundr. 
"Eh-h-h!" he said, drawng his exclmation out sloly,
and th way he did it ment both wondr and sympathy. 

"I'v nothing to do," said Mary.  "Nothing belongs to me. 
I found it myself and I got into it myself.  I was only just
like th robn, and they wudnt take it from th robn."
"Wher is it?" askd Dickon in a dropd voice. 

Mistress Mary got up from th log at once.  She new she
felt contry again, and obstnat, and she did not care
at al.  She was imperius and Indian, and at th same
time hot and soroful. 

"Com with me and I'l sho u," she said. 

She led him round th laurel path and to th walk wher th
ivy grew so thikly.  Dickon folod her with a queer,
almost pitying, look on his face.  He felt as if he wer
being led to look at som stranje bird's nest and must
move softly.  Wen she stepd to th wal and liftd
th hangng ivy he startd.  Ther was a dor and Mary
pushd it sloly open and they pasd in togethr,
and then Mary stood and waved her hand round defiantly. 

"It's this," she said.  "It's a secret gardn, and I'm
th only one in th world ho wants it to be alive."

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

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



CHAPTR XI

TH NEST OF TH MISSEL THRUSH


For two or thre minuts he stood lookng round him,
wile Mary wachd him, and then he began to walk
about softly, even mor lytly than Mary had walkd th
first time she had found herself inside th four walls. 
His ys seemd to be taking in everything--th gray tres
with th gray creeprs climbng over them and hangng
from ther branchs, th tangl on th walls and among
th grass, th evrgreen alcoves with th stone seats
and tal flowr urns standng in them. 

"I nevr thot I'd se this place," he said at last,
in a wispr. 

"Did u no about it?" askd Mary. 

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

"We must talk lo," he said, "or som one'll hear us an'
wondr wat's to do in here."

"O! I forgot!" said Mary, feelng frytnd and putng
her hand quikly against her mouth.  "Did u no about
th gardn?" she askd again wen she had recovrd herself. 
Dickon nodd. 

"Martha told me ther was one as no one evr went inside,"
he ansrd.  "Us used to wondr wat it was like."

He stopd and lookd round at th lovly gray tangl
about him, and his round ys lookd queerly happy. 

"Eh! th nests as'll be here com springtime," he said. 
"It'd be th' safest nestin' place in England. 
No one nevr comin' near an' tangls o' tres an'
roses to bild in.  I wondr al th' birds on th'
moor dont bild here."

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

"Wil ther be roses?" she wisprd.  "Can u tel? I
thot perhaps they wer al ded."

"Eh! No! Not them--not al of 'em!" he ansrd. 
"Look here!"

He stepd over to th nearst tre--an old, old one with
gray lichn al over its bark, but upholdng a curtn
of tangld sprays and branchs.  He took a thik nife
out of his Poket and opend one of its blades. 

"Ther's lots o' ded wood as ot to be cut out," he said. 
"An' ther's a lot o' old wood, but it made som new
last year.  This here's a new bit," and he tuchd a shoot
wich lookd brownish green insted of hard, dry gray. 
Mary tuchd it herself in an eagr, revrnt way. 

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

Dickon curvd his wide smiling mouth. 

"It's as wik as u or me," he said; and Mary remembrd
that Martha had told her that "wik" ment "alive"
or "lively."

"I'm glad it's wik!" she cryd out in her wispr. 
"I want them al to be wik.  Let us go round th gardn
and count how many wik ones ther ar."

She quite pantd with eagrness, and Dickon was as eagr
as she was.  They went from tre to tre and from bush
to bush.  Dickon carrid his nife in his hand and showd
her things wich she thot wondrful. 

"They'v run wild," he said, "but th' strongst ones
has fair thrived on it.  Th delicatest ones has
died out, but th' othrs has growed an' growed, an'
spred an' spred, til they's a wondr.  Se here!"
and he puld down a thik gray, dry-lookng branch. 
"A body myt think this was ded wood, but I dont beleve
it is--down to th' root.  I'l cut it lo down an' se."

He nelt and with his nife cut th lifeless-lookng
branch thru, not far abov th erth. 

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

Mary was down on her nes befor he spoke, gazing with
al her myt. 

"Wen it looks a bit greenish an' jucy like that,
it's wik," he explaind.  "Wen th' inside is dry an'
breks esy, like this here pece I'v cut off,
it's don for.  Ther's a big root here as al this liv
wood sprung out of, an' if th' old wood's cut off an'
it's dug round, and took care of ther'l be--"
he stopd and liftd his face to look up at th climbng
and hangng sprays abov him--"ther'l be a fountn o'
roses here this sumr."

They went from bush to bush and from tre to tre. 
He was very strong and clevr with his nife and new
how to cut th dry and ded wood away, and cud tel wen
an unpromisng bou or twig had stil green life in it. 
In th corse of half an our Mary thot she cud tel too,
and wen he cut thru a lifeless-lookng branch she wud
cry out joyfuly undr her breth wen she caut syt
of th least shade of moist green.  Th spade, and hoe,
and fork wer very useful.  He showd her how to use th
fork wile he dug about roots with th spade and stird
th erth and let th air in. 

They wer workng industriusly round one of th bigst
standrd roses wen he caut syt of somthing wich
made him utr an exclmation of surprise. 

"Wy!" he cryd, pointng to th grass a few feet away. 
"Ho did that ther?"

It was one of Mary's own litl clearngs round th pale
green points. 

"I did it," said Mary. 

"Wy, I thot tha' didnt no nothin' about gardenin',"
he exclaimd. 

"I dont," she ansrd, "but they wer so litl, and th
grass was so thik and strong, and they lookd as if they
had no room to brethe.  So I made a place for them. 
I dont even no wat they ar."

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

"Tha' was ryt," he said.  "A gardnr cudnt hav told
thee betr.  They'l gro now like Jack's bean-stalk. They'r
crocuses an' snowdrops, an' these here is narcissuses,"
turnng to anothr pach, "an here's daffydowndillys. 
Eh! they wil be a syt."

He ran from one clearng to anothr. 

"Tha' has don a lot o' work for such a litl wench,"
he said, lookng her over. 

"I'm groing fatr," said Mary, "and I'm groing strongr. 
I used always to be tired.  Wen I dig I'm not tired at al. 
I like to smel th erth wen it's turnd up."

"It's rare good for thee," he said, nodng his
hed wisely.  "Ther's naut as nice as th' smel o'
good clean erth, exept th' smel o' fresh growin'
things wen th' rain fals on 'em. I get out on th'
moor many a day wen it's rainin' an' I lie undr a bush an'
lisn to th' soft swish o' drops on th' hethr an,
I just snif an, snif.  My nose end fair quivers like a
rabbit's, mothr says."

"Do u nevr cach cold?" inquired Mary, gazing at
him wondrngly.  She had nevr seen such a funny boy,
or such a nice one. 

"Not me," he said, grinng.  "I nevr ketched cold
since I was born.  I wasnt brot up nesh enuf. 
I'v chased about th' moor in al wethrs same as th'
rabits dos.  Mothr says I'v snifd up too much fresh
air for twelv year' to evr get to sniffin' with cold. 
I'm as tuf as a wite-thorn knobstick."

He was workng al th time he was talkng and Mary was
foloing him and helpng him with her fork or th trowl. 

"Ther's a lot of work to do here!" he said once,
lookng about quite exultntly. 

"Wil u com again and help me to do it?" Mary begd. 
"I'm sure I can help, too.  I can dig and pul up weeds,
and do watevr u tel me.  O! do com, Dickon!"

"I'l com evry day if tha' wants me, rain or shine,"
he ansrd stoutly.  "It's th best fun I evr had in my
life-- shut in here an' wakenin' up a gardn."

"If u wil com," said Mary, "if u wil help me
to make it alive I'l--I dont no wat I'l do,"
she endd helplesly.  Wat cud u do for a boy like that?

"I'l tel thee wat tha'll do," said Dickon, with his
happy grin.  "Tha'll get fat an' tha'll get as hungry
as a yung fox an' tha'll lern how to talk to th'
robn same as I do.  Eh! we'l hav a lot o' fun."

He began to walk about, lookng up in th tres and at
th walls and bushs with a thotful expression. 

"I wudnt want to make it look like a gardener's
gardn, al clipd an' spick an' span, wud u?"
he said.  "It's nicer like this with things runnin'
wild, an' swingin' an' catchin' hold of each othr."

"Dont let us make it tidy," said Mary anxiusly. 
"It wudnt seem like a secret gardn if it was tidy."

Dickon stood rubng his rusty-red hed with a rathr
puzld look.  "It's a secret gardn sure enuf," he said,
"but seems like som one besides th' robn must hav been
in it since it was shut up ten year' ago."

"But th dor was lokd and th ke was burid," said Mary. 
"No one cud get in."

"That's tru," he ansrd.  "It's a queer place. 
Seems to me as if ther'd been a bit o' prunin' don here an'
ther, later than ten year' ago."

"But how cud it hav been don?" said Mary. 

He was examnng a branch of a standrd rose and he shook
his hed. 

"Y! how cud it!" he murmrd.  "With th'
dor lokd an' th' ke burid."

Mistress Mary always felt that howevr many years
she livd she shud nevr forget that first mornng
wen her gardn began to gro.  Of corse, it did seem
to begin to gro for her that mornng.  Wen Dickon
began to clear places to plant seeds, she remembrd
wat Basl had sung at her wen he wantd to tese her. 

"Ar ther any flowrs that look like bels?" she inquired. 

"Lilis o' th' vally dos," he ansrd, digng away
with th trowl, "an' ther's Cantrbry bels, an' campanulas."

"Let's plant som," said Mary.  "Ther's lilis o' th,
vally here alredy; I saw 'em. They'l hav growed too
close an' we'l hav to seprate 'em, but ther's plenty. 
Th' othr ones takes two years to bloom from seed, but I
can bring u som bits o' plants from our cotaj gardn. 
Wy dos tha' want 'em?"

Then Mary told him about Basl and his brothrs
and sistrs in India and of how she had hated them
and of ther calng her "Mistress Mary Quite Contry."

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

         `Mistress Mary, quite contry,
         How dos yr gardn gro?
         With silvr bels, and cokl shels,
         And marigolds al in a ro.'

I just remembrd it and it made me wondr if ther
wer realy flowrs like silvr bels."

She frownd a litl and gave her trowl a rathr spiteful
dig into th erth. 

"I wasnt as contry as they wer."

But Dickon lafd. 

"Eh!" he said, and as he crumbld th rich blak soil she
saw he was snifng up th sent of it.  "Ther dosnt
seem to be no need for no one to be contry wen ther's
flowrs an' such like, an' such lots o' frendly wild
things runnin' about makin' homes for themselvs, or buildin'
nests an' singin' an' whistlin', dos ther?"

Mary, neelng by him holdng th seeds, lookd at him
and stopd frownng. 

"Dickon," she said, "u ar as nice as Martha said
u wer.  I like u, and u make th fifth persn. 
I nevr thot I shud like five peple."

Dickon sat up on his heels as Martha did wen she was
polishng th grate.  He did look funny and delytful,
Mary thot, with his round blu ys and red cheeks
and happy lookng turnd-up nose. 

"Only five folk as tha' likes?" he said.  "Ho is th'
othr four?"

"Yr mothr and Martha," Mary chekd them off
on her fingrs, "and th robn and Ben Weatherstaff."

Dickon lafd so that he was oblijed to stifle th sound
by putng his arm over his mouth. 

"I no tha' thinks I'm a queer lad," he said, "but I
think tha' art th' queerest litl lass I evr saw."

Then Mary did a stranje thing.  She leand forwrd
and askd him a question she had nevr dreamd of askng
any one befor.  And she tryd to ask it in Yorkshr
because that was his lan- guage, and in India a nativ
was always plesed if u new his speech. 

"Dos tha' like me?" she said. 

"Eh!" he ansrd hartily, "that I dos.  I likes
thee wondrful, an' so dos th' robn, I do beleve!"

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

And then they began to work harder than evr and mor joyfuly. 
Mary was startld and sorry wen she herd th big clok
in th cortyard strike th our of her miday dinr. 

"I shal hav to go," she said mornfuly.  "And u
wil hav to go too, wont u?"

Dickon grinnd. 

"My dinner's esy to carry about with me," he said. 
"Mothr always lets me put a bit o' somethin' in my poket."

He pikd up his coat from th grass and brot out of
a poket a lumpy litl bundl tied up in a quite clean,
corse, blu and wite hankrchief.  It held two thik
peces of bred with a slice of somthing laid between them. 

"It's oftenest naut but bred," he said, "but I'v got
a fine slice o' fat bacon with it today."

Mary thot it lookd a queer dinr, but he seemd
redy to enjoy it. 

"Run on an' get thy victuals," he said.  "I'l be don
with mine first.  I'l get som mor work don befor I
start bak home."

He sat down with his bak against a tre. 

"I'l cal th' robn up," he said, "and giv him th'
rind o' th' bacon to pek at.  They likes a bit o'
fat wondrful."

Mary cud scarcely ber to leve him.  Sudnly it
seemd as if he myt be a sort of wood fairy ho
myt be gon wen she came into th gardn again. 
He seemd too good to be tru.  She went sloly half-way
to th dor in th wal and then she stopd and went bak. 

"Watevr hapns, u--u nevr wud tel?" she said. 

His poppy-colord cheeks wer distendd with his first big
bite of bred and bacon, but he manajd to smile encurajngly. 

"If tha' was a missel thrush an' showd me wher thy nest was,
dos tha' think I'd tel any one? Not me," he said. 
"Tha' art as safe as a missel thrush."

And she was quite sure she was. 



CHAPTR XII

"MYT I HAV A BIT OF ERTH?"


Mary ran so fast that she was rathr out of breth wen she
reachd her room.  Her hair was rufld on her forhed
and her cheeks wer bryt pink.  Her dinr was waitng
on th table, and Martha was waitng near it. 

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

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

"I new he'd com," said Martha exultntly.  "How dos tha'
like him?"

"I think--I think he's butiful!" said Mary in a determnd voice. 

Martha lookd rathr taken abak but she lookd plesed, too. 

"Wel," she said, "he's th' best lad as evr was born,
but us nevr thot he was hansm.  His nose turns up
too much."

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

"An' his ys is so round," said Martha, a trifle doutful. 
"Tho they'r a nice color." "I like them round,"
said Mary.  "And they ar exactly th color of th sky
over th moor."

Martha beamd with satisfaction. 

"Mothr says he made 'em that color with always lookn'
up at th' birds an' th' clouds.  But he has got a big mouth,
hasnt he, now?"

"I lov his big mouth," said Mary obstnatly.  "I wish
mine wer just like it."

Martha chukld delytdly. 

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

"How did u no he brot them?" askd Mary. 

"Eh! I nevr thot of him not bringin' 'em. He'd
be sure to bring 'em if they was in Yorkshr. 
He's such a trusty lad."

Mary was afraid that she myt begin to ask
dificlt questions, but she did not.  She was very
much intrestd in th seeds and gardnng tools,
and ther was only one moment wen Mary was frytnd. 
This was wen she began to ask wher th flowrs wer to be plantd. 

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

"I havnt askd anybody yet," said Mary, hesitating. 
"Wel, I wudnt ask th' hed gardnr.  He's too grand,
Mr. Roach is."

"I'v nevr seen him," said Mary.  "I'v only seen
undergardeners and Ben Weatherstaff."

"If I was u, I'd ask Ben Weatherstaff," advised Martha. 
"He's not half as bad as he looks, for al he's so crabd. 
Mr. Craven lets him do wat he likes because he was here
wen Mrs. Craven was alive, an' he used to make her laf. 
She liked him.  Perhaps he'd find u a cornr somwher out o'
th way."

"If it was out of th way and no one wantd it, no one
cud mind my havng it, cud they?" Mary said anxiusly. 

"Ther wudnt be no reasn," ansrd Martha. 
"U wudnt do no harm."

Mary ate her dinr as quikly as she cud and wen she
rose from th table she was going to run to her room
to put on her hat again, but Martha stopd her. 

"I'v got somethin' to tel u," she said.  "I thot
I'd let u eat yr dinr first.  Mr. Craven came bak
this mornn' and I think he wants to se u."

Mary turnd quite pale. 

"O!" she said.  "Wy! Wy! He didnt want to se me wen I came. 
I herd Pichr say he didnt." "Wel," explaind Martha,
"Mrs. Medlock says it's because o' mothr.  She was walkin'
to Thwaite vilaj an' she met him.  She'd nevr spoke
to him befor, but Mrs. Craven had been to our cotaj
two or thre times.  He'd forgot, but mothr hadnt an'
she made bold to stop him.  I dont no wat she said
to him about u but she said somethin' as put him in th'
mind to se u befor he gos away again, tomoro."

"O!" cryd Mary, "is he going away tomoro? I am so glad!"

"He's goin' for a long time.  He mayn't com bak til
autm or wintr.  He's goin' to travl in foren places. 
He's always doin' it."

"O! I'm so glad--so glad!" said Mary thankfuly. 

If he did not com bak until wintr, or even autm,
ther wud be time to wach th secret gardn com alive. 
Even if he found out then and took it away from her she
wud hav had that much at least. 

"Wen do u think he wil want to se--"

She did not finish th sentnce, because th dor opend,
and Mrs. Medlock walkd in.  She had on her best blak
dress and cap, and her colr was fasnd with a
larj brooch with a pictur of a man's face on it. 
It was a colord fotograf of Mr. Medlock ho had died
years ago, and she always wor it wen she was dresd up. 
She lookd nervus and exited. 

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

Al th pink left Mary's cheeks.  Her hart began to
thump and she felt herself chanjing into a stif, plan,
silent child again.  She did not even ansr Mrs. Medlock,
but turnd and walkd into her bedroom, folod by Martha. 
She said nothing wile her dress was chanjed, and her
hair brushd, and aftr she was quite tidy she folod
Mrs. Medlock down th coridrs, in silence.  Wat was ther
for her to say? She was oblijed to go and se Mr. Craven
and he wud not like her, and she wud not like him. 
She new wat he wud think of her. 

She was taken to a part of th house she had not been
into befor.  At last Mrs. Medlock nokd at a dor,
and wen som one said, "Com in," they entrd th
room togethr.  A man was sitng in an armchair befor
th fire, and Mrs. Medlock spoke to him. 

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

"U can go and leve her here.  I wil ring for u
wen I want u to take her away," said Mr. Craven. 

Wen she went out and closed th dor, Mary cud only
stand waitng, a plan litl thing, twistng her thin
hands togethr.  She cud se that th man in th
chair was not so much a hunchbak as a man with hy,
rathr crooked sholdrs, and he had blak hair streakd
with wite.  He turnd his hed over his hy sholdrs
and spoke to her. 

"Com here!" he said. 

Mary went to him. 

He was not ugly.  His face wud hav been hansm if it
had not been so misrbl.  He lookd as if th syt
of her worrid and fretd him and as if he did not no
wat in th world to do with her. 

"Ar u wel?" he askd. 

"Yes," ansrd Mary. 

"Do they take good care of u?"

"Yes."

He rubd his forhed fretfully as he lookd her over. 

"U ar very thin," he said. 

"I am getng fatr," Mary ansrd in wat she new
was her stiffest way. 

Wat an unhappy face he had! His blak ys seemd as if they
scarcely saw her, as if they wer seing somthing else,
and he cud hardly keep his thots upon her. 

"I forgot u," he said.  "How cud I remembr u? I
intendd to send u a govrness or a nurse, or som
one of that sort, but I forgot."

"Plese," began Mary.  "Plese--" and then th lump
in her throat choked her. 

"Wat do u want to say?" he inquired. 

"I am--I am too big for a nurse," said Mary. 
"And plese--plese dont make me hav a govrness yet."

He rubd his forhed again and stared at her. 

"That was wat th Sowerby womn said," he mutrd absnt-minddly. 

Then Mary gathrd a scrap of curaj. 

"Is she--is she Martha's mothr?" she stamrd. 

"Yes, I think so," he replyd. 

"She nos about children," said Mary.  "She has twelv. 
She nos."

He seemd to rouse himself. 

"Wat do u want to do?"

"I want to play out of dors," Mary ansrd, hoping that
her voice did not trembl.  "I nevr liked it in India. 
It makes me hungry here, and I am getng fatr."

He was wachng her. 

"Mrs. Sowerby said it wud do u good.  Perhaps it wil,"
he said.  "She thot u had betr get strongr befor
u had a govrness."

"It makes me feel strong wen I play and th wind coms
over th moor," argud Mary. 

"Wher do u play?" he askd next. 

"Evrywher," gaspd Mary.  "Martha's mothr sent me
a skipng-rope. I skip and run--and I look about to se
if things ar beginng to stik up out of th erth. 
I dont do any harm."

"Dont look so frytnd," he said in a worrid voice. 
"U cud not do any harm, a child like u! U may do
wat u like."

Mary put her hand up to her throat because she was afraid
he myt se th exited lump wich she felt jump into it. 
She came a step nearr to him. 

"May I?" she said tremulusly. 

Her anxius litl face seemd to worry him mor than evr. 

"Dont look so frytnd," he exclaimd.  "Of corse u may. 
I am yr gardian, tho I am a poor one for any child. 
I canot giv u time or atention.  I am too il,
and reched and distractd; but I wish u to be happy
and comfrtbl.  I dont no anything about children,
but Mrs. Medlock is to se that u hav al u need. 
I sent for u to-day because Mrs. Sowerby said I
ot to se u.  Her dautr had talkd about u. 
She thot u needd fresh air and fredm and runng
about."

"She nos al about children," Mary said again in spite
of herself. 

"She ot to," said Mr. Craven.  "I thot her rathr
bold to stop me on th moor, but she said--Mrs. Craven
had been kind to her." It seemd hard for him to speak
his ded wife's name.  "She is a respectbl womn. 
Now I hav seen u I think she said sensbl things. 
Play out of dors as much as u like.  It's a big place
and u may go wher u like and amuse yrself as u like. 
Is ther anything u want?" as if a sudn thot had
struk him.  "Do u want toys, books, dols?"

"Myt I," quaverd Mary, "myt I hav a bit of erth?"

In her eagrness she did not realize how queer th words
wud sound and that they wer not th ones she had ment
to say.  Mr. Craven lookd quite startld. 

"Erth!" he repeatd.  "Wat do u mean?"

"To plant seeds in--to make things gro--to se them
com alive," Mary faltrd. 

He gazed at her a moment and then pasd his hand quikly
over his ys. 

"Do u--care about gardns so much," he said sloly. 

"I didnt no about them in India," said Mary.  "I was
always il and tired and it was too hot.  I somtimes
made littlebeds in th sand and stuk flowrs in them. 
But here it is difrnt."

Mr. Craven got up and began to walk sloly across th room. 

"A bit of erth," he said to himself, and Mary thot
that somhow she must hav remindd him of somthing. 
Wen he stopd and spoke to her his dark ys lookd almost
soft and kind. 

"U can hav as much erth as u want," he said. 
"U remind me of som one else ho lovd th erth and
things that gro.  Wen u se a bit of erth u want,"
with somthing like a smile, "take it, child, and make it
com alive."

"May I take it from anywher--if it's not wantd?"

"Anywher," he ansrd.  "Ther! U must go now,
I am tired." He tuchd th bel to cal Mrs. Medlock. 
"Good-by. I shal be away al sumr."

Mrs. Medlock came so quikly that Mary thot she must
hav been waitng in th coridr. 

"Mrs. Medlock," Mr. Craven said to her, "now I hav
seen th child I undrstand wat Mrs. Sowerby ment. 
She must be less delicat befor she begins lesns. 
Giv her simpl, helthy food.  Let her run wild in
th gardn.  Dont look aftr her too much.  She needs
librty and fresh air and rompng about.  Mrs. Sowerby
is to com and se her now and then and she may somtimes
go to th cotaj."

Mrs. Medlock lookd plesed.  She was releved to
hear that she need not "look aftr" Mary too much. 
She had felt her a tiresm charj and had indeed seen
as litl of her as she dared.  In adition to this
she was fond of Martha's mothr. 

"Thank u, sir," she said.  "Susan Sowerby and me went to
scool togethr and she's as sensbl and good-hartd a womn
as u'd find in a day's walk.  I nevr had any children
myself and she's had twelv, and ther nevr was helthir
or betr ones.  Miss Mary can get no harm from them. 
I'd always take Susan Sowerby's advice about children myself. 
She's wat u myt cal helthy-mindd--if u undrstand me."

"I undrstand," Mr. Craven ansrd.  "Take Miss Mary
away now and send Pichr to me."

Wen Mrs. Medlock left her at th end of her own coridr
Mary flew bak to her room.  She found Martha waitng ther. 
Martha had, in fact, hurrid bak aftr she had removed
th dinr service. 

"I can hav my gardn!" cryd Mary.  "I may hav it
wher I like! I am not going to hav a govrness
for a long time! Yr mothr is comng to se me
and I may go to yr cotaj! He says a litl girl
like me cud not do any harm and I may do wat I like--anywher!"

"Eh!" said Martha delytdly, "that was nice of him
wasnt it?"

"Martha," said Mary solemly, "he is realy a nice man,
only his face is so misrbl and his forhed is al
drawn togethr."

She ran as quikly as she cud to th gardn.  She had
been away so much longr than she had thot she shud
and she new Dickon wud hav to set out erly on his
five-mile walk.  Wen she slipd thru th dor undr
th ivy, she saw he was not workng wher she had left him. 
Th gardnng tools wer laid togethr undr a tre. 
She ran to them, lookng al round th place, but ther
was no Dickon to be seen.  He had gon away and th secret
gardn was emty--exept for th robn ho had just flown
across th wal and sat on a standrd rose-bush wachng her. 
"He's gon," she said wofuly.  "O! was he--was he--was
he only a wood fairy?"

Somthing wite fasnd to th standrd rose-bush caut
her y.  It was a pece of paper, in fact, it was a
pece of th letr she had printd for Martha to send
to Dickon.  It was fasnd on th bush with a long thorn,
and in a minut she new Dickon had left it ther. 
Ther wer som rufly printd letrs on it and a sort
of pictur.  At first she cud not tel wat it was. 
Then she saw it was ment for a nest with a bird sitng
on it.  Undrneath wer th printd letrs and they
said:

"I wil cum bak."



CHAPTR XIII

"I AM COLIN"


Mary took th pictur bak to th house wen she went
to her supr and she showd it to Martha. 

"Eh!" said Martha with gret pride.  "I nevr new our
Dickon was as clevr as that.  That ther's a pictur
of a missel thrush on her nest, as larj as life an'
twice as natrl."

Then Mary new Dickon had ment th pictur to be a messaj. 
He had ment that she myt be sure he wud keep her secret. 
Her gardn was her nest and she was like a missel thrush. 
O, how she did like that queer, comn boy!

She hoped he wud com bak th very next day and she
fel asleep lookng forwrd to th mornng. 

But u nevr no wat th wethr wil do in Yorkshr,
particulrly in th springtime.  She was awakend in
th nyt by th sound of rain beatng with hevy drops
against her windo.  It was porng down in torents
and th wind was "wuthrng" round th cornrs and in
th chimnis of th huje old house.  Mary sat up in bed
and felt misrbl and angry. 

"Th rain is as contry as I evr was," she said. 
"It came because it new I did not want it."

She threw herself bak on her pilo and burid her face. 
She did not cry, but she lay and hated th sound of th
hevily beatng rain, she hated th wind and its "wuthrng."
She cud not go to sleep again.  Th mornful sound kept
her awake because she felt mornful herself.  If she had
felt happy it wud probbly hav luld her to sleep. 
How it "wuthered" and how th big raindrops pord down
and beat against th pane!

"It sounds just like a persn lost on th moor
and wandrng on and on cryng," she said. 


She had been lyng awake turnng from side to side
for about an our, wen sudnly somthing made her sit
up in bed and turn her hed toward th dor lisnng. 
She lisnd and she lisnd. 

"It isnt th wind now," she said in a loud wispr. 
"That isnt th wind.  It is difrnt.  It is that cryng I
herd befor."

Th dor of her room was ajar and th sound came down
th coridr, a far-off faint sound of fretful cryng. 
She lisnd for a few minuts and each minut she became
mor and mor sure.  She felt as if she must find out
wat it was.  It seemd even stranjer than th secret
gardn and th burid ke.  Perhaps th fact that she
was in a rebelius mood made her bold.  She put her foot
out of bed and stood on th flor. 

"I am going to find out wat it is," she said.  "Evrybody is
in bed and I dont care about Mrs. Medlock--I dont care!"

Ther was a candl by her bedside and she took it up
and went softly out of th room.  Th coridr lookd
very long and dark, but she was too exited to mind that. 
She thot she remembrd th cornrs she must turn
to find th short coridr with th dor covrd with
tapestry--th one Mrs. Medlock had com thru th day
she lost herself.  Th sound had com up that passaj. 
So she went on with her dim lyt, almost feelng her way,
her hart beatng so loud that she fancid she cud
hear it.  Th far-off faint cryng went on and led her. 
Somtimes it stopd for a moment or so and then began again. 
Was this th ryt cornr to turn? She stopd and thot. 
Yes it was.  Down this passaj and then to th left,
and then up two brod steps, and then to th ryt again. 
Yes, ther was th tapestry dor. 

She pushd it open very jently and closed it behind her,
and she stood in th coridr and cud hear th cryng
quite plainly, tho it was not loud.  It was on th othr
side of th wal at her left and a few yards farthr on
ther was a dor.  She cud se a glimr of lyt comng
from beneath it.  Th Somone was cryng in that room,
and it was quite a yung Somone. 

So she walkd to th dor and pushd it open, and ther
she was standng in th room!

It was a big room with ancient, hansm furnitur in it. 
Ther was a lo fire gloing faintly on th harth and a
nyt lyt burnng by th side of a carvd four-postd
bed hung with brocade, and on th bed was lyng a boy,
cryng fretfully. 

Mary wondrd if she was in a real place or if she had
falen asleep again and was dreamng without noing it. 

Th boy had a sharp, delicat face th color of ivory
and he seemd to hav ys too big for it.  He had
also a lot of hair wich tumbld over his forhed
in hevy loks and made his thin face seem smalr. 
He lookd like a boy ho had been il, but he was cryng
mor as if he wer tired and cross than as if he wer in pain. 

Mary stood near th dor with her candl in her hand,
holdng her breth.  Then she crept across th room, and,
as she drew nearr, th lyt atractd th boy's atention
and he turnd his hed on his pilo and stared at her,
his gray ys openng so wide that they seemd imense. 

"Ho ar u?" he said at last in a half-frytnd wispr. 
"Ar u a gost?"

"No, I am not," Mary ansrd, her own wispr soundng
half frytnd.  "Ar u one?"

He stared and stared and stared.  Mary cud not help
noticing wat stranje ys he had.  They wer agat
gray and they lookd too big for his face because they
had blak lashs al round them. 

"No," he replyd aftr waitng a moment or so. 
"I am Colin."

"Ho is Colin?" she faltrd. 

"I am Colin Craven.  Ho ar u?"

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

"He is my fathr," said th boy. 

"Yr fathr!" gaspd Mary.  "No one evr told me he
had a boy! Wy didnt they?"

"Com here," he said, stil keepng his stranje ys
fixd on her with an anxius expression. 

She came close to th bed and he put out his hand
and tuchd her. 

"U ar real, arnt u?" he said.  "I hav such real
dreams very ofn.  U myt be one of them."

Mary had slipd on a woolen rapr befor she left
her room and she put a pece of it between his fingrs. 

"Rub that and se how thik and warm it is," she said. 
"I wil pinch u a litl if u like, to sho u how real
I am.  For a minut I thot u myt be a dream too."

"Wher did u com from?" he askd. 

"From my own room.  Th wind wuthered so I cudnt go
to sleep and I herd som one cryng and wantd to find
out ho it was.  Wat wer u cryng for?"

"Because I cudnt go to sleep eithr and my hed ached. 
Tel me yr name again."

"Mary Lennox.  Did no one evr tel u I had com
to liv here?"

He was stil fingrng th fold of her rapr, but he
began to look a litl mor as if he beleved in her reality. 

"No," he ansrd.  "They darent."

"Wy?" askd Mary. 

"Because I shud hav been afraid u wud se me. 
I wont let peple se me and talk me over."

"Wy?" Mary askd again, feelng mor mystifyd evry moment. 

"Because I am like this always, il and havng to lie down. 
My fathr wont let peple talk me over eithr. 
Th servnts ar not alowd to speak about me. 
If I liv I may be a hunchbak, but I shant liv. 
My fathr hates to think I may be like him."

"O, wat a queer house this is!" Mary said. 
"Wat a queer house! Everything is a kind of secret. 
Rooms ar lokd up and gardns ar lokd up--and u!
Hav u been lokd up?"

"No. I stay in this room because I dont want to be moved
out of it.  It tires me too much."

"Dos yr fathr com and se u?" Mary venturd. 

"Somtimes. Jenrly wen I am asleep.  He dosnt want
to se me."

"Wy?" Mary cud not help askng again. 

A sort of angry shado pasd over th boy's face. 

"My mothr died wen I was born and it makes him reched
to look at me.  He thinks I dont no, but I'v herd
peple talkng.  He almost hates me."

"He hates th gardn, because she died," said Mary half
speakng to herself. 

"Wat gardn?" th boy askd. 

"O! just--just a gardn she used to like," Mary stamrd. 
"Hav u been here always?" "Nearly always.  Somtimes I
hav been taken to places at th seside, but I wont
stay because peple stare at me.  I used to wer an iron
thing to keep my bak strait, but a grand doctr came
from Londn to se me and said it was stupid.  He told
them to take it off and keep me out in th fresh air. 
I hate fresh air and I dont want to go out."

"I didnt wen first I came here," said Mary.  "Wy do
u keep lookng at me like that?"

"Because of th dreams that ar so real," he ansrd
rathr fretfully.  "Somtimes wen I open my ys I dont
beleve I'm awake."

"We'r both awake," said Mary.  She glanced round th room
with its hy celing and shadowy cornrs and dim fire-lyt.
"It looks quite like a dream, and it's th midl of th nyt,
and evrybody in th house is asleep--evrybody but us. 
We ar wide awake."

"I dont want it to be a dream," th boy said restlesly. 

Mary thot of somthing al at once. 

"If u dont like peple to se u," she began,
"do u want me to go away?"

He stil held th fold of her rapr and he gave it
a litl pul. 

"No," he said.  "I shud be sure u wer a dream if u went. 
If u ar real, sit down on that big footstool and talk. 
I want to hear about u."

Mary put down her candl on th table near th bed
and sat down on th cushnd stool.  She did not want
to go away at al.  She wantd to stay in th mysterius
hidn-away room and talk to th mysterius boy. 

"Wat do u want me to tel u?" she said. 

He wantd to no how long she had been at Misselthwaite;
he wantd to no wich coridr her room was on; he wantd
to no wat she had been doing; if she disliked th moor
as he disliked it; wher she had livd befor she came
to Yorkshr.  She ansrd al these questions and many
mor and he lay bak on his pilo and lisnd.  He made
her tel him a gret deal about India and about her voyaj
across th ocen.  She found out that because he had been
an invlid he had not lernd things as othr children had. 
One of his nurses had taut him to red wen he was quite
litl and he was always readng and lookng at picturs
in splendid books. 

Tho his fathr rarely saw him wen he was awake, he was
givn al sorts of wondrful things to amuse himself with. 
He nevr seemd to hav been amused, howevr.  He cud hav
anything he askd for and was nevr made to do anything he did
not like to do.  "Evryone is oblijed to do wat pleses me,"
he said indifrntly.  "It makes me il to be angry. 
No one beleves I shal liv to gro up."

He said it as if he was so acustmd to th idea that it
had cesed to matr to him at al.  He seemd to like
th sound of Mary's voice.  As she went on talkng he
lisnd in a drowsy, intrestd way.  Once or twice she
wondrd if he wer not graduly falng into a doze. 
But at last he askd a question wich opend up a new subject. 

"How old ar u?" he askd. 

"I am ten," ansrd Mary, forgetng herself for th moment,
"and so ar u."

"How do u no that?" he demandd in a surprised voice. 

"Because wen u wer born th gardn dor was lokd
and th ke was burid.  And it has been lokd for ten years."

Colin half sat up, turnng toward her, leanng on his elbos. 

"Wat gardn dor was lokd? Ho did it? Wher was
th ke burid?" he exclaimd as if he wer sudnly
very much intrestd. 

"It--it was th gardn Mr. Craven hates," said Mary nervusly. 
"He lokd th dor.  No one--no one new wher he burid
th ke." "Wat sort of a gardn is it?" Colin persistd eagrly. 

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

But it was too late to be careful.  He was too much
like herself.  He too had had nothing to think about
and th idea of a hidn gardn atractd him as it
had atractd her.  He askd question aftr question. 
Wher was it? Had she nevr lookd for th dor? Had she
nevr askd th gardnrs?

"They wont talk about it," said Mary.  "I think they
hav been told not to ansr questions."

"I wud make them," said Colin. 

"Cud u?" Mary faltrd, beginng to feel frytnd. 
If he cud make peple ansr questions, ho new wat
myt hapn!

"Evryone is oblijed to plese me.  I told u that,"
he said.  "If I wer to liv, this place wud somtime
belong to me.  They al no that.  I wud make them
tel me."

Mary had not nown that she herself had been spoild,
but she cud se quite plainly that this mysterius boy
had been.  He thot that th hole world belongd to him. 
How peculir he was and how cooly he spoke of not livng. 

"Do u think u wont liv?" she askd, partly because
she was curius and partly in hope of making him forget
th gardn. 

"I dont supose I shal," he ansrd as indifrntly
as he had spoken befor.  "Evr since I remembr anything
I hav herd peple say I shant. At first they thot
I was too litl to undrstand and now they think I
dont hear.  But I do.  My doctr is my father's cusn. 
He is quite poor and if I die he wil hav al Misselthwaite
wen my fathr is ded.  I shud think he wudnt want
me to liv."

"Do u want to liv?" inquired Mary. 

"No," he ansrd, in a cross, tired fashn.  "But I
dont want to die.  Wen I feel il I lie here and think
about it until I cry and cry."

"I hav herd u cryng thre times," Mary said, "but I
did not no ho it was.  Wer u cryng about that?"
She did so want him to forget th gardn. 

"I dare say," he ansrd.  "Let us talk about somthing else. 
Talk about that gardn.  Dont u want to se it?"

"Yes," ansrd Mary, in quite a lo voice. 

"I do," he went on persistntly.  "I dont think I evr realy
wantd to se anything befor, but I want to se that gardn. 
I want th ke dug up.  I want th dor unlokd. 
I wud let them take me ther in my chair.  That wud
be gettingfresh air.  I am going to make them open th dor."

He had becom quite exited and his stranje ys began
to shine like stars and lookd mor imense than evr. 

"They hav to plese me," he said.  "I wil make them
take me ther and I wil let u go, too."

Mary's hands cluchd each othr.  Everything wud
be spoild--everything! Dickon wud nevr com bak. 
She wud nevr again feel like a missel thrush with a
safe-hidn nest. 

"O, dont--dont--dont--dont do that!" she cryd out. 

He stared as if he thot she had gon crazy!

"Wy?" he exclaimd.  "U said u wantd to se it."

"I do," she ansrd almost with a sob in her throat,
"but if u make them open th dor and take u in like
that it wil nevr be a secret again."

He leand stil farthr forwrd. 

"A secret," he said.  "Wat do u mean? Tel me."

Mary's words almost tumbld over one anothr. 

"U se--u se," she pantd, "if no one nos but
ourselvs--if ther was a dor, hidn somwher undr
th ivy--if ther was--and we cud find it; and if we
cud slip thru it togethr and shut it behind us,
and no one new any one was inside and we cald it our
gardn and pretendd that--that we wer missel thrushs
and it was our nest, and if we playd ther almost evry
day and dug and plantd seeds and made it al com alive--"

"Is it ded?" he intruptd her. 

"It soon wil be if no one cares for it," she went on. 
"Th bulbs wil liv but th roses--"

He stopd her again as exited as she was herself. 

"Wat ar bulbs?" he put in quikly. 

"They ar dafodls and lilis and snowdrops.  They ar
workng in th erth now--pushng up pale green points
because th spring is comng."

"Is th spring comng?" he said.  "Wat is it like? U
dont se it in rooms if u ar il."

"It is th sun shining on th rain and th rain falng
on th sunshine, and things pushng up and workng undr
th erth," said Mary.  "If th gardn was a secret and we
cud get into it we cud wach th things gro bigr
evry day, and se how many roses ar alive.  Dont u. 
se? O, dont u se how much nicer it wud be if it
was a secret?"

He dropd bak on his pilo and lay ther with an od
expression on his face. 

"I nevr had a secret," he said, "exept that one about
not livng to gro up.  They dont no I no that,
so it is a sort of secret.  But I like this kind betr."

"If u wont make them take u to th gardn," pleadd Mary,
"perhaps--I feel almost sure I can find out how to get
in somtime.  And then--if th doctr wants u to go out
in yr chair, and if u can always do wat u want to do,
perhaps--perhaps we myt find som boy ho wud push u,
and we cud go alone and it wud always be a secret gardn."

"I shud--like--that," he said very sloly, his ys
lookng dreamy.  "I shud like that.  I shud not mind
fresh air in a secret gardn."

Mary began to recovr her breth and feel safer because
th idea of keepng th secret seemd to plese him. 
She felt almost sure that if she kept on talkng and cud
make him se th gardn in his mind as she had seen it
he wud like it so much that he cud not ber to think
that evrybody myt tramp in to it wen they chose. 

"I'l tel u wat I think it wud be like, if we cud
go into it," she said.  "It has been shut up so long
things hav grown into a tangl perhaps."

He lay quite stil and lisnd wile she went on talkng
about th roses wich myt hav clambrd from tre
to tre and hung down--about th many birds wich myt
hav bilt ther nests ther because it was so safe. 
And then she told him about th robn and Ben Weatherstaff,
and ther was so much to tel about th robn and it
was so esy and safe to talk about it that she cesed
to be afraid.  Th robn plesed him so much that he
smiled until he lookd almost butiful, and at first
Mary had thot that he was even plainr than herself,
with his big ys and hevy loks of hair. 

"I did not no birds cud be like that," he said. 
"But if u stay in a room u nevr se things. 
Wat a lot of things u no.  I feel as if u had been
inside that gardn."

She did not no wat to say, so she did not say anything. 
He evidntly did not expect an ansr and th next moment
he gave her a surprise. 

"I am going to let u look at somthing," he said. 
"Do u se that rose-colord silk curtn hangng on th
wal over th mantl-pece?"

Mary had not noticed it befor, but she lookd up and saw it. 
It was a curtn of soft silk hangng over wat seemd
to be som pictur. 

"Yes," she ansrd. 

"Ther is a cord hangng from it," said Colin. 
"Go and pul it."

Mary got up, much mystifyd, and found th cord. 
Wen she puld it th silk curtn ran bak on
rings and wen it ran bak it uncovrd a pictur. 
It was th pictur of a girl with a lafng face. 
She had bryt hair tied up with a blu ribn and her gay,
lovly ys wer exactly like Colin's unhappy ones,
agat gray and lookng twice as big as they realy wer
because of th blak lashs al round them. 

"She is my mothr," said Colin complainingly.  "I dont
se wy she died.  Somtimes I hate her for doing it."

"How queer!" said Mary. 

"If she had livd I beleve I shud not hav been il always,"
he grumbld.  "I dare say I shud hav livd, too. 
And my fathr wud not hav hated to look at me.  I dare
say I shud hav had a strong bak.  Draw th curtn again."

Mary did as she was told and returnd to her footstool. 

"She is much prettir than u," she said, "but her ys
ar just like yrs--at least they ar th same shape
and color.  Wy is th curtn drawn over her?"

He moved uncomfrtbly. 

"I made them do it," he said.  "Somtimes I dont like to
se her lookng at me.  She smiles too much wen I am il
and misrbl.  Besides, she is mine and I dont want evryone
to se her." Ther wer a few moments of silence and then Mary spoke. 

"Wat wud Mrs. Medlock do if she found out that I
had been here?" she inquired. 

"She wud do as I told her to do," he ansrd. 
"And I shud tel her that I wantd u to com here
and talk to me evry day.  I am glad u came."

"So am I," said Mary.  "I wil com as ofn as I can,
but"--she hesitated--"I shal hav to look evry day
for th gardn dor."

"Yes, u must," said Colin, "and u can tel me about
it aftrwrd."

He lay thinkng a few minuts, as he had don befor,
and then he spoke again. 

"I think u shal be a secret, too," he said.  "I wil not
tel them until they find out.  I can always send th nurse
out of th room and say that I want to be by myself. 
Do u no Martha?"

"Yes, I no her very wel," said Mary.  "She waits on me."

He nodd his hed toward th outr coridr. 

"She is th one ho is asleep in th othr room. 
Th nurse went away yestrday to stay al nyt with her
sistr and she always makes Martha atend to me wen she
wants to go out.  Martha shal tel u wen to com here."

Then Mary undrstood Martha's trubld look wen she
had askd questions about th cryng. 

"Martha new about u al th time?" she said. 

"Yes; she ofn atends to me.  Th nurse likes to get
away from me and then Martha coms."

"I hav been here a long time," said Mary.  "Shal I go
away now? Yr ys look sleepy."

"I wish I cud go to sleep befor u leve me,"
he said rathr shyly. 

"Shut yr ys," said Mary, drawng her footstool closer,
"and I wil do wat my Aya used to do in India. 
I wil pat yr hand and stroke it and sing somthing
quite lo."

"I shud like that perhaps," he said drowsily. 

Somhow she was sorry for him and did not want him
to lie awake, so she leand against th bed and began
to stroke and pat his hand and sing a very lo litl
chantng song in Hindustani. 

"That is nice," he said mor drowsily stil, and she went
on chantng and stroking, but wen she lookd at him again
his blak lashs wer lyng close against his cheeks,
for his ys wer shut and he was fast asleep.  So she
got up softly, took her candl and crept away without
making a sound. 



CHAPTR XIV

A YUNG RAJA


Th moor was hidn in mist wen th mornng came,
and th rain had not stopd porng down.  Ther cud
be no going out of dors.  Martha was so busy that Mary
had no oprtunity of talkng to her, but in th aftrnoon
she askd her to com and sit with her in th nursry. 
She came bringng th stokng she was always nitng
wen she was doing nothing else. 

"Wat's th matr with thee?" she askd as soon as they
sat down.  "Tha' looks as if tha'd somethin' to say."

"I hav.  I hav found out wat th cryng was,"
said Mary. 

Martha let her nitng drop on her ne and gazed
at her with startld ys. 

"Tha' hasnt!" she exclaimd.  "Nevr!"

"I herd it in th nyt," Mary went on.  "And I got
up and went to se wher it came from.  It was Colin. 
I found him."

Martha's face became red with fryt. 

"Eh! Miss Mary!" she said half cryng.  "Tha' shudnt
hav don it--tha' shudnt! Tha'll get me in trubl. 
I nevr told thee nothin' about him--but tha'll get me
in trubl.  I shal lose my place and wat'l mothr do!"

"U wont lose yr place," said Mary.  "He was glad I came. 
We talkd and talkd and he said he was glad I came."

"Was he?" cryd Martha.  "Art tha' sure? Tha'
dosnt no wat he's like wen anything vexes him. 
He's a big lad to cry like a baby, but wen he's
in a passion he'l fair scream just to frytn us. 
He nos us darent cal our sols our own."

"He wasnt vexd," said Mary.  "I askd him if I shud go
away and he made me stay.  He askd me questions and I
sat on a big footstool and talkd to him about India
and about th robn and gardns.  He wudnt let me go. 
He let me se his mother's pictur.  Befor I left him I
sang him to sleep."

Martha fairly gaspd with amazemnt. 

"I can scarcely beleve thee!" she protestd. 
"It's as if tha'd walkd strait into a lion's den. 
If he'd been like he is most times he'd hav throwed himself
into one of his tantrms and rousd th' house.  He wont
let stranjers look at him."

"He let me look at him.  I lookd at him al th time
and he lookd at me.  We stared!" said Mary. 

"I dont no wat to do!" cryd ajitated Martha. 
"If Mrs. Medlock finds out, she'l think I broke ordrs
and told thee and I shal be pakd bak to mothr."

"He is not going to tel Mrs. Medlock anything about it yet. 
It's to be a sort of secret just at first," said Mary firmly. 
"And he says evrybody is oblijed to do as he pleses."

"Y, that's tru enuf--th' bad lad!" syd Martha,
wiping her forhed with her apron. 

"He says Mrs. Medlock must.  And he wants me to com and talk
to him evry day.  And u ar to tel me wen he wants me."

"Me!" said Martha; "I shal lose my place--I shal for sure!"

"U cant if u ar doing wat he wants u to do
and evrybody is ordrd to obey him," Mary argud. 

"Dos tha' mean to say," cryd Martha with wide open ys,
"that he was nice to thee!"

"I think he almost liked me," Mary ansrd. 

"Then tha' must hav bewichd him!" decided Martha,
drawng a long breth. 

"Do u mean Majic?" inquired Mary.  "I'v herd about Majic
in India, but I cant make it.  I just went into his room
and I was so surprised to se him I stood and stared. 
And then he turnd round and stared at me.  And he thot
I was a gost or a dream and I thot perhaps he was. 
And it was so queer being ther alone togethr in th
midl of th nyt and not noing about each othr. 
And we began to ask each othr questions.  And wen I askd
him if I must go away he said I must not."

"Th' world's comin' to a end!" gaspd Martha. 

"Wat is th matr with him?" askd Mary. 

"Nobody nos for sure and certn," said Martha. 
"Mr. Craven went off his hed like wen he was born. 
Th' doctrs thot he'd hav to be put in a 'sylum.
It was because Mrs. Craven died like I told u. 
He wudnt set ys on th' baby.  He just raved and said
it'd be anothr hunchbak like him and it'd betr die."

"Is Colin a hunchbak?" Mary askd.  "He didnt look
like one."

"He isnt yet," said Martha.  "But he began al rong. 
Mothr said that ther was enuf trubl and rajing in th'
house to set any child rong.  They was afraid his bak
was weak an' they'v always been takin' care of it--keepin'
him lyin' down and not lettin' him walk.  Once they made
him wer a brace but he fretd so he was downryt il. 
Then a big doctr came to se him an' made them take it off. 
He talkd to th' othr doctr quite ruf--in a polite way. 
He said ther'd been too much medcin and too much lettin'
him hav his own way."

"I think he's a very spoild boy," said Mary. 

"He's th' worst yung nowt as evr was!" said Martha. 
"I wont say as he hasnt been il a good bit. 
He's had cofs an' colds that's nearly kild him two
or thre times.  Once he had rumatic fever an' once he
had tyfoid.  Eh! Mrs. Medlock did get a fryt then. 
He'd been out of his hed an' she was talkn to th'
nurse, thinkin' he didnt no nothin', an' she said,
`He'l die this time sure enuf, an' best thing for him an'
for evrybody.' An' she lookd at him an' ther he
was with his big ys open, starin' at her as sensbl
as she was herself.  She didnt no wha'd hapn but he
just stared at her an' says, `U giv me som watr an'
stop talkn.'"

"Do u think he wil die?" askd Mary. 

"Mothr says ther's no reasn wy any child shud liv
that gets no fresh air an' dosnt do nothin' but lie
on his bak an' red pictur-books an' take medcin. 
He's weak and hates th' trubl o' bein' taken out o'
dors, an' he gets cold so esy he says it makes him il."

Mary sat and lookd at th fire.  "I wondr," she said sloly,
"if it wud not do him good to go out into a gardn
and wach things groing.  It did me good."

"One of th' worst fits he evr had," said Martha, "was one
time they took him out wher th roses is by th fountn. 
He'd been readin' in a paper about peple gettin'
somethin' he cald `rose cold' an' he began to sneze an'
said he'd got it an' then a new gardnr as didnt
no th' rules pasd by an' lookd at him curius. 
He threw himself into a passion an' he said he'd
lookd at him because he was going to be a hunchbak. 
He cryd himself into a fever an' was il al nyt."

"If he evr gets angry at me, I'l nevr go and se
him again," said Mary. 

"He'l hav thee if he wants thee," said Martha. 
"Tha' may as wel no that at th' start."

Very soon aftrwrd a bel rang and she rold up
her nitng. 

"I dare say th' nurse wants me to stay with him a bit,"
she said.  "I hope he's in a good tempr."

She was out of th room about ten minuts and then she
came bak with a puzld expression. 

"Wel, tha' has bewichd him," she said.  "He's up on his
sofa with his pictur-books. He's told th nurse to stay
away until six oclok. I'm to wait in th next room. 
Th' minut she was gon he cald me to him an' says, `I want
Mary Lennox to com and talk to me, and remembr u'r
not to tel any one.' U'd betr go as quik as u can."

Mary was quite wilng to go quikly.  She did not want
to se Colin as much as she wantd to se Dickon;
but she wantd to se him very much. 

Ther was a bryt fire on th harth wen she entrd
his room, and in th daylyt she saw it was a very
butiful room indeed.  Ther wer rich colors in th
rugs and hangngs and picturs and books on th walls
wich made it look gloing and comfrtbl even in spite
of th gray sky and falng rain.  Colin lookd rathr
like a pictur himself.  He was rapd in a velvet
dresng-gown and sat against a big brocaded cushn. 
He had a red spot on each cheek. 

"Com in," he said.  "I'v been thinkng about u
al mornng."

"I'v been thinkng about u, too," ansrd Mary. 
"U dont no how frytnd Martha is.  She says
Mrs. Medlock wil think she told me about u and then she
wil be sent away."

He frownd. 

"Go and tel her to com here," he said.  "She is
in th next room."

Mary went and brot her bak.  Poor Martha was shaking
in her shoes.  Colin was stil frownng. 

"Hav u to do wat I plese or hav u not?" he demandd. 

"I hav to do wat u plese, sir," Martha faltrd,
turnng quite red. 

"Has Medlock to do wat I plese?"

"Evrybody has, sir," said Martha. 

"Wel, then, if I ordr u to bring Miss Mary to me,
how can Medlock send u away if she finds it out?"

"Plese dont let her, sir," pleadd Martha. 

"I'l send her away if she dares to say a word about such
a thing," said Mastr Craven grandly.  "She wudnt
like that, I can tel u."

"Thank u, sir," bobng a curtsy, "I want to do my duty, sir."

"Wat I want is yr duty" said Colin mor grandly stil. 
"I'l take care of u.  Now go away."

Wen th dor closed behind Martha, Colin found Mistress
Mary gazing at him as if he had set her wondrng. 

"Wy do u look at me like that?" he askd her. 
"Wat ar u thinkng about?"

"I am thinkng about two things."

"Wat ar they? Sit down and tel me."

"This is th first one," said Mary, seatng herself on th
big stool.  "Once in India I saw a boy ho was a Raja. 
He had rubis and emrlds and diamnds stuk al over him. 
He spoke to his peple just as u spoke to Martha. 
Evrybody had to do everything he told them--in a minut. 
I think they wud hav been kild if they hadnt."

"I shal make u tel me about Rajahs presntly," he said,
"but first tel me wat th secnd thing was."

"I was thinkng," said Mary, "how difrnt u ar
from Dickon."

"Ho is Dickon?" he said.  "Wat a queer name!"

She myt as wel tel him, she thot she cud talk
about Dickon without mentionng th secret gardn.  She had
liked to hear Martha talk about him.  Besides, she longd
to talk about him.  It wud seem to bring him nearr. 

"He is Martha's brothr.  He is twelv years old,"
she explaind.  "He is not like any one else in th world. 
He can charm foxs and squirels and birds just as th
nativs in India charm snakes.  He plays a very soft tune
on a pipe and they com and lisn."

Ther wer som big books on a table at his side and he
dragd one sudnly toward him.  "Ther is a pictur
of a snake-charmr in this," he exclaimd.  "Com and look
at it"

Th book was a butiful one with superb colord
ilustrations and he turnd to one of them. 

"Can he do that?" he askd eagrly. 

"He playd on his pipe and they lisnd," Mary explaind. 
"But he dosnt cal it Majic.  He says it's because he
lives on th moor so much and he nos ther ways.  He says
he feels somtimes as if he was a bird or a rabit himself,
he likes them so.  I think he askd th robn questions. 
It seemd as if they talkd to each othr in soft chirps."

Colin lay bak on his cushn and his ys grew larjr
and larjr and th spots on his cheeks burnd. 

"Tel me som mor about him," he said. 

"He nos al about egs and nests," Mary went on. 
"And he nos wher foxs and bajrs and otrs liv. 
He keeps them secret so that othr boys wont find ther holes
and frytn them.  He nos about everything that gros
or lives on th moor."

"Dos he like th moor?" said Colin.  "How can he
wen it's such a gret, bare, dreary place?"

"It's th most butiful place," protestd Mary. 
"Thousnds of lovly things gro on it and ther ar
thousnds of litl creaturs al busy bildng nests
and making holes and buros and chippering or singng
or squeakng to each othr.  They ar so busy and havng
such fun undr th erth or in th tres or hethr. 
It's ther world."

"How do u no al that?" said Colin, turnng on his
elbo to look at her. 

"I hav nevr been ther once, realy," said Mary
sudnly remembrng.  "I only drove over it in th dark. 
I thot it was hideus.  Martha told me about it first
and then Dickon.  Wen Dickon talks about it u feel
as if u saw things and herd them and as if u wer
standng in th hethr with th sun shining and th gorse
smelng like hony--and al ful of bes and butrflys."

"U nevr se anything if u ar il," said
Colin restlesly.  He lookd like a persn lisnng
to a new sound in th distnce and wondrng wat it was. 

"U cant if u stay in a room, " said Mary. 

"I cudnt go on th moor" he said in a resentful tone. 

Mary was silent for a minut and then she said somthing bold. 

"U myt--somtime."

He moved as if he wer startld. 

"Go on th moor! How cud I? I am going to die."
"How do u no?" said Mary unsympathetically. 
She didnt like th way he had of talkng about dyng. 
She did not feel very sympathetic.  She felt rathr as if he
almost boastd about it. 

"O, I'v herd it evr since I remembr," he ansrd crosly. 
"They ar always wisprng about it and thinkng
I dont notice.  They wish I wud, too."

Mistress Mary felt quite contry.  She pinchd her
lips togethr. 

"If they wishd I wud," she said, "I wudnt. Ho
wishs u wud?"

"Th servnts--and of corse Dr. Craven because he wud
get Misselthwaite and be rich insted of poor.  He darent
say so, but he always looks cheerful wen I am worse. 
Wen I had tyfoid fever his face got quite fat.  I think
my fathr wishs it, too."

"I dont beleve he dos," said Mary quite obstnatly. 

That made Colin turn and look at her again. 

"Dont u?" he said. 

And then he lay bak on his cushn and was stil, as if
he wer thinkng.  And ther was quite a long silence. 
Perhaps they wer both of them thinkng stranje things
children do not usuly think.  "I like th grand doctr
from Londn, because he made them take th iron thing off,"
said Mary at last "Did he say u wer going to die?"

"No.".

"Wat did he say?"

"He didnt wispr," Colin ansrd.  "Perhaps he new I
hated wisprng.  I herd him say one thing quite aloud. 
He said, 'the lad myt liv if he wud make up his mind
to it.  Put him in th humor.' It soundd as if he was
in a tempr."

"I'l tel u ho wud put u in th humor, perhaps,"
said Mary reflectng.  She felt as if she wud like this
thing to be setld one way or th othr.  "I beleve
Dickon wud.  He's always talkng about liv things. 
He nevr talks about ded things or things that ar il. 
He's always lookng up in th sky to wach birds flyng--or
lookng down at th erth to se somthing groing. 
He has such round blu ys and they ar so wide open with
lookng about.  And he lafs such a big laf with his wide
mouth--and his cheeks ar as red--as red as cherris."
She puld her stool nearr to th sofa and her expression
quite chanjed at th remembrnce of th wide curvng mouth
and wide open ys. 

"Se here," she said.  "Dont let us talk about dyng;
I dont like it.  Let us talk about livng.  Let us
talk and talk about Dickon.  And then we wil look at
yr picturs."

It was th best thing she cud hav said.  To talk about
Dickon ment to talk about th moor and about th cotaj
and th forteen peple ho livd in it on sixteen shilngs
a week--and th children ho got fat on th moor grass
like th wild ponis.  And about Dickon's mothr--and
th skipng-rope--and th moor with th sun on it--and
about pale green points stikng up out of th blak sod. 
And it was al so alive that Mary talkd mor than she had
evr talkd befor--and Colin both talkd and lisnd as he
had nevr don eithr befor.  And they both began to laf
over nothings as children wil wen they ar happy togethr. 
And they lafd so that in th end they wer making
as much noise as if they had been two ordnry helthy
natrl ten-year-old creaturs--insted of a hard, litl,
unlovng girl and a sikly boy ho beleved that he was going to die. 

They enjoyd themselvs so much that they forgot th
picturs and they forgot about th time.  They had been
lafng quite loudly over Ben Weatherstaff and his robn,
and Colin was actuly sitng up as if he had forgotn
about his weak bak, wen he sudnly remembrd somthing. 
"Do u no ther is one thing we hav nevr once
thot of," he said.  "We ar cusns."

It seemd so queer that they had talkd so much and nevr
remembrd this simpl thing that they lafd mor than evr,
because they had got into th humor to laf at anything. 
And in th midst of th fun th dor opend and in walkd
Dr. Craven and Mrs. Medlock. 

Dr. Craven startd in actul alarm and Mrs. Medlock almost
fel bak because he had accidently bumpd against her. 

"Good Lord!" exclaimd poor Mrs. Medlock with her ys
almost startng out of her hed.  "Good Lord!"

"Wat is this?" said Dr. Craven, comng forwrd. 
"Wat dos it mean?"

Then Mary was remindd of th boy Raja again. 
Colin ansrd as if neithr th doctor's alarm nor
Mrs. Medlock's terr wer of th slytst consequence. 
He was as litl disturbd or frytnd as if an eldrly
cat and dog had walkd into th room. 

"This is my cusn, Mary Lennox," he said.  "I askd
her to com and talk to me.  I like her.  She must com
and talk to me wenevr I send for her."

Dr. Craven turnd reproachfuly to Mrs. Medlock. 
"O, sir" she pantd.  "I dont no how it's hapnd. 
Ther's not a servnt on th place tha'd dare to talk--they
al hav ther ordrs."

"Nobody told her anything," said Colin.  "She herd
me cryng and found me herself.  I am glad she came. 
Dont be silly, Medlock."

Mary saw that Dr. Craven did not look plesed, but it
was quite plan that he dare not opose his patient. 
He sat down by Colin and felt his pulse. 

"I am afraid ther has been too much exitemnt. 
Exitemnt is not good for u, my boy," he said. 

"I shud be exited if she kept away," ansrd Colin,
his ys beginng to look danjerusly sparklng. 
"I am betr.  She makes me betr.  Th nurse must bring up
her te with mine.  We wil hav te togethr."

Mrs. Medlock and Dr. Craven lookd at each othr in a
trubld way, but ther was evidntly nothing to be don. 

"He dos look rathr betr, sir," venturd Mrs. Medlock. 
"But"--thinkng th matr over--"he lookd betr this
mornng befor she came into th room."

"She came into he room last nyt.  She stayd with me
a long time.  She sang a Hindustani song to me and it
made me go to sleep," said Colin.  "I was betr wen I
wakend up.  I wantd my brekfast.  I want my te now. 
Tel nurse, Medlock."

Dr. Craven did not stay very long.  He talkd to th nurse
for a few minuts wen she came into th room and said a few
words of warnng to Colin.  He must not talk too much;
he must not forget that he was il; he must not forget
that he was very esily tired.  Mary thot that ther
seemd to be a numbr of uncomfrtbl things he was not
to forget. 

Colin lookd fretful and kept his stranje blak-lashd
ys fixd on Dr. Craven's face. 

"I want to forget it," he said at last.  "She makes me
forget it.  That is wy I want her."

Dr. Craven did not look happy wen he left th room. 
He gave a puzld glance at th litl girl sitng on
th larj stool.  She had becom a stif, silent child
again as soon as he entrd and he cud not se wat
th atraction was.  Th boy actuly did look brytr,
howevr--and he syd rathr hevily as he went down
th coridr. 

"They ar always wantng me to eat things wen I dont
want to," said Colin, as th nurse brot in th te
and put it on th table by th sofa.  "Now, if u'l
eat I wil.  Those mufns look so nice and hot. 
Tel me about Rajahs."



CHAPTR XV

NEST BILDNG


Aftr anothr week of rain th hy arch of blu sky
apeard again and th sun wich pord down was quite hot. 
Tho ther had been no chance to se eithr th secret
gardn or Dickon, Mistress Mary had enjoyd herself
very much.  Th week had not seemd long.  She had spent
ours of evry day with Colin in his room, talkng about
Rajahs or gardns or Dickon and th cotaj on th moor. 
They had lookd at th splendid books and picturs and
somtimes Mary had red things to Colin, and somtimes he
had red a litl to her.  Wen he was amused and intrestd
she thot he scarcely lookd like an invlid at al,
exept that his face was so colorless and he was always
on th sofa. 

"U ar a sly yung one to lisn and get out of yr
bed to go foloing things up like u did that nyt,"
Mrs. Medlock said once.  "But ther's no sayng it's
not been a sort of blesng to th lot of us.  He's not
had a tantrm or a wining fit since u made frends. 
Th nurse was just going to giv up th case because she
was so sik of him, but she says she dosnt mind stayng
now u'v gon on duty with her," lafng a litl. 

In her talks with Colin, Mary had tryd to be very cautius
about th secret gardn.  Ther wer certn things she
wantd to find out from him, but she felt that she must
find them out without askng him direct questions. 
In th first place, as she began to like to be with him,
she wantd to discovr wethr he was th kind of boy u
cud tel a secret to.  He was not in th least like Dickon,
but he was evidntly so plesed with th idea of a gardn
no one new anything about that she thot perhaps he
cud be trustd.  But she had not nown him long enuf
to be sure.  Th secnd thing she wantd to find out was
this: If he cud be trustd--if he realy cud--wudnt
it be posbl to take him to th gardn without havng
any one find it out? Th grand doctr had said that he must
hav fresh air and Colin had said that he wud not mind
fresh air in a secret gardn.  Perhaps if he had a gret
deal of fresh air and new Dickon and th robn and saw
things groing he myt not think so much about dyng. 
Mary had seen herself in th glass somtimes lately wen she
had realized that she lookd quite a difrnt creatur
from th child she had seen wen she arived from India. 
This child lookd nicer.  Even Martha had seen a chanje
in her. 

"Th' air from th' moor has don thee good alredy,"
she had said.  "Tha'rt not ny so yeller and tha'rt not
ny so scrawny.  Even tha' hair dosnt slamp down on tha'
hed so flat.  It's got som life in it so as it stiks
out a bit."

"It's like me," said Mary.  "It's groing strongr
and fatr.  I'm sure ther's mor of it."

"It looks it, for sure," said Martha, ruflng it up
a litl round her face.  "Tha'rt not half so ugly wen
it's that way an' ther's a bit o' red in tha' cheeks."

If gardns and fresh air had been good for her perhaps they
wud be good for Colin.  But then, if he hated peple
to look at him, perhaps he wud not like to se Dickon. 

"Wy dos it make u angry wen u ar lookd at?"
she inquired one day. 

"I always hated it," he ansrd, "even wen I was very litl. 
Then wen they took me to th seside and I used to lie
in my carrij evrybody used to stare and ladis wud
stop and talk to my nurse and then they wud begin to
wispr and I new then they wer sayng I shudnt liv
to gro up.  Then somtimes th ladis wud pat my cheeks
and say `Poor child!' Once wen a lady did that I screamd
out loud and bit her hand.  She was so frytnd she ran away."

"She thot u had gon mad like a dog," said Mary,
not at al admiringly. 

"I dont care wat she thot," said Colin, frownng. 

"I wondr wy u didnt scream and bite me wen I came
into yr room?" said Mary.  Then she began to smile sloly. 

"I thot u wer a gost or a dream," he said. 
"U cant bite a gost or a dream, and if u scream they
dont care."

"Wud u hate it if--if a boy lookd at u?"
Mary askd uncertnly. 

He lay bak on his cushn and pausd thotfuly. 

"Ther's one boy," he said quite sloly, as if he wer thinkng
over evry word, "ther's one boy I beleve I shudnt mind. 
It's that boy ho nos wher th foxs liv--Dickon."

"I'm sure u wudnt mind him," said Mary. 

"Th birds dont and othr anmls," he said, stil thinkng
it over, "perhaps that's wy I shudnt. He's a sort
of anml charmr and I am a boy anml."

Then he lafd and she lafd too; in fact it endd
in ther both lafng a gret deal and findng th idea
of a boy anml hiding in his hole very funny indeed. 

Wat Mary felt aftrwrd was that she need not fear
about Dickon. 


On that first mornng wen th sky was blu again Mary wakend
very erly.  Th sun was porng in slantng rays thru
th blinds and ther was somthing so joyus in th syt
of it that she jumpd out of bed and ran to th windo. 
She drew up th blinds and opend th windo itself
and a gret waft of fresh, sentd air blew in upon her. 
Th moor was blu and th hole world lookd as if somthing
Majic had hapnd to it.  Ther wer tendr litl
fluting sounds here and ther and evrywher, as if scors
of birds wer beginng to tune up for a concert. 
Mary put her hand out of th windo and held it in th sun. 

"It's warm--warm!" she said.  "It wil make th green
points push up and up and up, and it wil make th bulbs
and roots work and strugl with al ther myt undr
th erth."

She neeld down and leand out of th windo as far
as she cud, brething big breths and snifng th air
until she lafd because she remembrd wat Dickon's
mothr had said about th end of his nose quivrng
like a rabbit's. "It must be very erly," she said. 
"Th litl clouds ar al pink and I'v nevr seen
th sky look like this.  No one is up.  I dont even hear
th stable boys."

A sudn thot made her scrambl to her feet. 

"I cant wait! I am going to se th gardn!"

She had lernd to dress herself by this time and she put
on her clothes in five minuts.  She new a smal side dor
wich she cud unbolt herself and she flew downstairs
in her stokng feet and put on her shoes in th hal. 
She unchaind and unbolted and unlokd and wen th dor
was open she sprang across th step with one bound,
and ther she was standng on th grass, wich seemd
to hav turnd green, and with th sun porng down on
her and warm sweet wafts about her and th fluting and
twitrng and singng comng from evry bush and tre. 
She claspd her hands for pure joy and lookd up in th sky
and it was so blu and pink and perly and wite and flodd
with springtime lyt that she felt as if she must flute
and sing aloud herself and new that thrushs and robns
and skylarks cud not posbly help it.  She ran around
th shrubs and paths towards th secret gardn. 

"It is al difrnt alredy," she said.  "Th grass is
greenr and things ar stikng up evry- wher and things
ar uncurling and green buds of leavs ar shoing. 
This aftrnoon I am sure Dickon wil com."

Th long warm rain had don stranje things to th
herbaceus beds wich bordrd th walk by th loer wal. 
Ther wer things sproutng and pushng out from th
roots of clumps of plants and ther wer actuly here
and ther glimpses of royl purpl and yelo unfurling
among th stems of crocuses.  Six months befor Mistress
Mary wud not hav seen how th world was waking up,
but now she misd nothing. 

Wen she had reachd th place wher th dor hid itself
undr th ivy, she was startld by a curius loud sound. 
It was th caw--caw of a cro and it came from th top
of th wal, and wen she lookd up, ther sat a big
glossy-plumaged blu-blak bird, lookng down at her very
wisely indeed.  She had nevr seen a cro so close befor
and he made her a litl nervus, but th next moment he
spred his wings and flapd away across th gardn. 
She hoped he was not going to stay inside and she
pushd th dor open wondrng if he wud.  Wen she
got fairly into th gardn she saw that he probbly
did intend to stay because he had alytd on a dwarf
apl-tre and undr th apl-tre was lyng a litl
redish anml with a Bushy tail, and both of them wer
wachng th stoopng body and rust-red hed of Dickon,
ho was neelng on th grass workng hard. 

Mary flew across th grass to him. 

"O, Dickon! Dickon!" she cryd out.  "How cud u get
here so erly! How cud u! Th sun has only just got up!"

He got up himself, lafng and gloing, and tousld;
his ys like a bit of th sky. 

"Eh!" he said.  "I was up long befor him.  How cud I
hav stayd abed! Th' world's al fair begun again this
mornn', it has.  An' it's workn' an' hummin' an' scratchin'
an' pipin' an' nest-buildin' an' breathin' out sents,
til u'v got to be out on it 'stead o' lyin' on yr bak. 
Wen th' sun did jump up, th' moor went mad for joy, an'
I was in th midst of th' hethr, an' I run like mad
myself, shoutin' an' singin'. An' I com strait here. 
I cudnt hav stayd away.  Wy, th' gardn was lyin'
here waitn'!"

Mary put her hands on her chest, pantng, as if she
had been runng herself. 

"O, Dickon! Dickon!" she said.  "I'm so happy I can
scarcely brethe!"

Seing him talkng to a stranjer, th litl bushy-taild
anml rose from its place undr th tre and came to him,
and th rook, cawng once, flew down from its branch
and setld quietly on his sholdr. 

"This is th' litl fox cub," he said, rubng th litl
redish animal's hed.  "It's named Captn.  An' this
here's Soot.  Soot he flew across th' moor with me an'
Captn he run same as if th' hounds had been aftr him. 
They both felt same as I did."

Neithr of th creaturs lookd as if he wer th least
afraid of Mary.  Wen Dickon began to walk about,
Soot stayd on his sholdr and Captn trotd quietly
close to his side. 

"Se here!" said Dickon.  "Se how these has
pushd up, an' these an' these! An' Eh! Look at these here!"

He threw himself upon his nes and Mary went
down beside him.  They had com upon a hole clump
of crocuses burst into purpl and oranj and gold. 
Mary bent her face down and kisd and kisd them. 

"U nevr kiss a persn in that way," she said wen she
liftd her hed.  "Flowrs ar so difrnt."

He lookd puzld but smiled. 

"Eh!" he said, "I'v kisd mothr many a time that way
wen I com in from th' moor aftr a day's roamin' an'
she stood ther at th' dor in th' sun, lookn' so glad an'
comfrtbl." They ran from one part of th gardn to
anothr and found so many wondrs that they wer oblijed
to remind themselvs that they must wispr or speak lo. 
He showd her swelng leafbuds on rose branchs wich
had seemd ded.  He showd her ten thousnd new green
points pushng thru th mold.  They put ther eagr
yung noses close to th erth and snifd its warmd
springtime brething; they dug and puld and lafd lo
with raptur until Mistress Mary's hair was as tumbld
as Dickon's and her cheeks wer almost as poppy red as his. 

Ther was evry joy on erth in th secret gardn
that mornng, and in th midst of them came a delyt
mor delytful than al, because it was mor wondrful. 
Swiftly somthing flew across th wal and dartd thru
th tres to a close grown cornr, a litl flare of
red-brestd bird with somthing hangng from its beak. 
Dickon stood quite stil and put his hand on Mary almost
as if they had sudnly found themselvs lafng in a church. 

"We munnot stir," he wisprd in brod Yorkshr. 
"We munnot scarce brethe.  I noed he was mate-huntin'
wen I seed him last.  It's Ben Weatherstaff's robn. 
He's buildin' his nest.  He'l stay here if us dont fyt him."
They setld down softly upon th grass and sat ther
without moving. 

"Us musnt 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'l be a good bit difrnt
til al this is over.  He's settin' up housekeepin'.
He'l be shyer an' readier to take things il. 
He's got no time for visitin' an' gossipin'. Us must
keep stil a bit an' try to look as if us was grass an'
tres an' bushs.  Then wen he's got used to seein'
us I'l chirp a bit an' he'l no us'll not be in
his way."

Mistress Mary was not at al sure that she new, as Dickon
seemd to, how to try to look like grass and tres and bushs. 
But he had said th queer thing as if it wer th simplst
and most natrl thing in th world, and she felt it must
be quite esy to him, and indeed she wachd him for a few
minuts carefuly, wondrng if it was posbl for him
to quietly turn green and put out branchs and leavs. 
But he only sat wondrfuly stil, and wen he spoke
dropd his voice to such a softness that it was curius
that she cud hear him, but she cud. 

"It's part o' th' springtime, this nest-buildin'
is," he said.  "I warant it's been goin' on in th'
same way evry year since th' world was begun. 
They'v got ther way o' thinkin' and doin' things an'
a body had betr not medl.  U can lose a frend
in springtime esir than any othr seasn if u'r too curius."

"If we talk about him I cant help lookng at him," Mary said
as softly as posbl.  "We must talk of somthing else. 
Ther is somthing I want to tel u."

"He'l like it betr if us talks o' somethin' else,"
said Dickon.  "Wat is it tha's got to tel me?"

"Wel--do u no about Colin?" she wisprd. 

He turnd his hed to look at her. 

"Wat dos tha' no about him?" he askd. 

"I'v seen him.  I hav been to talk to him evry day
this week.  He wants me to com.  He says I'm making him
forget about being il and dyng," ansrd Mary. 

Dickon lookd actuly releved as soon as th surprise
died away from his round face. 

"I am glad o' that," he exclaimd.  "I'm ryt down glad. 
It makes me esir.  I noed I must say nothin' about him an'
I dont like havin' to hide things."

"Dont u like hiding th gardn?" said Mary. 

"I'l nevr tel about it," he ansrd.  "But I says
to mothr, `Mothr,' I says, `I got a secret to keep. 
It's not a bad 'un, tha' nos that.  It's no worse
than hidin' wher a bird's nest is.  Tha' dosnt mind it,
dos tha'?'"

Mary always wantd to hear about mothr. 

"Wat did she say?" she askd, not at al afraid to hear. 

Dickon grinnd sweet-temperedly.

"It was just like her, wat she said," he ansrd. 
"She giv my hed a bit of a rub an' lafd an' she says,
'eh, lad, tha' can hav al th' secrets tha' likes. 
I'v noed thee twelv year'.'"

"How did u no about Colin?" askd Mary. 

"Evrybody as noed about Mester Craven noed ther was
a litl lad as was like to be a cripl, an' they noed
Mester Craven didnt like him to be talkd about.  Folks is
sorry for Mester Craven because Mrs. Craven was such a pretty
yung lady an' they was so fond of each othr.  Mrs. Medlock
stops in our cotaj wenevr she gos to Thwaite an'
she dosnt mind talkn to mothr befor us children,
because she nos us has been brot up to be trusty. 
How did tha' find out about him? Martha was in fine
trubl th' last time she came home.  She said tha'd
herd him frettin' an' tha' was askin' questions an'
she didnt no wat to say."

Mary told him her story about th midnyt wuthrng
of th wind wich had wakend her and about th faint
far-off sounds of th complainng voice wich had led
her down th dark coridrs with her candl and had
endd with her openng of th dor of th dimly lytd
room with th carven four-postd bed in th cornr. 
Wen she described th smal ivory-wite face and th
stranje blak-rimd ys Dickon shook his hed. 

"Them's just like his mother's ys, only hers was
always laughin', they say," he said.  "They say as
Mr. Craven cant ber to se him wen he's awake an'
it's because his ys is so like his mother's an'
yet looks so difrnt in his misrbl bit of a face."

"Do u think he wants to die?" wisprd Mary. 

"No, but he wishs he'd nevr been born.  Mothr she
says that's th' worst thing on erth for a child. 
Them as is not wantd scarce evr thrives.  Mester Craven
he'd by anythin' as mony cud by for th' poor lad
but he'd like to forget as he's on erth.  For one thing,
he's afraid he'l look at him som day and find he's
growed hunchbak."

"Colin's so afraid of it himself that he wont sit up,"
said Mary.  "He says he's always thinkng that if he
shud feel a lump comng he shud go crazy and scream
himself to deth."

"Eh! he otnt to lie ther thinkin' things like that,"
said Dickon.  "No lad cud get wel as thot them
sort o' things."

Th fox was lyng on th grass close by him, lookng up to
ask for a pat now and then, and Dickon bent down and rubd
his nek softly and thot a few minuts in silence. 
Presntly he liftd his hed and lookd round th gardn. 

"Wen first we got in here," he said, "it seemd like
everything was gray.  Look round now and tel me if tha'
dosnt se a difrnce."

Mary lookd and caut her breth a litl. 

"Wy!" she cryd, "th gray wal is chanjing. 
It is as if a green mist wer creepng over it. 
It's almost like a green gauz veil."

"Y," said Dickon.  "An' it'l be greenr and greenr til th'
gray's al gon.  Can tha' gess wat I was thinkin'?"

"I no it was somthing nice," said Mary eagrly. 
"I beleve it was somthing about Colin."

"I was thinkin' that if he was out here he wudnt be watchin'
for lumps to gro on his bak; he'd be watchin' for buds
to brek on th' rose-bushs, an' he'd likely be helthir,"
explaind Dickon.  "I was wonderin' if us cud evr
get him in th' humor to com out here an' lie undr th'
tres in his carrij."

"I'v been wondrng that myself.  I'v thot of it
almost evry time I'v talkd to him," said Mary. 
"I'v wondrd if he cud keep a secret and I'v wondrd
if we cud bring him here without any one seing us. 
I thot perhaps u cud push his carrij.  Th doctr
said he must hav fresh air and if he wants us to take him
out no one dare disobey him.  He wont go out for othr peple
and perhaps they wil be glad if he wil go out with us. 
He cud ordr th gardnrs to keep away so they wudnt
find out."

Dickon was thinkng very hard as he scrachd Captain's bak. 

"It'd be good for him, I'l warant," he said. 
"Us'd not be thinkin' he'd betr nevr been born. 
Us'd be just two children watchin' a gardn gro, an'
he'd be anothr.  Two lads an' a litl lass just lookn'
on at th' springtime.  I warant it'd be betr than
doctor's stuf."

"He's been lyng in his room so long and he's always
been so afraid of his bak that it has made him queer,"
said Mary.  "He nos a good many things out of books
but he dosnt no anything else.  He says he has been
too il to notice things and he hates going out of dors
and hates gardns and gardnrs.  But he likes to hear
about this gardn because it is a secret.  I darent tel
him much but he said he wantd to se it."

"Us'll hav him out here somtime for sure," said Dickon. 
"I cud push his carrij wel enuf.  Has tha'
noticed how th' robn an' his mate has been workn'
wile we'v been sittin' here? Look at him perchd on that
branch wonderin' wher it'd be best to put that twig he's
got in his beak."

He made one of his lo wislng cals and th robn turnd
his hed and lookd at him inquiringly, stil holdng
his twig.  Dickon spoke to him as Ben Weatherstaff did,
but Dickon's tone was one of frendly advice. 

"Wheres'ever tha' puts it," he said, "it'l be
al ryt.  Tha' new how to bild tha' nest befor tha'
came out o' th' eg.  Get on with thee, lad.  Tha'st got
no time to lose."

"O, I do like to hear u talk to him!" Mary said,
lafng delytdly.  "Ben Weatherstaff scolds him
and makes fun of him, and he hops about and looks as
if he undrstood evry word, and I no he likes it. 
Ben Weatherstaff says he is so conceitd he wud rathr
hav stones thrown at him than not be noticed."

Dickon lafd too and went on talkng. 

"Tha' nos us wont trubl thee," he said to th robn. 
"Us is near bein' wild things ourselvs.  Us is nest-buildin'
too, bless thee.  Look out tha' dosnt tel on us."

And tho th robn did not ansr, because his beak
was ocupyd, Mary new that wen he flew away with his
twig to his own cornr of th gardn th darkns of his
dew-bryt y ment that he wud not tel ther secret
for th world. 



CHAPTR XVI

"I WONT!" SAID MARY


They found a gret deal to do that mornng and Mary
was late in returng to th house and was also in such
a hurry to get bak to her work that she quite forgot
Colin until th last moment. 

"Tel Colin that I cant com and se him yet," she said
to Martha.  "I'm very busy in th gardn."

Martha lookd rathr frytnd. 

"Eh! Miss Mary," she said, "it may put him al out
of humor wen I tel him that."

But Mary was not as afraid of him as othr peple wer
and she was not a self-sacrificing persn. 

"I cant stay," she ansrd.  "Dickon's waitng for me;"
and she ran away. 

Th aftrnoon was even lovlir and busir than th mornng
had been.  Alredy nearly al th weeds wer cleard
out of th gardn and most of th roses and tres had
been pruned or dug about.  Dickon had brot a spade
of his own and he had taut Mary to use al her tools,
so that by this time it was plan that tho th lovly
wild place was not likely to becom a "gardener's gardn"
it wud be a wildrness of groing things befor th
springtime was over. 

"Ther'l be apl blosms an' cherry blosms overhed,"
Dickon said, workng away with al his myt. 
"An' ther'l be peach an' plum tres in bloom against th'
walls, an' th' grass'll be a carpet o' flowrs."

Th litl fox and th rook wer as happy and busy
as they wer, and th robn and his mate flew
bakwrd and forwrd like tiny streaks of lytnng. 
Somtimes th rook flapd his blak wings and sord away
over th tre-tops in th park.  Each time he came bak
and perchd near Dickon and cawed sevrl times as if he
wer relating his adventurs, and Dickon talkd to him
just as he had talkd to th robn.  Once wen Dickon
was so busy that he did not ansr him at first, Soot flew
on to his sholdrs and jently tweakd his ear with his
larj beak.  Wen Mary wantd to rest a litl Dickon
sat down with her undr a tre and once he took his pipe
out of his poket and playd th soft stranje litl notes
and two squirels apeard on th wal and lookd and lisnd. 

"Tha's a good bit strongr than tha' was," Dickon said,
lookng at her as she was digng.  "Tha's beginng
to look difrnt, for sure."

Mary was gloing with exrcise and good spirits. 

"I'm getng fatr and fatr evry day," she said
quite exultntly.  "Mrs. Medlock wil hav to get me som
bigr dresses.  Martha says my hair is groing thikr. 
It isnt so flat and stringy."

Th sun was beginng to set and sendng deep gold-colord
rays slantng undr th tres wen they partd. 

"It'l be fine tomoro," said Dickon.  "I'l be at work
by sunrise."

"So wil I," said Mary. 


She ran bak to th house as quikly as her feet wud
carry her.  She wantd to tel Colin about Dickon's fox cub
and th rook and about wat th springtime had been doing. 
She felt sure he wud like to hear.  So it was not very
plesnt wen she opend th dor of her room, to se
Martha standng waitng for her with a doleful face. 

"Wat is th matr?" she askd.  "Wat did Colin say
wen u told him I cudnt com?"

"Eh!" said Martha, "I wish tha'd gon.  He was ny goin'
into one o' his tantrms.  Ther's been a nice to do al
aftrnoon to keep him quiet.  He wud wach th clok
al th' time."

Mary's lips pinchd themselvs togethr.  She was no mor
used to considrng othr peple than Colin was and she
saw no reasn wy an il-temprd boy shud intrfere
with th thing she liked best.  She new nothing about
th pitifulness of peple ho had been il and nervus
and ho did not no that they cud control ther temprs
and need not make othr peple il and nervus, too. 
Wen she had had a hedache in India she had don her
best to se that evrybody else also had a hedache or
somthing quite as bad.  And she felt she was quite ryt;
but of corse now she felt that Colin was quite rong. 

He was not on his sofa wen she went into his room. 
He was lyng flat on his bak in bed and he did not turn
his hed toward her as she came in.  This was a bad beginng
and Mary marchd up to him with her stif manr. 

"Wy didnt u get up?" she said. 

"I did get up this mornng wen I thot u wer comng,"
he ansrd, without lookng at her.  "I made them put
me bak in bed this aftrnoon.  My bak ached and my
hed ached and I was tired.  Wy didnt u com?"
"I was workng in th gardn with Dickon," said Mary. 

Colin frownd and condesendd to look at her. 

"I wont let that boy com here if u go and stay
with him insted of comng to talk to me," he said. 

Mary flew into a fine passion.  She cud fly into
a passion without making a noise.  She just grew sour
and obstnat and did not care wat hapnd. 

"If u send Dickon away, I'l nevr com into this
room again!" she retortd. 

"U'l hav to if I want u," said Colin. 

"I wont!" said Mary. 

"I'l make u," said Colin.  "They shal drag u in."

"Shal they, Mr. Raja!" said Mary fiercely.  "They may drag
me in but they cant make me talk wen they get me here. 
I'l sit and clench my teeth and nevr tel u one thing. 
I wont even look at u.  I'l stare at th flor!"

They wer a nice agreeabl pair as they glared at each othr. 
If they had been two litl street boys they wud hav
sprung at each othr and had a ruf-and-tumbl fyt. 
As it was, they did th next thing to it. 

"U ar a selfish thing!" cryd Colin. 

"Wat ar u?" said Mary.  "Selfish peple always say that. 
Any one is selfish ho dosnt do wat they want. 
U'r mor selfish than I am.  U'r th most selfish boy
I evr saw."

"I'm not!" snapd Colin.  "I'm not as selfish as yr
fine Dickon is! He keeps u playng in th dirt wen he
nos I am al by myself.  He's selfish, if u like!"

Mary's ys flashd fire. 

"He's nicer than any othr boy that evr livd!" she said. 
"He's--he's like an anjel!" It myt sound rathr silly
to say that but she did not care. 

"A nice anjel!" Colin sneerd ferociusly.  "He's a comn
cotaj boy off th moor!"

"He's betr than a comn Raja!" retortd Mary. 
"He's a thousnd times betr!"

Because she was th strongr of th two she was beginng
to get th betr of him.  Th truth was that he had
nevr had a fyt with any one like himself in his
life and, upon th hole, it was rathr good for him,
tho neithr he nor Mary new anything about that. 
He turnd his hed on his pilo and shut his ys
and a big tear was squezed out and ran down his cheek. 
He was beginng to feel pathetic and sorry for himself--not
for any one else. 

"I'm not as selfish as u, because I'm always il,
and I'm sure ther is a lump comng on my bak," he said. 
"And I am going to die besides."

"U'r not!" contradictd Mary unsympathetically. 

He opend his ys quite wide with indignation. 
He had nevr herd such a thing said befor.  He was at
once furius and slytly plesed, if a persn cud
be both at one time. 

"I'm not?" he cryd.  "I am! U no I am! Evrybody
says so."

"I dont beleve it!" said Mary sourly.  "U just say
that to make peple sorry.  I beleve u'r proud of it. 
I dont beleve it! If u wer a nice boy it myt be
tru--but u'r too nasty!"

In spite of his invlid bak Colin sat up in bed in quite
a helthy raje. 

"Get out of th room!" he shoutd and he caut hold
of his pilo and threw it at her.  He was not strong
enuf to thro it far and it only fel at her feet,
but Mary's face lookd as pinchd as a nutcrakr. 

"I'm going," she said.  "And I wont com bak!"
She walkd to th dor and wen she reachd it she turnd
round and spoke again. 

"I was going to tel u al sorts of nice things,"
she said.  "Dickon brot his fox and his rook and I was
going to tel u al about them.  Now I wont tel u
a singl thing!"

She marchd out of th dor and closed it behind her,
and ther to her gret astonishmnt she found th traind
nurse standng as if she had been lisnng and, mor amazing
stil--she was lafng.  She was a big hansm yung
womn ho ot not to hav been a traind nurse at al,
as she cud not ber invlids and she was always
making excuses to leve Colin to Martha or any one else
ho wud take her place.  Mary had nevr liked her,
and she simply stood and gazed up at her as she stood
giglng into her hankrchief..

"Wat ar u lafng at?" she askd her. 

"At u two yung ones," said th nurse.  "It's th best
thing that cud hapn to th sikly pamprd thing
to hav som one to stand up to him that's as spoild
as himself;" and she lafd into her hankrchief again. 
"If he'd had a yung vixn of a sistr to fyt with it
wud hav been th saving of him."

"Is he going to die?"

"I dont no and I dont care," said th nurse. 
"Hysterics and tempr ar half wat ails him."

"Wat ar hysterics?" askd Mary. 

"U'l find out if u work him into a tantrm aftr
this--but at any rate u'v givn him somthing to hav
hysterics about, and I'm glad of it."

Mary went bak to her room not feelng at al as she
had felt wen she had com in from th gardn.  She was
cross and disapointd but not at al sorry for Colin. 
She had lookd forwrd to telng him a gret many things
and she had ment to try to make up her mind wethr
it wud be safe to trust him with th gret secret. 
She had been beginng to think it wud be, but now she
had chanjed her mind entirely.  She wud nevr tel him
and he cud stay in his room and nevr get any fresh
air and die if he liked! It wud serv him ryt! She
felt so sour and unrelentng that for a few minuts she
almost forgot about Dickon and th green veil creepng
over th world and th soft wind bloing down from
th moor. 

Martha was waitng for her and th trubl in her face
had been temprily replaced by intrest and curiosity. 
Ther was a woodn box on th table and its covr had been
removed and reveald that it was ful of neat pakajs. 

"Mr. Craven sent it to u," said Martha.  "It looks
as if it had pictur-books in it."

Mary remembrd wat he had askd her th day she had gon
to his room.  "Do u want anything--dols--toys --books?"
She opend th pakaj wondrng if he had sent a dol,
and also wondrng wat she shud do with it if he had. 
But he had not sent one.  Ther wer sevrl butiful
books such as Colin had, and two of them wer about gardns
and wer ful of picturs.  Ther wer two or thre games
and ther was a butiful litl riting-case with a gold
monogram on it and a gold pen and inkstand. 

Everything was so nice that her plesur began to crowd
her angr out of her mind.  She had not expectd him
to remembr her at al and her hard litl hart grew
quite warm. 

"I can rite betr than I can print," she said,
"and th first thing I shal rite with that pen wil
be a letr to tel him I am much oblijed."

If she had been frends with Colin she wud hav run to sho
him her presents at once, and they wud hav lookd at th
picturs and red som of th gardnng books and perhaps
tryd playng th games, and he wud hav enjoyd himself
so much he wud nevr once hav thot he was going
to die or hav put his hand on his spine to se if ther
was a lump comng.  He had a way of doing that wich she
cud not ber.  It gave her an uncomfrtbl frytnd
feelng because he always lookd so frytnd himself. 
He said that if he felt even quite a litl lump
som day he shud no his hunch had begun to gro. 
Somthing he had herd Mrs. Medlock wisprng to th
nurse had givn him th idea and he had thot over it
in secret until it was quite firmly fixd in his mind. 
Mrs. Medlock had said his father's bak had begun to sho
its crookedness in that way wen he was a child.  He had
nevr told any one but Mary that most of his "tantrms"
as they cald them grew out of his hystericl hidn fear. 
Mary had been sorry for him wen he had told her. 

"He always began to think about it wen he was cross or tired,"
she said to herself.  "And he has been cross today. 
Perhaps--perhaps he has been thinkng about it al aftrnoon."

She stood stil, lookng down at th carpet and thinkng. 

"I said I wud nevr go bak again--" she hesitated,
nitng her brows--"but perhaps, just perhaps,
I wil go and se--if he wants me--in th mornng. 
Perhaps he'l try to thro his pilo at me again,
but--I think--I'l go."



CHAPTR XVII

A TANTRM


She had got up very erly in th mornng and had workd
hard in th gardn and she was tired and sleepy, so as soon
as Martha had brot her supr and she had eatn it,
she was glad to go to bed.  As she laid her hed on
th pilo she murmrd to herself:

"I'l go out befor brekfast and work with Dickon
and then aftrwrd--I beleve--I'l go to se him."

She thot it was th midl of th nyt wen she was
awakend by such dredful sounds that she jumpd out of
bed in an instnt.  Wat was it--wat was it? Th next
minut she felt quite sure she new.  Dors wer opend
and shut and ther wer hurrying feet in th coridrs
and som one was cryng and screamng at th same time,
screamng and cryng in a horibl way. 

"It's Colin," she said.  "He's havng one of those tantrms
th nurse cald hysterics.  How awful it sounds."

As she lisnd to th sobng screams she did not
wondr that peple wer so frytnd that they gave
him his own way in everything rathr than hear them. 
She put her hands over her ears and felt sik and shivrng. 

"I dont no wat to do.  I dont no wat to do,"
she kept sayng.  "I cant ber it."

Once she wondrd if he wud stop if she dared go
to him and then she remembrd how he had drivn her out
of th room and thot that perhaps th syt of her
myt make him worse.  Even wen she presd her hands
mor tytly over her ears she cud not keep th awful
sounds out.  She hated them so and was so terifyd
by them that sudnly they began to make her angry
and she felt as if she shud like to fly into a tantrm
herself and frytn him as he was frytnng her. 
She was not used to any one's temprs but her own.  She took
her hands from her ears and sprang up and stampd her foot. 

"He ot to be stopd! Sombody ot to make him stop!
Sombody ot to beat him!" she cryd out. 

Just then she herd feet almost runng down th coridr
and her dor opend and th nurse came in.  She was not
lafng now by any means.  She even lookd rathr pale. 

"He's workd himself into hysterics," she said in a gret hurry. 
"He'l do himself harm.  No one can do anything with him. 
U com and try, like a good child.  He likes u."

"He turnd me out of th room this mornng," said Mary,
stampng her foot with exitemnt. 

Th stamp rathr plesed th nurse.  Th truth was that she
had been afraid she myt find Mary cryng and hiding
her hed undr th bed-clothes.

"That's ryt," she said.  "U'r in th ryt humor. 
U go and scold him.  Giv him somthing new to think of. 
Do go, child, as quik as evr u can."

It was not until aftrwrd that Mary realized that th thing
had been funny as wel as dredful--that it was funny that al
th grown-up peple wer so frytnd that they came to a litl
girl just because they gesd she was almost as bad as Colin himself. 

She flew along th coridr and th nearr she got
to th screams th hyr her tempr mountd. 
She felt quite wiked by th time she reachd th dor. 
She slapd it open with her hand and ran across th room
to th four-postd bed. 

"U stop!" she almost shoutd.  "U stop! I hate u!
Evrybody hates u! I wish evrybody wud run out of th
house and let u scream yrself to deth! U wil scream
yrself to deth in a minut, and I wish u wud!"
A nice sympathetic child cud neithr hav thot nor
said such things, but it just hapnd that th shok of
hearng them was th best posbl thing for this hystericl
boy hom no one had evr dared to restrain or contradict. 

He had been lyng on his face beatng his pilo with his
hands and he actuly almost jumpd around, he turnd
so quikly at th sound of th furius litl voice. 
His face lookd dredful, wite and red and swolen,
and he was gaspng and choking; but savaj litl Mary did
not care an atm. 

"If u scream anothr scream," she said, "I'l scream
too --and I can scream loudr than u can and I'l
frytn u, I'l frytn u!"

He actuly had stopd screamng because she had startld
him so.  Th scream wich had been comng almost choked him. 
Th tears wer streamng down his face and he shook
al over. 

"I cant stop!" he gaspd and sobd.  "I cant--I cant!"

"U can!" shoutd Mary.  "Half that ails u is hysterics
and tempr--just hysterics--hysterics--hysterics!"
and she stampd each time she said it. 

"I felt th lump--I felt it," choked out Colin. 
"I new I shud.  I shal hav a hunch on my bak and then
I shal die," and he began to rithe again and turnd
on his face and sobd and waild but he didnt scream. 

"U didnt feel a lump!" contradictd Mary fiercely.  "If u
did it was only a hystericl lump.  Hysterics makes lumps. 
Ther's nothing th matr with yr horid bak--nothing
but hysterics! Turn over and let me look at it!"

She liked th word "hysterics" and felt somhow as if it
had an efect on him.  He was probbly like herself
and had nevr herd it befor. 

"Nurse," she comandd, "com here and sho me his bak
this minut!"

Th nurse, Mrs. Medlock and Martha had been standng
hudld togethr near th dor staring at her, ther mouths
half open.  Al thre had gaspd with fryt mor than once. 
Th nurse came forwrd as if she wer half afraid. 
Colin was heving with gret brethless sobs. 

"Perhaps he--he wont let me," she hesitated in a lo voice. 

Colin herd her, howevr, and he gaspd out between two
sobs:

"Sh-sho her! She-she'l se then!"

It was a poor thin bak to look at wen it was bared. 
Evry rib cud be countd and evry joint of th spine,
tho Mistress Mary did not count them as she bent over
and examnd them with a solem savaj litl face. 
She lookd so sour and old-fashnd that th nurse turnd
her hed aside to hide th twichng of her mouth. 
Ther was just a minute's silence, for even Colin tryd
to hold his breth wile Mary lookd up and down his spine,
and down and up, as intently as if she had been th gret
doctr from Londn. 

"Ther's not a singl lump ther!" she said at last. 
"Ther's not a lump as big as a pin--exept bakbone lumps,
and u can only feel them because u'r thin. 
I'v got bakbone lumps myself, and they used to stik
out as much as yrs do, until I began to get fatr,
and I am not fat enuf yet to hide them.  Ther's not
a lump as big as a pin! If u evr say ther is again,
I shal laf!"

No one but Colin himself new wat efect those crosly
spoken childish words had on him.  If he had evr
had any one to talk to about his secret terrs--if he
had evr dared to let himself ask questions--if he had
had childish companions and had not lain on his bak
in th huje closed house, brething an atmosfere hevy
with th fears of peple ho wer most of them ignrnt
and tired of him, he wud hav found out that most
of his fryt and ilness was created by himself. 
But he had lain and thot of himself and his aches
and weariness for ours and days and months and years. 
And now that an angry unsympathetic litl girl insistd
obstnatly that he was not as il as he thot he was
he actuly felt as if she myt be speakng th truth. 

"I didnt no," venturd th nurse, "that he thot he
had a lump on his spine.  His bak is weak because he
wont try to sit up.  I cud hav told him ther was no
lump ther." Colin gulpd and turnd his face a litl
to look at her. 

"C-cud u?" he said patheticly. 

"Yes, sir."

"Ther!" said Mary, and she gulpd too. 

Colin turnd on his face again and but for his long-drawn
broken breths, wich wer th dyng down of his storm
of sobng, he lay stil for a minut, tho gret tears
srteamed down his face and wet th pilo.  Actuly th
tears ment that a curius gret relief had com to him. 
Presntly he turnd and lookd at th nurse again and
stranjely enuf he was not like a Raja at al as he
spoke to her. 

"Do u think--I cud--liv to gro up?" he said. 

Th nurse was neithr clevr nor soft-hartd but she
cud repeat som of th Londn doctor's words. 

"U probbly wil if u wil do wat u ar told
to do and not giv way to yr tempr, and stay
out a gret deal in th fresh air."

Colin's tantrm had pasd and he was weak and worn
out with cryng and this perhaps made him feel jentl. 
He put out his hand a litl toward Mary, and I am glad
to say that, her own tantum havng pasd, she was sofnd
too and met him half-way with her hand, so that it was
a sort of making up. 

"I'l--I'l go out with u, Mary," he said.  "I shant
hate fresh air if we can find--" He remembrd just
in time to stop himself from sayng "if we can find
th secret gardn" and he endd, "I shal like to go
out with u if Dickon wil com and push my chair. 
I do so want to se Dickon and th fox and th cro."

Th nurse remade th tumbld bed and shook and straitnd
th pilos.  Then she made Colin a cup of beef te
and gave a cup to Mary, ho realy was very glad to get
it aftr her exitemnt.  Mrs. Medlock and Martha gladly
slipd away, and aftr everything was neat and calm
and in ordr th nurse lookd as if she wud very gladly
slip away also.  She was a helthy yung womn ho resentd
being robd of her sleep and she yawnd quite openly
as she lookd at Mary, ho had pushd her big footstool
close to th four-postd bed and was holdng Colin's hand. 

"U must go bak and get yr sleep out," she said. 
"He'l drop off aftr a wile--if he's not too upset. 
Then I'l lie down myself in th next room."

"Wud u like me to sing u that song I lernd from
my Aya?" Mary wisprd to Colin. 

His hand puld hers jently and he turnd his tired ys
on her apealngly. 

"O, yes!" he ansrd.  "It's such a soft song. 
I shal go to sleep in a minut."

"I wil put him to sleep," Mary said to th yawnng nurse. 
"U can go if u like."

"Wel," said th nurse, with an atemt at reluctnce. 
"If he dosnt go to sleep in half an our u must
cal me."

"Very wel," ansrd Mary. 

Th nurse was out of th room in a minut and as soon
as she was gon Colin puld Mary's hand again. 

"I almost told," he said; "but I stopd myself in time. 
I wont talk and I'l go to sleep, but u said u had
a hole lot of nice things to tel me.  Hav u--do u
think u hav found out anything at al about th way
into th secret gardn?"

Mary lookd at his poor litl tired face and swolen
ys and her hart relentd. 

"Ye-es," she ansrd, "I think I hav.  And if u
wil go to sleep I wil tel u tomoro." His hand
quite trembld. 

"O, Mary!" he said.  "O, Mary! If I cud get into it
I think I shud liv to gro up! Do u supose that
insted of singng th Aya song--u cud just tel
me softly as u did that first day wat u imajn it
looks like inside? I am sure it wil make me go to sleep."

"Yes," ansrd Mary.  "Shut yr ys."

He closed his ys and lay quite stil and she held his
hand and began to speak very sloly and in a very lo voice. 

"I think it has been left alone so long--that it has grown
al into a lovly tangl.  I think th roses hav climbd and
climbd and climbd until they hang from th branchs and walls
and creep over th ground--almost like a stranje gray mist. 
Som of them hav died but many--ar alive and wen th
sumr coms ther wil be curtns and fountns of roses. 
I think th ground is ful of dafodls and snowdrops
and lilis and iris workng ther way out of th dark. 
Now th spring has begun--perhaps--perhaps--"

Th soft drone of her voice was making him stiller
and stiller and she saw it and went on. 

"Perhaps they ar comng up thru th grass--perhaps ther
ar clustrs of purpl crocuses and gold ones--even now. 
Perhaps th leavs ar beginng to brek out and uncurl--and
perhaps--th gray is chanjing and a green gauz veil is
creepng--and creepng over--everything. And th birds ar
comng to look at it--because it is--so safe and stil. 
And perhaps--perhaps--perhaps--" very softly and sloly indeed,
"th robn has found a mate--and is bildng a nest."

And Colin was asleep. 



CHAPTR XVIII

"THA' MUNNOT WASTE NO TIME"


Of corse Mary did not waken erly th next mornng. 
She slept late because she was tired, and wen Martha
brot her brekfast she told her that tho. 
Colin was quite quiet he was il and feverish as he always
was aftr he had worn himself out with a fit of cryng. 
Mary ate her brekfast sloly as she lisnd. 

"He says he wishs tha' wud plese go and se him as soon
as tha' can," Martha said.  "It's queer wat a fancy
he's took to thee.  Tha' did giv it him last nyt for
sure--didnt tha? Nobody else wud hav dared to do it. 
Eh! poor lad! He's been spoild til salt wont save him. 
Mothr says as th' two worst things as can hapn to a
child is nevr to hav his own way--or always to hav it. 
She dosnt no wich is th' worst.  Tha' was in a fine tempr
tha'self, too.  But he says to me wen I went into his room,
`Plese ask Miss Mary if she'l plese com an, talk to me?'
Think o' him sayng plese! Wil u go, Miss?" "I'l run
and se Dickon first," said Mary.  "No, I'l go and se
Colin first and tel him--I no wat I'l tel him,"
with a sudn inspration. 

She had her hat on wen she apeard in Colin's room
and for a secnd he lookd disapointd.  He was in bed. 
His face was pitifuly wite and ther wer dark circls
round his ys. 

"I'm glad u came," he said.  "My hed aches and I ache
al over because I'm so tired.  Ar u going somwher?"

Mary went and leand against his bed. 

"I wont be long," she said.  "I'm going to Dickon,
but I'l com bak.  Colin, it's--it's somthing about
th gardn."

His hole face brytnd and a litl color came into it. 

"O! is it?" he cryd out.  "I dreamd about it al nyt
I herd u say somthing about gray chanjing into green,
and I dreamd I was standng in a place al fild
with tremblng litl green leavs--and ther wer birds
on nests evrywher and they lookd so soft and stil. 
I'l lie and think about it until u com bak."


In five minuts Mary was with Dickon in ther gardn. 
Th fox and th cro wer with him again and this time
he had brot two tame squirels.  "I came over on th
pony this mornn', " he said.  "Eh! he is a good litl
chap--Jump is! I brot these two in my pokets. 
This here one he's cald Nut an' this here othr one's
cald Shel."

Wen he said "Nut" one squirel leapd on to his ryt
sholdr and wen he said "Shel" th othr one leapd
on to his left sholdr. 

Wen they sat down on th grass with Captn curld at
ther feet, Soot solemly lisnng on a tre and Nut and
Shel nosing about close to them, it seemd to Mary that it
wud be scarcely berabl to leve such delightfulness,
but wen she began to tel her story somhow th look
in Dickon's funny face graduly chanjed her mind. 
She cud se he felt sorrier for Colin than she did. 
He lookd up at th sky and al about him. 

"Just lisn to them birds--th' world seems ful
of 'em--al whistlin' an' pipin'," he said. 
"Look at 'em dartin' about, an' hearken at 'em callin'
to each othr.  Com springtime seems like as if al th'
world's callin'. Th leavs is uncurlin' so u can se
'em--an', my word, th' nice smels ther is about!"
snifng with his happy turnd-up nose.  "An' that poor
lad lyin' shut up an' seein' so litl that he gets
to thinkin' o' things as sets him screamin'. Eh! my!
we mun get him out here--we mun get him watchin'
an listenin' an' sniffin' up th' air an' get him just soakd
thru wi' sunshine.  An' we munnot lose no time about it."

Wen he was very much intrestd he ofn spoke quite
brod Yorkshr tho at othr times he tryd to modify
his dialect so that Mary cud betr undrstand. 
But she lovd his brod Yorkshr and had in fact been
tryng to lern to speak it herself.  So she spoke
a litl now. 

"Y, that we mun," she said (wich ment "Yes, indeed,
we must"). "I'l tel thee wat us'll do first," she proceedd,
and Dickon grinnd, because wen th litl wench tryd
to twist her tong into speakng Yorkshr it amused
him very much.  "He's took a graidely fancy to thee. 
He wants to se thee and he wants to se Soot an' Captn. 
Wen I go bak to th house to talk to him I'l ax him
if tha' canna' com an' se him tomoro mornn'--an'.
bring tha' creaturs wi' thee--an' then--in a bit,
wen ther's mor leavs out, an' hapn a bud or two,
we'l get him to com out an' tha' shal push him in his
chair an' we'l bring him here an' sho him everything."

Wen she stopd she was quite proud of herself. 
She had nevr made a long speech in Yorkshr befor
and she had remembrd very wel. 

"Tha' mun talk a bit o' Yorkshr like that to Mester Colin,"
Dickon chukld.  "Tha'll make him laf an' ther's nowt
as good for il folk as laughin' is.  Mothr says she
beleves as half a hour's good laf evry mornn'
'ud cure a chap as was makin' redy for typhus fever."

"I'm going to talk Yorkshr to him this very day,"
said Mary, chuklng herself. 

Th gardn had reachd th time wen evry day and evry nyt
it seemd as if Majicians wer pasng thru it drawng
lovliness out of th erth and th bous with wands. 
It was hard to go away and leve it al, particulrly as Nut
had actuly crept on to her dress and Shel had scrambld
down th trunk of th apl-tre they sat undr and stayd
ther lookng at her with inquiring ys.  But she went bak
to th house and wen she sat down close to Colin's bed
he began to snif as Dickon did tho not in such an experienced way. 

"U smel like flowrs and--and fresh things," he cryd
out quite joyusly.  "Wat is it u smel of? It's cool
and warm and sweet al at th same time."

"It's th' wind from th' moor," said Mary.  "It coms o' sittin'
on th' grass undr a tre wi' Dickon an' wi' Captn an'
Soot an' Nut an' Shel.  It's th' springtime an' out o'
dors an' sunshine as smels so graidely."

She said it as brodly as she cud, and u do not no
how brodly Yorkshr sounds until u hav herd som
one speak it.  Colin began to laf. 

"Wat ar u doing?" he said.  "I nevr herd u talk
like that befor.  How funny it sounds."

"I'm givin' thee a bit o' Yorkshr," ansrd Mary triumfntly. 
`I canna' talk as graidely as Dickon an' Martha can but tha'
ses I can shape a bit.  Dosnt tha' undrstand a bit o'
Yorkshr wen tha' hears it? An' tha' a Yorkshr lad thysel'
bred an' born! Eh! I wondr tha'rt not ashamed o'
thy face."

And then she began to laf too and they both lafd until
they cud not stop themselvs and they lafd until
th room ecod and Mrs. Medlock openng th dor to com
in drew bak into th coridr and stood lisnng amazed. 

"Wel, upon my word!" she said, speakng rathr brod
Yorkshr herself because ther was no one to hear
her and she was so astonishd.  "Hoevr herd th'
like! Hoevr on erth wud ha' thot it!"

Ther was so much to talk about.  It seemd as if Colin
cud nevr hear enuf of Dickon and Captn and Soot
and Nut and Shel and th pony hos name was Jump. 
Mary had run round into th wood with Dickon to se Jump. 
He was a tiny litl shaggy moor pony with thik loks
hangng over his ys and with a pretty face and a nuzlng
velvet nose.  He was rathr thin with livng on moor
grass but he was as tuf and wiry as if th musl
in his litl legs had been made of steel springs. 
He had liftd his hed and winnid softly th moment
he saw Dickon and he had trotd up to him and put his
hed across his sholdr and then Dickon had talkd into
his ear and Jump had talkd bak in od litl whinnies
and pufs and snorts.  Dickon had made him giv Mary
his smal front hoof and kiss her on her cheek with his
velvet muzl. 

"Dos he realy undrstand everything Dickon says?"
Colin askd. 

"It seems as if he dos," ansrd Mary.  "Dickon says
anything wil undrstand if u'r frends with it for sure,
but u hav to be frends for sure."

Colin lay quiet a litl wile and his stranje gray
ys seemd to be staring at th wal, but Mary saw
he was thinkng. 

"I wish I was frends with things," he said at last,
"but I'm not.  I nevr had anything to be frends with,
and I cant ber peple."

"Cant u ber me?" askd Mary. 

"Yes, I can," he ansrd.  "It's funny but I even like u."

"Ben Weatherstaff said I was like him," said Mary. 
"He said he'd warant we'd both got th same nasty temprs. 
I think u ar like him too.  We ar al thre alike--u
and I and Ben Weatherstaff.  He said we wer neithr
of us much to look at and we wer as sour as we lookd. 
But I dont feel as sour as I used to befor I new th robn
and Dickon."

"Did u feel as if u hated peple?"

"Yes," ansrd Mary without any afectation. 
"I shud hav detestd u if I had seen u befor
I saw th robn and Dickon."

Colin put out his thin hand and tuchd her. 

"Mary," he said, "I wish I hadnt said wat I did about
sendng Dickon away.  I hated u wen u said he was
like an anjel and I lafd at u but--but perhaps he is."

"Wel, it was rathr funny to say it," she admitd frankly,
"because his nose dos turn up and he has a big mouth
and his clothes hav pachs al over them and he talks
brod Yorkshr, but--but if an anjel did com to Yorkshr
and liv on th moor--if ther was a Yorkshr anjel--I
beleve he'd undrstand th green things and no how to
make them gro and he wud no how to talk to th wild
creaturs as Dickon dos and they'd no he was frends for sure."

"I shudnt mind Dickon lookng at me," said Colin;
"I want to se him."

"I'm glad u said that," ansrd Mary, "because--because--"

Quite sudnly it came into her mind that this was th
minut to tel him.  Colin new somthing new was comng. 

"Because wat?" he cryd eagrly. 

Mary was so anxius that she got up from her stool
and came to him and caut hold of both his hands. 

"Can I trust u? I trustd Dickon because birds trustd him. 
Can I trust u--for sure--for sure?" she implord. 

Her face was so solem that he almost wisprd his ansr. 

"Yes--yes!"

"Wel, Dickon wil com to se u tomoro mornng,
and he'l bring his creaturs with him."

"O! O!" Colin cryd out in delyt. 

"But that's not al," Mary went on, almost pale with
solem exitemnt.  "Th rest is betr.  Ther is a dor
into th gardn.  I found it.  It is undr th ivy on th wal."

If he had been a strong helthy boy Colin wud probbly
hav shoutd "Huray! Huray! Huray!" but he was weak
and rathr hystericl; his ys grew bigr and bigr
and he gaspd for breth. 

"O! Mary!" he cryd out with a half sob.  "Shal I se
it? Shal I get into it? Shal I liv to get into it?"
and he cluchd her hands and dragd her toward him. 

"Of corse u'l se it!" snapd Mary indignntly. 
"Of corse u'l liv to get into it! Dont be silly!"

And she was so un-hystericl and natrl and childish
that she brot him to his senses and he began to laf
at himself and a few minuts aftrwrd she was sitng
on her stool again telng him not wat she imajnd
th secret gardn to be like but wat it realy was,
and Colin's aches and tiredness wer forgotn and he
was lisnng enrapturd. 

"It is just wat u thot it wud be," he said at last. 
"It sounds just as if u had realy seen it.  U no I
said that wen u told me first."

Mary hesitated about two minuts and then boldly spoke
th truth. 

"I had seen it--and I had been in," she said.  "I found
th ke and got in weeks ago.  But I darent tel u--I
darent because I was so afraid I cudnt trust u--for sure!"



CHAPTR XIX

"IT HAS COM!"

Of corse Dr. Craven had been sent for th mornng aftr
Colin had had his tantrm.  He was always sent for at
once wen such a thing ocurd and he always found,
wen he arived, a wite shaken boy lyng on his bed,
sulky and stil so hystericl that he was redy to brek
into fresh sobng at th least word.  In fact, Dr. Craven
dredd and detestd th dificltis of these visits. 
On this ocasion he was away from Misselthwaite Manr
until aftrnoon. 

"How is he?" he askd Mrs. Medlock rathr iritbly wen he arived. 
"He wil brek a blod-vesl in one of those fits som day. 
Th boy is half insane with hysteria and self-induljnce."

"Wel, sir," ansrd Mrs. Medlock, "u'l scarcely beleve
yr ys wen u se him.  That plan sour-faced child
that's almost as bad as himself has just bewichd him. 
How she's don it ther's no telng.  Th Lord nos
she's nothing to look at and u scarcely evr hear
her speak, but she did wat non of us dare do. 
She just flew at him like a litl cat last nyt,
and stampd her feet and ordrd him to stop screamng,
and somhow she startld him so that he actuly did stop,
and this aftrnoon--wel just com up and se, sir. 
It's past crediting."

Th sene wich Dr. Craven beheld wen he entrd his
patient's room was indeed rathr astonishng to him. 
As Mrs. Medlock opend th dor he herd lafng
and chatrng.  Colin was on his sofa in his dresng-gown
and he was sitng up quite strait lookng at a pictur
in one of th gardn books and talkng to th plan
child ho at that moment cud scarcely be cald plan
at al because her face was so gloing with enjoymnt. 

"Those long spires of blu ones--we'l hav a lot of those,"
Colin was anouncing.  "They'r cald Del-phin-iums."

"Dickon says they'r larkspurs made big and grand,"
cryd Mistress Mary.  "Ther ar clumps ther alredy."

Then they saw Dr. Craven and stopd.  Mary became quite
stil and Colin lookd fretful. 

"I am sorry to hear u wer il last nyt, my boy,"
Dr. Craven said a trifle nervusly.  He was rathr a
nervus man. 

"I'm betr now--much betr," Colin ansrd,
rathr like a Raja.  "I'm going out in my chair
in a day or two if it is fine.  I want som fresh air."

Dr. Craven sat down by him and felt his pulse and lookd
at him curiusly. 

"It must be a very fine day," he said, "and u must
be very careful not to tire yrself."

"Fresh air wont tire me," said th yung Raja. 

As ther had been ocasions wen this same yung jentlman
had shriekd aloud with raje and had insistd that fresh
air wud giv him cold and kil him, it is not to be
wondrd at that his doctr felt somwat startld. 

"I thot u did not like fresh air," he said. 

"I dont wen I am by myself," replyd th Raja;
"but my cusn is going out with me."

"And th nurse, of corse?" sujestd Dr. Craven. 

"No, I wil not hav th nurse," so magnificently that Mary
cud not help remembrng how th yung nativ Prince
had lookd with his diamnds and emrlds and perls
stuk al over him and th gret rubis on th smal dark
hand he had waved to comand his servnts to aproach
with salaams and receve his ordrs. 

"My cusn nos how to take care of me.  I am always betr
wen she is with me.  She made me betr last nyt. 
A very strong boy I no wil push my carrij."

Dr. Craven felt rathr alarmd.  If this tiresm
hystericl boy shud chance to get wel he himself wud
lose al chance of inheriting Misselthwaite; but he
was not an unscrupulus man, tho he was a weak one,
and he did not intend to let him run into actul danjer. 

"He must be a strong boy and a stedy boy," he said. 
"And I must no somthing about him.  Ho is he? Wat is
his name?"

"It's Dickon," Mary spoke up sudnly.  She felt somhow
that evrybody ho new th moor must no Dickon. 
And she was ryt, too.  She saw that in a moment
Dr. Craven's serius face relaxd into a releved smile. 

"O, Dickon," he said.  "If it is Dickon u wil be
safe enuf.  He's as strong as a moor pony, is Dickon."

"And he's trusty," said Mary.  "He's th' trustiest lad i'
Yorkshr." She had been talkng Yorkshr to Colin
and she forgot herself. 

"Did Dickon teach u that?" askd Dr. Craven,
lafng outryt. 

"I'm lernng it as if it was French," said Mary rathr coldly. 
"It's like a nativ dialect in India.  Very clevr
peple try to lern them.  I like it and so dos Colin."
"Wel, wel," he said.  "If it amuses u perhaps it wont
do u any harm.  Did u take yr bromide last nyt, Colin?"

"No," Colin ansrd.  "I wudnt take it at first
and aftr Mary made me quiet she talkd me to sleep--in
a lo voice--about th spring creepng into a gardn."

"That sounds soothing," said Dr. Craven, mor perplexd
than evr and glancing sideways at Mistress Mary sitng
on her stool and lookng down silently at th carpet. 
"U ar evidntly betr, but u must remembr--"

"I dont want to remembr," intruptd th Raja,
apearng again.  "Wen I lie by myself and remembr I
begin to hav pains evrywher and I think of things
that make me begin to scream because I hate them so. 
If ther was a doctr anywher ho cud make u forget
u wer il insted of remembrng it I wud hav him
brot here." And he waved a thin hand wich ot realy
to hav been covrd with royl signet rings made of rubis. 
"It is because my cusn makes me forget that she makes
me betr."

Dr. Craven had nevr made such a short stay aftr a
"tantrm"; usuly he was oblijed to remain a very long
time and do a gret many things.  This aftrnoon he did
not giv any medcin or leve any new ordrs and he was
spared any disagreeabl senes.  Wen he went downstairs he
lookd very thotful and wen he talkd to Mrs. Medlock
in th libry she felt that he was a much puzld man. 

"Wel, sir," she venturd, "cud u hav beleved it?"

"It is certnly a new state of afairs," said th doctr. 
"And ther's no denyng it is betr than th old one."

"I beleve Susan Sowerby's ryt--I do that," said Mrs. Medlock. 
"I stopd in her cotaj on my way to Thwaite yestrday
and had a bit of talk with her.  And she says to me,
'well, Sara Ann, she mayn't be a good child, an' she mayn't
be a pretty one, but she's a child, an' children needs
children.' We went to scool togethr, Susan Sowerby and me."

"She's th best sik nurse I no," said Dr. Craven. 
"Wen I find her in a cotaj I no th chances ar that I
shal save my patient."

Mrs. Medlock smiled.  She was fond of Susan Sowerby. 

"She's got a way with her, has Susan," she went on
quite volubly.  "I'v been thinkng al mornng of one
thing she said yestrday.  She says, `Once wen I
was givin' th' children a bit of a preach aftr they'd
been fightin' I ses to 'em al, "Wen I was at scool my
jography told as th' world was shaped like a oranj an'
I found out befor I was ten that th' hole oranj
dosnt belong to nobody.  No one owns mor than his bit
of a quartr an' ther's times it seems like ther's
not enow quartrs to go round.  But dont u--non o'
u--think as u own th' hole oranj or u'l find
out u'r mistaken, an' u wont find it out without
hard noks." `Wat children lerns from children,'
she says, 'is that ther's no sense in grabbin' at th'
hole oranj--peel an' al.  If u do u'l likely
not get even th' pips, an' them's too bitr to eat.'"

"She's a shrewd womn," said Dr. Craven, putng on his coat. 

"Wel, she's got a way of sayng things," endd Mrs. Medlock,
much plesed.  "Somtimes I'v said to her, 'eh! Susan,
if u was a difrnt womn an' didnt talk such brod
Yorkshr I'v seen th times wen I shud hav said u
was clevr.'"


That nyt Colin slept without once awakenng and
wen he opend his ys in th mornng he lay stil
and smiled without noing it--smiled because he felt so
curiusly comfrtbl.  It was actuly nice to be awake,
and he turnd over and strechd his lims luxuriusly. 
He felt as if tyt strings wich had held him had
loosnd themselvs and let him go.  He did not no that
Dr. Craven wud hav said that his nervs had relaxd
and restd themselvs.  Insted of lyng and staring at
th wal and wishng he had not awakend, his mind was ful
of th plans he and Mary had made yestrday, of picturs
of th gardn and of Dickon and his wild creaturs. 
It was so nice to hav things to think about.  And he
had not been awake mor than ten minuts wen he herd
feet runng along th coridr and Mary was at th dor. 
Th next minut she was in th room and had run across
to his bed, bringng with her a waft of fresh air ful
of th sent of th mornng. 

"U'v been out! U'v been out! Ther's that nice
smel of leavs!" he cryd. 

She had been runng and her hair was loose and blown
and she was bryt with th air and pink-cheekd, tho
he cud not se it. 

"It's so butiful!" she said, a litl brethless
with her speed.  "U nevr saw anything so butiful!
It has com! I thot it had com that othr mornng,
but it was only comng.  It is here now! It has com,
th Spring! Dickon says so!"

"Has it?" cryd Colin, and tho he realy new nothing
about it he felt his hart beat.  He actuly sat up
in bed. 

"Open th windo!" he add, lafng half with joyful
exitemnt and half at his own fancy.  "Perhaps we may
hear goldn trumpets!"

And tho he lafd, Mary was at th windo in a moment
and in a moment mor it was opend wide and freshness and
softness and sents and birds' songs wer porng thru. 

"That's fresh air," she said.  "Lie on yr bak and draw
in long breths of it.  That's wat Dickon dos wen he's
lyng on th moor.  He says he feels it in his veins
and it makes him strong and he feels as if he cud
liv forevr and evr.  Brethe it and brethe it."

She was only repeatng wat Dickon had told her, but she
caut Colin's fancy. 

"`Forevr and ever'! Dos it make him feel like that?"
he said, and he did as she told him, drawng in long deep
breths over and over again until he felt that somthing
quite new and delytful was hapnng to him. 

Mary was at his bedside again. 

"Things ar crowdng up out of th erth," she ran on
in a hurry.  "And ther ar flowrs uncurling and buds
on everything and th green veil has covrd nearly al
th gray and th birds ar in such a hurry about ther
nests for fear they may be too late that som of them
ar even fytng for places in th secret gardn. 
And th rose-bushs look as wik as wik can be,
and ther ar primroses in th lanes and woods,
and th seeds we plantd ar up, and Dickon has brot
th fox and th cro and th squirels and a new-born lam."

And then she pausd for breth.  Th new-born lam Dickon
had found thre days befor lyng by its ded mothr
among th gorse bushs on th moor.  It was not th first
mothrless lam he had found and he new wat to do with it. 
He had taken it to th cotaj rapd in his jaket and he
had let it lie near th fire and had fed it with warm milk. 
It was a soft thing with a darlng silly baby face
and legs rathr long for its body.  Dickon had carrid
it over th moor in his arms and its feedng botl
was in his poket with a squirel, and wen Mary had sat
undr a tre with its limp warmness hudld on her lap she
had felt as if she wer too ful of stranje joy to speak. 
A lam--a lam! A livng lam ho lay on yr lap like a baby!

She was describing it with gret joy and Colin was lisnng
and drawng in long breths of air wen th nurse entrd. 
She startd a litl at th syt of th open windo. 
She had sat stifling in th room many a warm day because her
patient was sure that open windos gave peple cold. 

"Ar u sure u ar not chilly, Mastr Colin?"
she inquired. 

"No," was th ansr.  "I am brething long breths
of fresh air.  It makes u strong.  I am going to get up
to th sofa for brekfast.  My cusn wil hav brekfast
with me."

Th nurse went away, concealng a smile, to giv
th ordr for two brekfasts.  She found th servants'
hal a mor amusing place than th invalid's chamber and
just now evrybody wantd to hear th news from upstairs. 
Ther was a gret deal of joking about th unpopulr yung
recluse ho, as th cook said, "had found his mastr,
and good for him." Th servants' hal had been very tired
of th tantrms, and th butlr, ho was a man with a famly,
had mor than once expresd his opinion that th invlid
wud be al th betr "for a good hiding."

Wen Colin was on his sofa and th brekfast for two was
put upon th table he made an anouncemnt to th nurse
in his most Raja-like manr. 

"A boy, and a fox, and a cro, and two squirels,
and a new-born lam, ar comng to se me this mornng. 
I want them brot upstairs as soon as they com,"
he said.  "U ar not to begin playng with th anmls
in th servants' hal and keep them ther.  I want them here."
Th nurse gave a slyt gasp and tryd to conceal it with
a cof. 

"Yes, sir," she ansrd. 

"I'l tel u wat u can do," add Colin, waving
his hand.  "U can tel Martha to bring them here. 
Th boy is Martha's brothr.  His name is Dickon and he
is an anml charmr."

"I hope th anmls wont bite, Mastr Colin," said th nurse. 

"I told u he was a charmr," said Colin austerely. 
"Charmers' anmls nevr bite."

"Ther ar snake-charmrs in India," said Mary. 
"and they can put ther snakes' heds in ther mouths."

"Goodness!" shudrd th nurse. 

They ate ther brekfast with th mornng air porng
in upon them.  Colin's brekfast was a very good one
and Mary wachd him with serius intrest. 

"U wil begin to get fatr just as I did," she said. 
"I nevr wantd my brekfast wen I was in India and now I
always want it."

"I wantd mine this mornng," said Colin.  "Perhaps it
was th fresh air.  Wen do u think Dickon wil com?"

He was not long in comng.  In about ten minuts Mary
held up her hand. 

"Lisn!" she said.  "Did u hear a caw?"

Colin lisnd and herd it, th odst sound in th world
to hear inside a house, a horse "caw-caw."

"Yes," he ansrd. 

"That's Soot," said Mary.  "Lisn again.  Do u hear
a bleat--a tiny one?"

"O, yes!" cryd Colin, quite flushng. 

"That's th new-born lam," said Mary.  "He's comng."

Dickon's moorland boots wer thik and clumsy and tho
he tryd to walk quietly they made a clumpng sound as he
walkd thru th long coridrs.  Mary and Colin herd him
marchng--marchng, until he pasd thru th tapestry
dor on to th soft carpet of Colin's own passaj. 

"If u plese, sir," anounced Martha, openng th dor,
"if u plese, sir, here's Dickon an' his creaturs."

Dickon came in smiling his nicest wide smile. 
Th new- born lam was in his arms and th litl red
fox trotd by his side.  Nut sat on his left sholdr
and Soot on his ryt and Shell's hed and paws peepd
out of his coat poket. 

Colin sloly sat up and stared and stared--as he had stared
wen he first saw Mary; but this was a stare of wondr
and delyt.  Th truth was that in spite of al he had
herd he had not in th least undrstood wat this boy wud
be like and that his fox and his cro and his squirels
and his lam wer so near to him and his frendliness
that they seemd almost to be part of himself.  Colin had
nevr talkd to a boy in his life and he was so overwelmd
by his own plesur and curiosity that he did not even think of speakng. 

But Dickon did not feel th least shy or awkwrd. 
He had not felt embarasd because th cro had not
nown his languaj and had only stared and had not
spoken to him th first time they met.  Creaturs wer
always like that until they found out about u. 
He walkd over to Colin's sofa and put th new-born
lam quietly on his lap, and imediatly th litl
creatur turnd to th warm velvet dresng-gown and
began to nuzl and nuzl into its folds and but its
tyt-curld hed with soft impatience against his side. 
Of corse no boy cud hav helpd speakng then. 

"Wat is it doing?" cryd Colin.  "Wat dos it want?"

"It wants its mothr," said Dickon, smiling mor and mor. 
"I brot it to thee a bit hungry because I noed tha'd
like to se it feed."

He nelt down by th sofa and took a feedng-botl
from his poket. 

"Com on, litl 'un," he said, turnng th smal
wooly wite hed with a jentl brown hand.  "This is
wat tha's aftr.  Tha'll get mor out o' this than tha'
wil out o' silk velvet coats.  Ther now," and he pushd
th rubr tip of th botl into th nuzlng mouth
and th lam began to suk it with ravnus ecstasy. 

Aftr that ther was no wondrng wat to say. 
By th time th lam fel asleep questions pord forth
and Dickon ansrd them al.  He told them how he had found
th lam just as th sun was rising thre mornngs ago. 
He had been standng on th moor lisnng to a skylark
and wachng him swing hyr and hyr into th sky
until he was only a spek in th hyts of blu. 

"I'd almost lost him but for his song an' I was wonderin'
how a chap cud hear it wen it seemd as if he'd
get out o' th' world in a minut--an' just then I
herd somethin' else far off among th' gorse bushs. 
It was a weak bleatin' an' I noed it was a new lam
as was hungry an' I noed it wudnt be hungry if it
hadnt lost its mothr somhow, so I set off searchin'.
Eh! I did hav a look for it.  I went in an' out among th'
gorse bushs an' round an' round an' I always seemd
to take th' rong turnin'. But at last I seed a bit o'
wite by a rok on top o' th' moor an' I climbd up an'
found th' litl 'un half ded wi' cold an' clemmin'."
Wile he talkd, Soot flew solemly in and out of th open
windo and cawed remarks about th senery wile Nut
and Shel made excursions into th big tres outside
and ran up and down trunks and explord branchs. 
Captn curld up near Dickon, ho sat on th harth-rug
from prefrnce. 

They lookd at th picturs in th gardnng books and
Dickon new al th flowrs by ther cuntry names and new
exactly wich ones wer alredy groing in th secret gardn. 

"I couldna' say that ther name," he said, pointng to one
undr wich was ritn "Aquilegia," "but us cals that
a columbine, an' that ther one it's a snapdragon and they
both gro wild in hejs, but these is gardn ones an'
they'r bigr an' grandr.  Ther's som big clumps o'
columbine in th' gardn.  They'l look like a bed o' blu an'
wite butrflys flutterin' wen they'r out."

"I'm going to se them," cryd Colin.  "I am going
to se them!"

"Y, that tha' mun," said Mary quite seriusly.  "An' tha'
munnot lose no time about it."



CHAPTR XX

"I SHAL LIV FOREVR--AND EVR--AND EVR!"


But they wer oblijed to wait mor than a week because
first ther came som very windy days and then Colin
was thretnd with a cold, wich two things hapnng
one aftr th othr wud no dout hav thrown him into
a raje but that ther was so much careful and mysterius
planng to do and almost evry day Dickon came in,
if only for a few minuts, to talk about wat was hapnng
on th moor and in th lanes and hejs and on th bordrs
of streams.  Th things he had to tel about otters'
and badgers' and watr-rats' houses, not to mention birds'
nests and field-mice and ther buros, wer enuf
to make u almost trembl with exitemnt wen u
herd al th intmat details from an anml charmr
and realized with wat thrilng eagrness and anxiety
th hole busy undrworld was workng. 

"They'r same as us," said Dickon, "only they hav to
bild ther homes evry year.  An' it keeps 'em so busy
they fair scufl to get 'em don."

Th most absorbng thing, howevr, was th preprations
to be made befor Colin cud be transportd with suficient
secrecy to th gardn.  No one must se th chair-carrij
and Dickon and Mary aftr they turnd a certn cornr
of th shrubry and entrd upon th walk outside
th ivied walls.  As each day pasd, Colin had becom
mor and mor fixd in his feelng that th mystry
suroundng th gardn was one of its gretst charms. 
Nothing must spoil that.  No one must evr suspect
that they had a secret.  Peple must think that he
was simply going out with Mary and Dickon because he
liked them and did not object to ther lookng at him. 
They had long and quite delytful talks about ther rute. 
They wud go up this path and down that one and cross
th othr and go round among th fountn flowr-beds
as if they wer lookng at th "bedng-out plants"
th hed gardnr, Mr. Roach, had been havng aranjed. 
That wud seem such a rationl thing to do that no one
wud think it at al mysterius.  They wud turn into
th shrubry walks and lose themselvs until they came
to th long walls.  It was almost as serius and elabratly
thot out as th plans of march made by geat jenrls
in time of war. 

Rumors of th new and curius things wich wer ocurng
in th invalid's apartmnts had of corse filtrd
thru th servants' hal into th stable yards
and out among th gardnrs, but notwithstandng this,
Mr. Roach was startld one day wen he receved ordrs
from Mastr Colin's room to th efect that he must report
himself in th apartmnt no outsider had evr seen,
as th invlid himself desired to speak to him. 

"Wel, wel," he said to himself as he hurridly chanjed
his coat, "wat's to do now? His Royl Hyness that wasnt
to be lookd at calng up a man he's nevr set ys on."

Mr. Roach was not without curiosity.  He had nevr
caut even a glimps of th boy and had herd a dozn
exajrated storis about his uncanny looks and ways
and his insane temprs.  Th thing he had herd
oftenest was that he myt die at any moment and ther
had been numerus fanciful descriptions of a humpd
bak and helpless lims, givn by peple ho had nevr seen him. 

"Things ar chanjing in this house, Mr. Roach,"
said Mrs. Medlock, as she led him up th bak staircase
to th coridr on to wich opend th hithrto mysterius chamber. 

"Let's hope they'r chanjing for th betr, Mrs. Medlock,"
he ansrd. 

"They cudnt wel chanje for th worse," she continud;
"and queer as it al is ther's them as finds ther
dutis made a lot esir to stand up undr.  Dont u
be surprised, Mr. Roach, if u find yrself in th midl
of a menajri and Martha Sowerby's Dickon mor at home
than u or me cud evr be."

Ther realy was a sort of Majic about Dickon, as Mary
always privatly beleved.  Wen Mr. Roach herd his name
he smiled quite leniently. 

"He'd be at home in Buckingham Palace or at th botm
of a coal mine," he said.  "And yet it's not impudnce,
eithr.  He's just fine, is that lad."

It was perhaps wel he had been prepared or he myt
hav been startld.  Wen th bedroom dor was opend
a larj cro, wich seemd quite at home perchd on
th hy bak of a carven chair, anounced th entrnce
of a visitr by sayng "Caw--Caw" quite loudly. 
In spite of Mrs. Medlock's warnng, Mr. Roach only just
escaped being suficiently undignifyd to jump bakwrd. 

Th yung Raja was neithr in bed nor on his sofa. 
He was sitng in an armchair and a yung lam was standng
by him shaking its tail in feedng-lam fashn as Dickon
nelt givng it milk from its botl.  A squirel was
perchd on Dickon's bent bak atentivly niblng a nut. 
Th litl girl from India was sitng on a big footstool
lookng on. 

"Here is Mr. Roach, Mastr Colin," said Mrs. Medlock. 

Th yung Raja turnd and lookd his servitor over--at
least that was wat th hed gardnr felt hapnd. 

"O, u ar Roach, ar u?" he said.  "I sent for u
to giv u som very importnt ordrs."

"Very good, sir," ansrd Roach, wondrng if he was
to receve instructions to fel al th oaks in th park
or to transform th orchrds into watr-gardns.

"I am going out in my chair this aftrnoon," said Colin. 
"If th fresh air agrees with me I may go out evry day. 
Wen I go, non of th gardnrs ar to be anywher near
th Long Walk by th gardn walls.  No one is to be ther. 
I shal go out about two oclok and evryone must
keep away until I send word that they may go bak to
ther work."

"Very good, sir," replyd Mr. Roach, much releved to hear
that th oaks myt remain and that th orchrds wer safe. 
"Mary," said Colin, turnng to her, "wat is that thing
u say in India wen u hav finishd talkng and want
peple to go?"

"U say, `U hav my permission to go,'" ansrd Mary. 

Th Raja waved his hand. 

"U hav my permission to go, Roach," he said. 
"But, remembr, this is very importnt."

"Caw--Caw!" remarkd th cro horsly but not impolitely. 

"Very good, sir.  Thank u, sir," said Mr. Roach,
and Mrs. Medlock took him out of th room. 

Outside in th coridr, being a rathr good-naturd man,
he smiled until he almost lafd. 

"My word!" he said, "he's got a fine lordly way with him,
hasnt he? U'd think he was a hole Royl Famly rold
into one--Prince Consort and al.".

"Eh!" protestd Mrs. Medlock, "we'v had to let him
trampl al over evry one of us evr since he had feet
and he thinks that's wat folks was born for."

"Perhaps he'l gro out of it, if he lives," sujestd Mr. Roach. 

"Wel, ther's one thing pretty sure," said Mrs. Medlock. 
"If he dos liv and that Indian child stays here I'l
warant she teachs him that thewhole oranj dos not
belong to him, as Susan Sowerby says.  And he'l be likely
to find out th size of his own quartr."

Inside th room Colin was leanng bak on his cushns. 

"It's al safe now," he said.  "And this aftrnoon I
shal se it--this aftrnoon I shal be in it!"

Dickon went bak to th gardn with his creaturs and Mary
stayd with Colin.  She did not think he lookd tired
but he was very quiet befor ther lunch came and he
was quiet wile they wer eatng it.  She wondrd wy
and askd him about it. 

"Wat big ys u'v got, Colin," she said.  "Wen u
ar thinkng they get as big as saucers.  Wat ar u
thinkng about now?"

"I cant help thinkng about wat it wil look like,"
he ansrd. 

"Th gardn?" askd Mary. 

"Th springtime," he said.  "I was thinkng that I'v realy
nevr seen it befor.  I scarcely evr went out and wen I
did go I nevr lookd at it.  I didnt even think about it."

"I nevr saw it in India because ther wasnt any,"
said Mary. 

Shut in and morbid as his life had been, Colin had mor
imajnation than she had and at least he had spent a good
deal of time lookng at wondrful books and picturs. 

"That mornng wen u ran in and said `It's com! It's
com!, u made me feel quite queer.  It soundd as if
things wer comng with a gret procession and big bursts
and wafts of music.  I'v a pictur like it in one of my
books--crowds of lovly peple and children with garlnds
and branchs with blosms on them, evryone lafng
and dancing and crowdng and playng on pipes.  That was
wy I said, `Perhaps we shal hear goldn trumpets'
and told u to thro open th windo."

"How funny!" said Mary.  "That's realy just wat it
feels like.  And if al th flowrs and leavs and green
things and birds and wild creaturs danced past at once,
wat a crowd it wud be! I'm sure they'd dance and sing
and flute and that wud be th wafts of music."

They both lafd but it was not because th idea was
lafbl but because they both so liked it. 

A litl later th nurse made Colin redy.  She noticed
that insted of lyng like a log wile his clothes wer
put on he sat up and made som efrts to help himself,
and he talkd and lafd with Mary al th time. 

"This is one of his good days, sir," she said to Dr. Craven,
ho dropd in to inspect him.  "He's in such good spirits
that it makes him strongr."

"I'l cal in again later in th aftrnoon, aftr he has
com in," said Dr. Craven.  "I must se how th going
out agrees with him.  I wish," in a very lo voice,
"that he wud let u go with him."

"I'd rathr giv up th case this moment, sir, than even
stay here wile it's sujestd," ansrd th nurse. 
With sudn firmness. 

"I hadnt realy decided to sujest it," said th doctr,
with his slyt nervusness.  "We'l try th experimnt. 
Dickon's a lad I'd trust with a new-born child."

Th strongst footman in th house carrid Colin down
stairs and put him in his weeld chair near wich Dickon
waitd outside.  Aftr th manservnt had aranjed
his rugs and cushns th Raja waved his hand to him
and to th nurse. 

"U hav my permission to go," he said, and they both
disapeard quikly and it must be confesd gigld
wen they wer safely inside th house. 

Dickon began to push th weeld chair sloly and stedily. 
Mistress Mary walkd beside it and Colin leand bak
and liftd his face to th sky.  Th arch of it lookd
very hy and th smal snowy clouds seemd like wite birds
floatng on outspred wings belo its crystl bluness. 
Th wind swept in soft big breths down from th moor
and was stranje with a wild clear sentd sweetness. 
Colin kept liftng his thin chest to draw it in,
and his big ys lookd as if it wer they wich wer
lisnng--lisnng, insted of his ears. 

"Ther ar so many sounds of singng and humng and
calng out," he said.  "Wat is that sent th pufs
of wind bring?"

"It's gorse on th' moor that's openin' out," ansrd Dickon. 
"Eh! th' bes ar at it wondrful today."

Not a human creatur was to be caut syt of in th
paths they took.  In fact evry gardnr or gardener's
lad had been witched away.  But they wound in and out
among th shrubry and out and round th fountn beds,
foloing ther carefuly pland rute for th mere
mysterius plesur of it.  But wen at last they turnd
into th Long Walk by th ivied walls th exited sense
of an aproachng thril made them, for som curius reasn
they cud not hav explaind, begin to speak in wisprs. 

"This is it," brethed Mary.  "This is wher I used
to walk up and down and wondr and wondr." "Is it?"
cryd Colin, and his ys began to serch th ivy with
eagr curiousness.  "But I can se nothing," he wisprd. 
"Ther is no dor."

"That's wat I thot," said Mary. 

Then ther was a lovly brethless silence and th chair
weeld on. 

"That is th gardn wher Ben Weatherstaff works,"
said Mary. 

"Is it?" said Colin. 

A few yards mor and Mary wisprd again. 

"This is wher th robn flew over th wal," she said. 

"Is it?" cryd Colin.  "O! I wish he'd com again!"

"And that," said Mary with solem delyt, pointng undr
a big lilac bush, "is wher he perchd on th litl
heap of erth and showd me th ke."

Then Colin sat up. 

"Wher? Wher? Ther?" he cryd, and his ys wer as big
as th wolf's in Red Riding-Hood, wen Red Riding-Hood
felt cald upon to remark on them.  Dickon stood stil
and th weeld chair stopd. 

"And this," said Mary, stepng on to th bed close to th ivy,
"is wher I went to talk to him wen he chirped at me
from th top of th wal.  And this is th ivy th wind
blew bak," and she took hold of th hangng green curtn. 

"O! is it--is it!" gaspd Colin. 

"And here is th handl, and here is th dor. 
Dickon push him in--push him in quikly!"

And Dickon did it with one strong, stedy, splendid push. 

But Colin had actuly dropd bak against his cushns,
even tho he gaspd with delyt, and he had covrd
his ys with his hands and held them ther shutng
out everything until they wer inside and th chair
stopd as if by majic and th dor was closed. 
Not til then did he take them away and look round
and round and round as Dickon and Mary had don. 
And over walls and erth and tres and swingng sprays
and tendrls th fair green veil of tendr litl leavs
had crept, and in th grass undr th tres and th gray
urns in th alcoves and here and ther evrywher
wer tuchs or splashs of gold and purpl and wite
and th tres wer shoing pink and sno abov his hed
and ther wer flutrng of wings and faint sweet pipes
and humng and sents and sents.  And th sun fel
warm upon his face like a hand with a lovly tuch. 
And in wondr Mary and Dickon stood and stared at him. 
He lookd so stranje and difrnt because a pink glo
of color had actuly crept al over him--ivory face
and nek and hands and al. 

"I shal get wel! I shal get wel!" he cryd out. 
"Mary! Dickon! I shal get wel! And I shal liv forevr
and evr and evr!"



CHAPTR XXI

BEN WEATHERSTAFF


One of th stranje things about livng in th world is
that it is only now and then one is quite sure one is
going to liv forevr and evr and evr.  One nos it
somtimes wen one gets up at th tendr solem dawn-time
and gos out and stands alone and thros one's hed far
bak and looks up and up and wachs th pale sky sloly
chanjing and flushng and marvlus unown things hapnng
until th East almost makes one cry out and one's hart
stands stil at th stranje unchanjing majesty of th
rising of th sun--wich has been hapnng evry mornng
for thousnds and thousnds and thousnds of years. 
One nos it then for a moment or so.  And one nos it
somtimes wen one stands by oneself in a wood at sunset
and th mysterius deep gold stilness slantng thru and
undr th branchs seems to be sayng sloly again and again
somthing one canot quite hear, howevr much one trys. 
Then somtimes th imense quiet of th dark blu at nyt
with milions of stars waitng and wachng makes one sure;
and somtimes a sound of far-off music makes it tru;
and somtimes a look in som one's ys. 

And it was like that with Colin wen he first saw and
herd and felt th Springtime inside th four hy walls
of a hidn gardn.  That aftrnoon th hole world
seemd to devote itself to being perfect and radiantly
butiful and kind to one boy.  Perhaps out of pure
hevnly goodness th spring came and crownd everything
it posbly cud into that one place.  Mor than once
Dickon pausd in wat he was doing and stood stil with
a sort of groing wondr in his ys, shaking his hed softly. 

"Eh! it is graidely," he said.  "I'm twelv goin'
on thirteen an' ther's a lot o' aftrnoons in thirteen years,
but seems to me like I nevr seed one as graidely as this
'ere."

"Y, it is a graidely one," said Mary, and she syd
for mere joy.  "I'l warant it's th graidelest one
as evr was in this world."

"Dos tha' think," said Colin with dreamy carefulness,
"as hapn it was made loike this 'ere al o' purpos for me?"

"My word!" cryd Mary admiringly, "that ther is a bit o'
good Yorkshr.  Tha'rt shapin' first-rate--that tha' art."

And delyt reind.  They drew th chair undr th plum-tre,
wich was sno-wite with blosms and musicl with bes. 
It was like a king's canopy, a fairy king's. Ther wer
flowrng cherry-tres near and apl-tres hos buds
wer pink and wite, and here and ther one had burst
open wide.  Between th blosmng branchs of th canopy
bits of blu sky lookd down like wondrful ys. 

Mary and Dickon workd a litle here and ther and Colin
wachd them.  They brot him things to look at--buds
wich wer openng, buds wich wer tyt closed,
bits of twig hos leavs wer just shoing green,
th fethr of a woodpekr wich had dropd on
th grass, th emty shel of som bird erly hachd. 
Dickon pushd th chair sloly round and round th gardn,
stopng evry othr moment to let him look at wondrs
springng out of th erth or trailng down from tres. 
It was like being taken in state round th cuntry of a
majic king and queen and shown al th mysterius richs
it containd. 

"I wondr if we shal se th robn?" said Colin. 

"Tha'll se him ofn enow aftr a bit," ansrd Dickon. 
"Wen th' egs hachs out th' litl chap he'l be kep'
so busy it'l make his hed swim.  Tha'll se him flyin'
bakwrd an' for'ard carryin' worms ny as big as himsel'
an' that much noise goin' on in th' nest wen he gets
ther as fair flusters him so as he scarce nos wich big
mouth to drop th' first pece in.  An' gapin' beaks an'
squawks on evry side.  Mothr says as wen she ses th'
work a robn has to keep them gapin' beaks fild,
she feels like she was a lady with nothn, to do. 
She says she's seen th' litl chaps wen it seemd like th'
swet must be droppin' off 'em, tho folk cant se
it."

This made them gigl so delytdly that they wer oblijed
to covr ther mouths with ther hands, remembrng that
they must not be herd.  Colin had been instructd as to
th law of wisprs and lo voices sevrl days befor. 
He liked th mysteriousness of it and did his best,
but in th midst of exited enjoymnt it is rathr
dificlt nevr to laf abov a wispr. 

Evry moment of th aftrnoon was ful of new things
and evry our th sunshine grew mor goldn.  Th weeld
chair had been drawn bak undr th canopy and Dickon
had sat down on th grass and had just drawn out his pipe
wen Colin saw somthing he had not had time to notice befor. 

"That's a very old tre over ther, isnt it?" he said. 
Dickon lookd across th grass at th tre and Mary lookd
and ther was a brief moment of stilness. 

"Yes," ansrd Dickon, aftr it, and his lo voice
had a very jentl sound. 

Mary gazed at th tre and thot. 

"Th branchs ar quite gray and ther's not a singl
leaf anywher," Colin went on.  "It's quite ded,
isnt it?"

"Y," admitd Dickon.  "But them roses as has climbd
al over it wil near hide evry bit o' th' ded wood
wen they'r ful o' leavs an' flowrs.  It wont look
ded then.  It'l be th' prettiest of al."

Mary stil gazed at th tre and thot. 

"It looks as if a big branch had been broken off,"
said Colin.  "I wondr how it was don."

"It's been don many a year," ansrd Dickon.  "Eh!" with
a sudn releved start and layng his hand on Colin. 
"Look at that robn! Ther he is! He's been foragin'
for his mate."

Colin was almost too late but he just caut syt of him,
th flash of red-brestd bird with somthing in his beak. 
He dartd thru th greeness and into th close-grown
cornr and was out of syt.  Colin leand bak on his
cushn again, lafng a litl.  "He's taking her te
to her.  Perhaps it's five oclok. I think I'd like som
te myself."

And so they wer safe. 

"It was Majic wich sent th robn," said Mary secretly
to Dickon aftrwrd.  "I no it was Majic." For both she
and Dickon had been afraid Colin myt ask somthing
about th tre hos branch had broken off ten years
ago and they had talkd it over togethr and Dickon
had stood and rubd his hed in a trubld way. 

"We mun look as if it wasnt no difrnt from th'
othr tres," he had said.  "We cudnt nevr tel him
how it broke, poor lad.  If he says anything about it we
mun--we mun try to look cheerful."

"Y, that we mun," had ansrd Mary. 

But she had not felt as if she lookd cheerful wen she gazed
at th tre.  She wondrd and wondrd in those few moments
if ther was any reality in that othr thing Dickon had said. 
He had gon on rubng his rust-red hair in a puzld way,
but a nice comfrtd look had begun to gro in his blu ys. 

"Mrs. Craven was a very lovly yung lady," he had
gon on rathr hesitatingly.  "An' mothr she thinks
maybe she's about Misselthwaite many a time lookn'
aftr Mester Colin, same as al mothrs do wen they'r
took out o' th' world.  They hav to com bak,
tha' ses.  Hapn she's been in th gardn an'
hapn it was her set us to work, an' told us to bring him here."

Mary had thot he ment somthing about Majic. 
She was a gret belever in Majic.  Secretly she quite
beleved that Dickon workd Majic, of corse good Majic,
on everything near him and that was wy peple liked him
so much and wild creaturs new he was ther frend. 
She wondrd, indeed, if it wer not posbl that his
gift had brot th robn just at th ryt moment
wen Colin askd that danjerus question.  She felt
that his Majic was workng al th aftrnoon and making
Colin look like an entirely difrnt boy.  It did not
seem posbl that he cud be th crazy creatur ho had
screamd and beatn and bitn his pilo.  Even his ivory
witeness seemd to chanje.  Th faint glo of color
wich had shown on his face and nek and hands wen he
first got inside th gardn realy nevr quite died away. 
He lookd as if he wer made of flesh insted of ivory
or wax. 

They saw th robn carry food to his mate two or thre times,
and it was so sujestiv of aftrnoon te that Colin
felt they must hav som. 

"Go and make one of th men servnts bring som in a
basket to th rododendron walk," he said.  "And then
u and Dickon can bring it here."

It was an agreeabl idea, esily carrid out, and wen
th wite cloth was spred upon th grass, with hot te
and butrd toast and crumpets, a delytfuly hungry
meal was eatn, and sevrl birds on domestic erands
pausd to inquire wat was going on and wer led into
investigating crums with gret activity.  Nut and Shel
wiskd up tres with peces of cake and Soot took th
entire half of a butrd crumpet into a cornr and pekd
at and examnd and turnd it over and made horse remarks
about it until he decided to swalo it al joyfuly in one gulp. 

Th aftrnoon was dragng towards its melo our. 
Th sun was deepnng th gold of its lances, th bes
wer going home and th birds wer flyng past less ofn. 
Dickon and Mary wer sitng on th grass, th te-basket
was repakd redy to be taken bak to th house, and Colin
was lyng against his cushns with his hevy loks
pushd bak from his forhed and his face lookng quite
a natrl color. 

"I dont want this aftrnoon to go," he said; "but I shal
com bak tomoro, and th day aftr, and th day aftr,
and th day aftr."

"U'l get plenty of fresh air, wont u?" said Mary. 
"I'm going to get nothing else," he ansrd. 
"I'v seen th spring now and I'm going to se th sumr. 
I'm going to se everything gro here.  I'm going to gro
here myself."

"That tha' wil," said Dickon.  "Us'll hav thee walkin'
about here an' diggin' same as othr folk afor long."

Colin flushd tremendusly. 

"Walk!" he said.  "Dig! Shal I?"

Dickon's glance at him was delicatly cautius. 
Neithr he nor Mary had evr askd if anything was
th matr with his legs. 

"For sure tha' wil," he said stoutly.  "Tha--tha's got
legs o' thine own, same as othr folks!"

Mary was rathr frytnd until she herd Colin's ansr. 

"Nothing realy ails them," he said, "but they ar so thin
and weak.  They shake so that I'm afraid to try to stand
on them."

Both Mary and Dickon drew a releved breth. 

"Wen tha' stops bein' afraid tha'lt stand on 'em,"
Dickon said with renewd cheer.  "An' tha'lt stop bein'
afraid in a bit."

"I shal?" said Colin, and he lay stil as if he wer
wondrng about things. 

They wer realy very quiet for a litl wile. 
Th sun was dropng loer.  It was that our wen
everything stils itself, and they realy had had a busy
and exiting aftrnoon.  Colin lookd as if he wer
restng luxuriusly.  Even th creaturs had cesed moving
about and had drawn togethr and wer restng near them. 
Soot had perchd on a lo branch and drawn up one leg
and dropd th gray film drowsily over his ys. 
Mary privatly thot he lookd as if he myt snor
in a minut. 

In th midst of this stilness it was rathr startlng
wen Colin half liftd his hed and exclaimd in a loud
sudnly alarmd wispr:

"Ho is that man?" Dickon and Mary scrambld to ther feet. 

"Man!" they both cryd in lo quik voices. 

Colin pointd to th hy wal.  "Look!" he wisprd exitedly. 
"Just look!"

Mary and Dickon weeld about and lookd.  Ther was Ben
Weatherstaff's indignnt face glaring at them over th wal
from th top of a ladr! He actuly shook his fist at Mary. 

"If I wasnt a bachelder, an' tha' was a wench o'
mine," he cryd, "I'd giv thee a hidin'!"

He mountd anothr step thretnngly as if it wer his
enrjetic intention to jump down and deal with her;
but as she came toward him he evidntly thot betr
of it and stood on th top step of his ladr shaking
his fist down at her. 

"I nevr thowt much o' thee!" he harangd.  "I couldna'
abide thee th' first time I set ys on thee.  A scrawny
butrmilk-faced yung besom, allus askin' questions an'
pokin' tha' nose wher it wasna, wantd.  I nevr noed
how tha' got so thik wi' me.  If it hadna' been for th'
robn-- Drat him--"

"Ben Weatherstaff," cald out Mary, findng her breth. 
She stood belo him and cald up to him with a sort
of gasp.  "Ben Weatherstaff, it was th robn ho showd me
th way!"

Then it did seem as if Ben realy wud scrambl down
on her side of th wal, he was so outrajed. 

"Tha' yung bad 'un!" he cald down at her.  "Layin' tha'
badness on a robn--not but wat he's impidint enow
for anythin'. Him showin' thee th' way! Him! Eh! tha'
yung nowt"--she cud se his next words burst out
because he was overpowrd by curiosity-- "howevr i'
this world did tha' get in?"

"It was th robn ho showd me th way," she protestd
obstnatly.  "He didnt no he was doing it but he did. 
And I cant tel u from here wile u'r shaking
yr fist at me."

He stopd shaking his fist very sudnly at that very
moment and his jaw actuly dropd as he stared over her
hed at somthing he saw comng over th grass toward him. 

At th first sound of his torent of words Colin had
been so surprised that he had only sat up and lisnd
as if he wer spelbound.  But in th midst of it he
had recovrd himself and beknd imperiusly to Dickon. 

"Weel me over ther!" he comandd.  "Weel me quite
close and stop ryt in front of him!"

And this, if u plese, this is wat Ben Weatherstaff beheld
and wich made his jaw drop.  A weeld chair with luxurius
cushns and robes wich came toward him lookng rathr
like som sort of State Coach because a yung Raja leand
bak in it with royl comand in his gret blak-rimd
ys and a thin wite hand extendd hautily toward him. 
And it stopd ryt undr Ben Weatherstaff's nose. 
It was realy no wondr his mouth dropd open. 

"Do u no ho I am?" demandd th Raja. 

How Ben Weatherstaff stared! His red old ys fixd
themselvs on wat was befor him as if he wer seing
a gost.  He gazed and gazed and gulpd a lump down his
throat and did not say a word.  "Do u no ho I am?"
demandd Colin stil mor imperiusly.  "Ansr!"

Ben Weatherstaff put his narld hand up and pasd it
over his ys and over his forhed and then he did
ansr in a queer shaky voice. 

"Ho tha' art?" he said.  "Y, that I do--wi' tha'
mother's ys starin' at me out o' tha' face.  Lord nos
how tha' com here.  But tha'rt th' poor cripl."

Colin forgot that he had evr had a bak.  His face
flushd scarlet and he sat bolt upryt. 

"I'm not a cripl!" he cryd out furiusly.  "I'm not!"

"He's not!" cryd Mary, almost shoutng up th wal
in her fierce indignation.  "He's not got a lump as big
as a pin! I lookd and ther was non ther--not one!"

Ben Weatherstaff pasd his hand over his forhed
again and gazed as if he cud nevr gaze enuf. 
His hand shook and his mouth shook and his voice shook. 
He was an ignrnt old man and a tactless old man and he
cud only remembr th things he had herd. 

"Tha'--tha' hasnt got a crooked bak?" he said horsly. 

"No!" shoutd Colin. 

"Tha'--tha' hasnt got crooked legs?" quaverd Ben mor
horsly yet.  It was too much.  Th strength wich Colin
usuly threw into his tantrms rushd thru him now
in a new way.  Nevr yet had he been acused of crooked
legs--even in wisprs--and th perfectly simpl belief
in ther existnce wich was reveald by Ben Weatherstaff's
voice was mor than Raja flesh and blod cud endure. 
His angr and insultd pride made him forget everything
but this one moment and fild him with a powr he had
nevr nown befor, an almost unatrl strength. 

"Com here!" he shoutd to Dickon, and he actuly
began to ter th covrngs off his loer lims and
disntangl himself.  "Com here! Com here! This minut!"

Dickon was by his side in a secnd.  Mary caut her
breth in a short gasp and felt herself turn pale. 

"He can do it! He can do it! He can do it! He can!"
she gabld over to herself undr her breth as fast
as evr she cud. 

Ther was a brief fierce scrambl, th rugs wer tosd
on th ground, Dickon held Colin's arm, th thin
legs wer out, th thin feet wer on th grass. 
Colin was standng upryt--upryt--as strait as an
aro and lookng stranjely tal--his hed thrown bak
and his stranje ys flashng lytnng.  "Look at me!"
he flung up at Ben Weatherstaff.  "Just look at me--u!
Just look at me!"

"He's as strait as I am!" cryd Dickon.  "He's as
strait as any lad i' Yorkshr!"

Wat Ben Weatherstaff did Mary thot queer beyond mesur. 
He choked and gulpd and sudnly tears ran down his
wethr-rinkld cheeks as he struk his old hands togethr. 

"Eh!" he burst forth, "th' lies folk tels! Tha'rt
as thin as a lath an' as wite as a raith, but ther's
not a nob on thee.  Tha'lt make a mon yet.  God bless thee!"

Dickon held Colin's arm strongly but th boy had not begun
to faltr.  He stood straitr and straitr and lookd
Ben Weatherstaff in th face. 

"I'm yr mastr," he said, "wen my fathr is away. 
And u ar to obey me.  This is my gardn.  Dont dare
to say a word about it! U get down from that ladr
and go out to th Long Walk and Miss Mary wil meet u
and bring u here.  I want to talk to u.  We did not
want u, but now u wil hav to be in th secret. 
Be quik!"

Ben Weatherstaff's crabd old face was stil wet with
that one queer rush of tears.  It seemd as if he cud
not take his ys from thin strait Colin standng
on his feet with his hed thrown bak. 

"Eh! lad," he almost wisprd.  "Eh! my lad!" And then
remembrng himself he sudnly tuchd his hat gardnr
fashn and said, "Yes, sir! Yes, sir!" and obediently
disapeard as he desendd th ladr. 



CHAPTR XXII

WEN TH SUN WENT DOWN


Wen his hed was out of syt Colin turnd to Mary. 

"Go and meet him," he said; and Mary flew across th grass
to th dor undr th ivy. 

Dickon was wachng him with sharp ys.  Ther wer
scarlet spots on his cheeks and he lookd amazing,
but he showd no syns of falng. 

"I can stand," he said, and his hed was stil held up
and he said it quite grandly. 

"I told thee tha' cud as soon as tha' stopd bein'
afraid," ansrd Dickon.  "An' tha's stopd."

"Yes, I'v stopd," said Colin. 

Then sudnly he remembrd somthing Mary had said. 

"Ar u making Majic?" he askd sharply. 

Dickon's curly mouth spred in a cheerful grin. 

"Tha's doin' Majic thysel'," he said.  "It's same Majic
as made these 'ere work out o' th' erth," and he tuchd
with his thik boot a clump of crocuses in th grass. 
Colin lookd down at them. 

"Y," he said sloly, "ther couldna' be bigr Majic
than that ther--ther couldna' be."

He drew himself up straitr than evr. 

"I'm going to walk to that tre," he said, pointng to
one a few feet away from him.  "I'm going to be standng
wen Weatherstaff coms here.  I can rest against th tre
if I like.  Wen I want to sit down I wil sit down,
but not befor.  Bring a rug from th chair."

He walkd to th tre and tho Dickon held his arm he was
wondrfuly stedy.  Wen he stood against th tre trunk
it was not too plan that he suportd himself against it,
and he stil held himself so strait that he lookd tal. 

Wen Ben Weatherstaff came thru th dor in th wal
he saw him standng ther and he herd Mary mutrng
somthing undr her breth. 

"Wat art sayin'?" he askd rathr testily because he
did not want his atention distractd from th long thin
strait boy figr and proud face. 

But she did not tel him.  Wat she was sayng was this:

"U can do it! U can do it! I told u u cud!
U can do it! U can do it! U can!" She was sayng
it to Colin because she wantd to make Majic and keep
him on his feet lookng like that.  She cud not ber
that he shud giv in befor Ben Weatherstaff. 
He did not giv in.  She was upliftd by a sudn feelng
that he lookd quite butiful in spite of his thiness. 
He fixd his ys on Ben Weatherstaff in his funny
imperius way. 

"Look at me!" he comandd.  "Look at me al over! Am I
a hunchbak? Hav I got crooked legs?"

Ben Weatherstaff had not quite got over his emotion,
but he had recovrd a litl and ansrd almost in his
usul way. 

"Not tha'," he said.  "Nowt o' th' sort.  Wat's tha'
been doin' with thysel'--hidin' out o' syt an' lettin'
folk think tha' was cripl an' half-witted?"

"Half-witted!" said Colin angrily.  "Ho thot that?"

"Lots o' fools," said Ben.  "Th' world's ful o'
jackasses brayin' an' they nevr bray nowt but lies. 
Wat did tha' shut thysel' up for?"

"Evryone thot I was going to die," said Colin shortly. 
"I'm not!"

And he said it with such decision Ben Weatherstaff lookd
him over, up and down, down and up. 

"Tha' die!" he said with dry exltation.  "Nowt o' th'
sort! Tha's got too much pluk in thee.  Wen I seed thee
put tha' legs on th' ground in such a hurry I noed tha'
was al ryt.  Sit thee down on th' rug a bit yung
Mester an' giv me thy ordrs."

Ther was a queer mixtur of crabd tendrness and shrewd
undrstandng in his manr.  Mary had pord out speech
as rapidly as she cud as they had com down th Long Walk. 
Th chief thing to be remembrd, she had told him,
was that Colin was getng wel--getng wel.  Th gardn
was doing it.  No one must let him remembr about havng
humps and dyng. 

Th Raja condesendd to seat himself on a rug undr
th tre. 

"Wat work do u do in th gardns, Weatherstaff?"
he inquired. 

"Anythin' I'm told to do," ansrd old Ben.  "I'm kep'
on by favor--because she liked me."

"She?" said Colin. 

"Tha' mothr," ansrd Ben Weatherstaff. 

"My mothr?" said Colin, and he lookd about him quietly. 
"This was her gardn, wasnt it?"

"Y, it was that!" and Ben Weatherstaff lookd about
him too.  "She wer main fond of it."

"It is my gardn now.  I am fond of it.  I shal com here
evry day," anounced Colin.  "But it is to be a secret. 
My ordrs ar that no one is to no that we com here. 
Dickon and my cusn hav workd and made it com alive. 
I shal send for u somtimes to help--but u must com
wen no one can se u."

Ben Weatherstaff's face twistd itself in a dry old smile. 

"I'v com here befor wen no one saw me," he said. 

"Wat!" exclaimd Colin. 

"Wen?"

"Th' last time I was here," rubng his chin
and lookng round, "was about two year' ago."

"But no one has been in it for ten years!" cryd Colin. 

"Ther was no dor!"

"I'm no one," said old Ben dryly.  "An' I didnt com
thru th' dor.  I com over th' wal.  Th' rheumatics held
me bak th' last two year'."

"Tha' com an' did a bit o' prunin'!" cryd Dickon. 
"I cudnt make out how it had been don."

"She was so fond of it--she was!" said Ben Weatherstaff sloly. 
"An' she was such a pretty yung thing.  She says to me once,
`Ben,' says she laughin', `if evr I'm il or if I go away
u must take care of my roses.' Wen she did go away th'
ordrs was no one was evr to com ny.  But I com,"
with grumpy obstnacy.  "Over th' wal I com--until th'
rheumatics stopd me--an' I did a bit o' work once a year. 
She'd gave her ordr first."

"It wudnt hav been as wik as it is if tha'
hadnt don it," said Dickon.  "I did wondr."

"I'm glad u did it, Weatherstaff," said Colin. 
"U'l no how to keep th secret."

"Y, I'l no, sir," ansrd Ben.  "An, it'l be esir
for a man wi' rheumatics to com in at th' dor."

On th grass near th tre Mary had dropd her trowl. 
Colin strechd out his hand and took it up.  An od expression
came into his face and he began to scrach at th erth. 
His thin hand was weak enuf but presntly as they wachd
him--Mary with quite brethless intrest--he drove th end
of th trowl into th soil and turnd som over. 

"U can do it! U can do it!" said Mary to herself. 
"I tel u, u can!"

Dickon's round ys wer ful of eagr curiousness but he said
not a word.  Ben Weatherstaff lookd on with intrestd face. 

Colin persevered.  Aftr he had turnd a few trowelfuls
of soil he spoke exultntly to Dickon in his best Yorkshr. 

"Tha' said as tha'd hav me walkin' about here same
as othr folk--an' tha' said tha'd hav me diggin'. I
thowt tha' was just leein' to plese me.  This is only th'
first day an' I'v walkd--an' here I am diggin'."

Ben Weatherstaff's mouth fel open again wen he herd him,
but he endd by chuklng. 

"Eh!" he said, "that sounds as if tha'd got wits enow. 
Tha'rt a Yorkshr lad for sure.  An' tha'rt diggin', too. 
How'd tha' like to plant a bit o' somethin'? I can get thee
a rose in a pot."

"Go and get it!" said Colin, digng exitedly. 
"Quik! Quik!"

It was don quikly enuf indeed.  Ben Weatherstaff went
his way forgetng rheumatics.  Dickon took his spade
and dug th hole deepr and wider than a new digr
with thin wite hands cud make it.  Mary slipd out
to run and bring bak a watrng-can. Wen Dickon had
deepnd th hole Colin went on turnng th soft erth
over and over.  He lookd up at th sky, flushd and
gloing with th stranjely new exrcise, slyt as it was. 

"I want to do it befor th sun gos quite--quite down,"
he said. 

Mary thot that perhaps th sun held bak a few minuts
just on purpos.  Ben Weatherstaff brot th rose in
its pot from th greenhouse.  He hobld over th grass
as fast as he cud.  He had begun to be exited, too. 
He nelt down by th hole and broke th pot from th mold. 

"Here, lad," he said, handng th plant to Colin. 
"Set it in th erth thysel' same as th' king dos wen he
gos to a new place."

Th thin wite hands shook a litl and Colin's flush
grew deepr as he set th rose in th mold and held
it wile old Ben made firm th erth.  It was fild
in and presd down and made stedy.  Mary was leanng
forwrd on her hands and nes.  Soot had flown down
and marchd forwrd to se wat was being don. 
Nut and Shel chatrd about it from a cherry-tre.

"It's plantd!" said Colin at last.  "And th sun is only
slipng over th ej.  Help me up, Dickon.  I want
to be standng wen it gos.  That's part of th Majic."

And Dickon helpd him, and th Majic--or watevr it
was--so gave him strength that wen th sun did slip
over th ej and end th stranje lovly aftrnoon
for them ther he actuly stood on his two feet--lafng.



CHAPTR XXIII

MAJIC


Dr. Craven had been waitng som time at th house
wen they returnd to it.  He had indeed begun to wondr
if it myt not be wise to send som one out to explor
th gardn paths.  Wen Colin was brot bak to his
room th poor man lookd him over seriusly. 

"U shud not hav stayd so long," he said.  "U must
not overexert yrself."

"I am not tired at al," said Colin.  "It has made me wel. 
Tomoro I am going out in th mornng as wel as in
th aftrnoon."

"I am not sure that I can alow it," ansrd Dr. Craven. 
"I am afraid it wud not be wise."

"It wud not be wise to try to stop me," said Colin
quite seriusly.  "I am going."

Even Mary had found out that one of Colin's chief peculiaritis
was that he did not no in th least wat a rude litl
brute he was with his way of ordrng peple about. 
He had livd on a sort of desrt iland al his life
and as he had been th king of it he had made his own
manrs and had had no one to compare himself with. 
Mary had indeed been rathr like him herself and since she
had been at Misselthwaite had graduly discovrd that
her own manrs had not been of th kind wich is usul
or populr.  Havng made this discovry she natrly
thot it of enuf intrest to comunicate to Colin. 
So she sat and lookd at him curiusly for a few minuts
aftr Dr. Craven had gon.  She wantd to make him ask
her wy she was doing it and of corse she did. 

"Wat ar u lookng at me for?" he said. 

"I'm thinkng that I am rathr sorry for Dr. Craven."

"So am I," said Colin calmly, but not without an air
of som satisfaction.  "He wont get Misselthwaite
at al now I'm not going to die."

"I'm sorry for him because of that, of corse," said Mary,
"but I was thinkng just then that it must hav been very
horid to hav had to be polite for ten years to a boy
ho was always rude.  I wud nevr hav don it."

"Am I rude?" Colin inquired undisturbedly. 

"If u had been his own boy and he had been a slapng
sort of man," said Mary, "he wud hav slapd u."

"But he darent," said Colin. 

"No, he darent," ansrd Mistress Mary, thinkng th
thing out quite without prejudice.  "Nobody evr dared
to do anything u didnt like--because u wer going
to die and things like that.  U wer such a poor thing."

"But," anounced Colin stubrnly, "I am not going
to be a poor thing.  I wont let peple think I'm one. 
I stood on my feet this aftrnoon."

"It is always havng yr own way that has made u
so queer," Mary went on, thinkng aloud. 

Colin turnd his hed, frownng. 

"Am I queer?" he demandd. 

"Yes," ansrd Mary, "very. But u neednt be cross,"
she add impartialy, "because so am I queer--and so is
Ben Weatherstaff.  But I am not as queer as I was befor I
began to like peple and befor I found th gardn."

"I dont want to be queer," said Colin.  "I am not going
to be," and he frownd again with determnation. 

He was a very proud boy.  He lay thinkng for a wile and
then Mary saw his butiful smile begin and graduly
chanje his hole face. 

"I shal stop being queer," he said, "if I go evry day
to th gardn.  Ther is Majic in ther--good Majic,
u no, Mary.  I am sure ther is." "So am I,"
said Mary. 

"Even if it isnt real Majic," Colin said, "we can pretend
it is.  Somthing is ther--somthing!"

"It's Majic," said Mary, "but not blak.  It's as wite
as sno."

They always cald it Majic and indeed it seemd like it
in th months that folod--th wondrful months--th
radiant months--th amazing ones.  O! th things
wich hapnd in that gardn! If u hav nevr had
a gardn u canot undrstand, and if u hav had
a gardn u wil no that it wud take a hole book
to describe al that came to pass ther.  At first it
seemd that green things wud nevr cese pushng
ther way thru th erth, in th grass, in th beds,
even in th crevices of th walls.  Then th green things
began to sho buds and th buds began to unfurl and
sho color, evry shade of blu, evry shade of purpl,
evry tint and hu of crimsn.  In its happy days flowrs
had been tukd away into evry inch and hole and cornr. 
Ben Weatherstaff had seen it don and had himself scraped
out mortr from between th briks of th wal and made
pokets of erth for lovly clingng things to gro on. 
Iris and wite lilis rose out of th grass in sheves,
and th green alcoves fild themselvs with amazing armis
of th blu and wite flowr lances of tal delphiniums
or columbines or campanulas. 

"She was main fond o' them--she was," Ben Weatherstaff said. 
"She liked them things as was allus pointin' up to th'
blu sky, she used to tel.  Not as she was one o'
them as lookd down on th' erth--not her.  She just lovd
it but she said as th' blu sky allus lookd so joyful."

Th seeds Dickon and Mary had plantd grew as if fairis
had tendd them.  Satny poppis of al tints danced in th
breze by th scor, gaily defyng flowrs wich had livd
in th gardn for years and wich it myt be confesd
seemd rathr to wondr how such new peple had got ther. 
And th roses--th roses! Rising out of th grass,
tangld round th sun-dial, wreathing th tre trunks
and hangng from ther branchs, climbng up th walls
and spredng over them with long garlnds falng
in cascades --they came alive day by day, our by our. 
Fair fresh leavs, and buds--and buds--tiny at first but
swelng and workng Majic until they burst and uncurled
into cups of sent delicatly spilng themselvs over
ther brims and filng th gardn air. 

Colin saw it al, wachng each chanje as it took place. 
Evry mornng he was brot out and evry our of each day
wen it didnt rain he spent in th gardn.  Even gray
days plesed him.  He wud lie on th grass "wachng
things groing," he said.  If u wachd long enuf,
he declared, u cud se buds unsheath themselvs. 
Also u cud make th aquaintnce of stranje busy insect
things runng about on varius unown but evidntly
serius erands, somtimes carrying tiny scraps of straw
or fethr or food, or climbng blades of grass as if they
wer tres from hos tops one cud look out to explor
th cuntry.  A mole throing up its mound at th end of its
buro and making its way out at last with th long-naild
paws wich lookd so like elfish hands, had absorbd him
one hole mornng.  Ants' ways, beetles' ways, bees'
ways, frogs' ways, birds' ways, plants' ways, gave him
a new world to explor and wen Dickon reveald them
al and add foxes' ways, otters' ways, ferrets' ways,
squirrels' ways, and trout' and watr-rats' and badgers'
ways, ther was no end to th things to talk about and think over. 

And this was not th half of th Majic.  Th fact that he
had realy once stood on his feet had set Colin thinkng
tremendusly and wen Mary told him of th spel she
had workd he was exited and aproved of it gretly. 
He talkd of it constntly. 

"Of corse ther must be lots of Majic in th world,"
he said wisely one day, "but peple dont no wat it is
like or how to make it.  Perhaps th beginng is just to say
nice things ar going to hapn until u make them hapn. 
I am going to try and experimnt"

Th next mornng wen they went to th secret gardn he sent
at once for Ben Weatherstaff.  Ben came as quikly as he
cud and found th Raja standng on his feet undr a tre
and lookng very grand but also very butifuly smiling. 

"Good mornng, Ben Weatherstaff," he said.  "I want u
and Dickon and Miss Mary to stand in a ro and lisn to me
because I am going to tel u somthing very importnt."

"Y, y, sir!" ansrd Ben Weatherstaff, tuchng
his forhed.  (One of th long conceald charms of Ben
Weatherstaff was that in his boyhood he had once run away
to se and had made voyajs.  So he cud reply like a sailr.)

"I am going to try a sientific experimnt," explaind th Raja. 
"Wen I gro up I am going to make gret sientific
discovris and I am going to begin now with this experimnt"

"Y, y, sir!" said Ben Weatherstaff promtly,
tho this was th first time he had herd of gret
sientific discovris. 

It was th first time Mary had herd of them, eithr,
but even at this staje she had begun to realize that,
queer as he was, Colin had red about a gret many singulr
things and was somhow a very convincing sort of boy. 
Wen he held up his hed and fixd his stranje ys on u
it seemd as if u beleved him almost in spite of yrself
tho he was only ten years old--going on elevn. 
At this moment he was especialy convincing because he
sudnly felt th fasnation of actuly making a sort
of speech like a grown-up persn. 

"Th gret sientific discovris I am going to make,"
he went on, "wil be about Majic.  Majic is a gret thing
and scarcely any one nos anything about it exept a few
peple in old books--and Mary a litl, because she was
born in India wher ther ar fakirs.  I beleve Dickon
nos som Majic, but perhaps he dosnt no he nos it. 
He charms anmls and peple.  I wud nevr hav let him
com to se me if he had not been an anml charmr--wich
is a boy charmr, too, because a boy is an anml. 
I am sure ther is Majic in everything, only we hav not
sense enuf to get hold of it and make it do things for
us--like electricity and horses and steam."

This soundd so imposing that Ben Weatherstaff became
quite exited and realy cud not keep stil.  "Y, y,
sir," he said and he began to stand up quite strait. 

"Wen Mary found this gardn it lookd quite ded,"
th oratr proceedd.  "Then somthing began pushng things
up out of th soil and making things out of nothing. 
One day things wernt ther and anothr they wer. 
I had nevr wachd things befor and it made me feel
very curius.  Sientific peple ar always curius and I
am going to be sientific.  I keep sayng to myself,
`Wat is it? Wat is it?' It's somthing.  It cant
be nothing! I dont no its name so I cal it Majic. 
I hav nevr seen th sun rise but Mary and Dickon hav
and from wat they tel me I am sure that is Majic too. 
Somthing pushs it up and draws it.  Somtimes since I'v
been in th gardn I'v lookd up thru th tres at
th sky and I hav had a stranje feelng of being happy
as if somthing wer pushng and drawng in my chest
and making me brethe fast.  Majic is always pushng and
drawng and making things out of nothing.  Everything is
made out of Majic, leavs and tres, flowrs and birds,
bajrs and foxs and squirels and peple.  So it must
be al around us.  In this gardn--in al th places. 
Th Majic in this gardn has made me stand up and no
I am going to liv to be a man.  I am going to makethe
sientific experimnt of tryng to get som and put it
in myself and make it push and draw me and make me strong. 
I dont no how to do it but I think that if u keep
thinkng about it and calng it perhaps it wil com. 
Perhaps that is th first baby way to get it. 
Wen I was going to try to stand that first time Mary
kept sayng to herself as fast as she cud, `U can
do it! U can do it!' and I did.  I had to try myself
at th same time, of corse, but her Majic helpd me--and
so did Dickon's. Evry mornng and evenng and as ofn
in th daytime as I can remembr I am going to say,
'magic is in me! Majic is making me wel! I am going
to be as strong as Dickon, as strong as Dickon!' And u
must al do it, too.  That is my experimnt Wil u help,
Ben Weatherstaff?"

"Y, y, sir!" said Ben Weatherstaff.  "Y, y!"

"If u keep doing it evry day as regulrly as soldirs
go thru dril we shal se wat wil hapn and find
out if th experimnt succeeds.  U lern things
by sayng them over and over and thinkng about them
until they stay in yr mind forevr and I think it
wil be th same with Majic.  If u keep calng it
to com to u and help u it wil get to be part
of u and it wil stay and do things." "I once herd
an oficer in India tel my mothr that ther wer fakirs
ho said words over and over thousnds of times," said Mary. 

"I'v herd Jem Fettleworth's wife say th' same thing over
thousnds o' times--callin' Jem a drunkn brute," said Ben
Weatherstaff dryly.  "Sumat allus com o' that, sure enuf. 
He gave her a good hidin' an' went to th' Blu Lion an'
got as drunk as a lord."

Colin drew his brows togethr and thot a few minuts. 
Then he cheerd up. 

"Wel," he said, "u se somthing did com of it. 
She used th rong Majic until she made him beat her. 
If she'd used th ryt Majic and had said somthing
nice perhaps he wudnt hav got as drunk as a lord and
perhaps--perhaps he myt hav bot her a new bonet."

Ben Weatherstaff chukld and ther was shrewd admration
in his litl old ys. 

"Tha'rt a clevr lad as wel as a strait-leged one,
Mester Colin," he said.  "Next time I se Bess Fettleworth
I'l giv her a bit of a hint o' wat Majic wil do for her. 
She'd be rare an' plesed if th' sinetifik 'speriment
workd --an' so 'ud Jem."

Dickon had stood lisnng to th lectur, his round
ys shining with curius delyt.  Nut and Shel wer
on his sholdrs and he held a long-eard wite rabit
in his arm and stroked and stroked it softly wile it
laid its ears along its bak and enjoyd itself. 

"Do u think th experimnt wil work?" Colin askd him,
wondrng wat he was thinkng.  He so ofn wondrd
wat Dickon was thinkng wen he saw him lookng at him
or at one of his "creaturs" with his happy wide smile. 

He smiled now and his smile was wider than usul. 

"Y," he ansrd, "that I do.  It'l work same as th'
seeds do wen th' sun shines on 'em. It'l work for sure. 
Shal us begin it now?"

Colin was delytd and so was Mary.  Fired by reclections
of fakirs and devotes in ilustrations Colin sujestd
that they shud al sit cross-leged undr th tre
wich made a canopy. 

"It wil be like sitng in a sort of templ," said Colin. 
"I'm rathr tired and I want to sit down."

"Eh!" said Dickon, "tha' musnt begin by sayin'
tha'rt tired.  Tha' myt spoil th' Majic."

Colin turnd and lookd at him--into his inocent round ys. 

"That's tru," he said sloly.  "I must only think of
th Majic." It al seemd most majestic and mysterius
wen they sat down in ther circl.  Ben Weatherstaff
felt as if he had somhow been led into apearng
at a prayr-meetng. Ordnrily he was very fixd in
being wat he cald "agen' prayr-meetin's" but this
being th Rajah's afair he did not resent it and was
indeed inclined to be gratifyd at being cald upon
to asist.  Mistress Mary felt solemly enrapturd. 
Dickon held his rabit in his arm, and perhaps he made
som charmer's signl no one herd, for wen he sat down,
cross-leged like th rest, th cro, th fox, th squirels
and th lam sloly drew near and made part of th circl,
setlng each into a place of rest as if of ther own desire. 

"Th `creatures' hav com," said Colin gravely. 
"They want to help us."

Colin realy lookd quite butiful, Mary thot. 
He held his hed hy as if he felt like a sort of priest
and his stranje ys had a wondrful look in them. 
Th lyt shon on him thru th tre canopy. 

"Now we wil begin," he said.  "Shal we sway bakwrd
and forwrd, Mary, as if we wer dervishs?"

"I canna' do no swayin' back'ard and for'ard,"
said Ben Weatherstaff.  "I'v got th' rheumatics."

"Th Majic wil take them away," said Colin in a Hy
Priest tone, "but we wont sway until it has don it. 
We wil only chant."

"I canna' do no chantin'" said Ben Weatherstaff a
trifle testily.  "They turnd me out o' th' church coir th'
only time I evr tryd it."

No one smiled.  They wer al too much in ernest. 
Colin's face was not even crosd by a shado.  He was
thinkng only of th Majic. 

"Then I wil chant," he said.  And he began, lookng like
a stranje boy spirit.  "Th sun is shining--th sun
is shining.  That is th Majic.  Th flowrs ar groing--th
roots ar stirng.  That is th Majic.  Being alive
is th Majic--being strong is th Majic.  Th Majic is
in me--th Majic is in me.  It is in me--it is in me. 
It's in evry one of us.  It's in Ben Weatherstaff's bak. 
Majic! Majic! Com and help!"

He said it a gret many times--not a thousnd times
but quite a goodly numbr.  Mary lisnd entranced. 
She felt as if it wer at once queer and butiful and she
wantd him to go on and on.  Ben Weatherstaff began to feel
soothed into a sort of dream wich was quite agreeabl. 
Th humng of th bes in th blosms mingld with
th chantng voice and drowsily meltd into a doze. 
Dickon sat cross-leged with his rabit asleep
on his arm and a hand restng on th lamb's bak. 
Soot had pushd away a squirel and hudld close to him
on his sholdr, th gray film dropd over his ys. 
At last Colin stopd. 

"Now I am going to walk round th gardn," he anounced. 

Ben Weatherstaff's hed had just dropd forwrd and he
liftd it with a jerk. 

"U hav been asleep," said Colin. 

"Nowt o' th' sort," mumbld Ben.  "Th' sermn was good
enow--but I'm bound to get out afor th' colection."

He was not quite awake yet. 

"U'r not in church," said Colin. 

"Not me," said Ben, straitnng himself.  "Ho said I
wer? I herd evry bit of it.  U said th' Majic was
in my bak.  Th' doctr cals it rheumatics."

Th Raja waved his hand. 

"That was th rong Majic," he said.  "U wil get betr. 
U hav my permission to go to yr work.  But com
bak tomoro."

"I'd like to se thee walk round th gardn," gruntd Ben. 

It was not an unfrendly grunt, but it was a grunt. 
In fact, being a stubrn old party and not havng entire
faith in Majic he had made up his mind that if he wer sent
away he wud climb his ladr and look over th wal
so that he myt be redy to hobl bak if ther wer
any stumblng. 

Th Raja did not object to his stayng and so th procession
was formd.  It realy did look like a procession. 
Colin was at its hed with Dickon on one side and
Mary on th othr.  Ben Weatherstaff walkd behind,
and th "creaturs" traild aftr them, th lam and
th fox cub keepng close to Dickon, th wite rabit
hopng along or stopng to nibl and Soot foloing
with th solemnity of a persn ho felt himself in charj. 

It was a procession wich moved sloly but with dignity. 
Evry few yards it stopd to rest.  Colin leand on Dickon's
arm and privatly Ben Weatherstaff kept a sharp lookout,
but now and then Colin took his hand from its suport
and walkd a few steps alone.  His hed was held up al
th time and he lookd very grand. 

"Th Majic is in me!" he kept sayng.  "Th Majic
is making me strong! I can feel it! I can feel it!"

It seemd very certn that somthing was upholdng
and upliftng him.  He sat on th seats in th alcoves,
and once or twice he sat down on th grass and sevrl
times he pausd in th path and leand on Dickon, but he
wud not giv up until he had gon al round th gardn. 
Wen he returnd to th canopy tre his cheeks wer flushd
and he lookd triumfnt. 

"I did it! Th Majic workd!" he cryd.  "That is my
first sientific discovry.".

"Wat wil Dr. Craven say?" broke out Mary. 

"He wont say anything," Colin ansrd, "because he wil
not be told.  This is to be th bigst secret of al. 
No one is to no anything about it until I hav grown
so strong that I can walk and run like any othr boy. 
I shal com here evry day in my chair and I shal be
taken bak in it.  I wont hav peple wisprng and
askng questions and I wont let my fathr hear about it
until th experimnt has quite succeedd.  Then somtime
wen he coms bak to Misselthwaite I shal just walk into
his study and say `Here I am; I am like any othr boy. 
I am quite wel and I shal liv to be a man.  It has been
don by a sientific experimnt.'"

"He wil think he is in a dream," cryd Mary.  "He wont
beleve his ys."

Colin flushd triumfntly.  He had made himself beleve
that he was going to get wel, wich was realy mor
than half th batl, if he had been aware of it. 
And th thot wich stimulated him mor than any othr
was this imajnng wat his fathr wud look like wen he
saw that he had a son ho was as strait and strong as
othr fathers' sons.  One of his darkst misris in th
unhelthy morbid past days had been his hatred of being
a sikly weak-bakd boy hos fathr was afraid to look at him. 

"He'l be oblijed to beleve them," he said. 

"One of th things I am going to do, aftr th Majic
works and befor I begin to make sientific discovris,
is to be an athlete."

"We shal hav thee takin' to boxin' in a week or so,"
said Ben Weatherstaff.  "Tha'lt end wi' winnin' th'
Belt an' bein' champion prize-fytr of al England."

Colin fixd his ys on him sternly. 
"Weatherstaff," he said, "that is disrespectful. 
U must not take librtis because u ar in th secret. 
Howevr much th Majic works I shal not be a prize-fytr.
I shal be a Sientific Discovrr."

"Ax pardn--ax pardn, sir" ansrd Ben, tuchng his
forhed in salute.  "I ot to hav seed it wasnt
a jokin' matr," but his ys twinkld and secretly he
was imensly plesed.  He realy did not mind being
snubd since th snubbing ment that th lad was gainng
strength and spirit. 



CHAPTR XXIV

"LET THEM LAF"


Th secret gardn was not th only one Dickon workd in. 
Round th cotaj on th moor ther was a pece of ground
enclosed by a lo wal of ruf stones.  Erly in th mornng
and late in th fading twilyt and on al th days Colin
and Mary did not se him, Dickon workd ther plantng
or tendng potatos and cabajs, turnips and carots and
herbs for his mothr.  In th compny of his "creaturs"
he did wondrs ther and was nevr tired of doing them,
it seemd.  Wile he dug or weedd he wisld or sang
bits of Yorkshr moor songs or talkd to Soot or Captn
or th brothrs and sistrs he had taut to help him. 

"We'd nevr get on as comfrtbl as we do," Mrs. Sowerby said,
"if it wasnt for Dickon's gardn.  Anything'll gro for him. 
His 'taters and cabajs is twice th' size of any one
else's an' they'v got a flavor with 'em as nobody's has."

Wen she found a moment to spare she liked to go out
and talk to him.  Aftr supr ther was stil a long
clear twilyt to work in and that was her quiet time. 
She cud sit upon th lo ruf wal and look on
and hear storis of th day.  She lovd this time. 
Ther wer not only vejtbls in this gardn. 
Dickon had bot penny pakajs of flowr seeds now
and then and sown bryt sweet-sentd things among
goosbery bushs and even cabajs and he grew bordrs
of mignonette and pinks and pansis and things hos
seeds he cud save year aftr year or hos roots wud
bloom each spring and spred in time into fine clumps. 
Th lo wal was one of th prettiest things in Yorkshr
because he had tukd moorland foxglove and ferns and
rok-cress and hejro flowrs into evry crevice until
only here and ther glimpses of th stones wer to be seen. 

"Al a chap's got to do to make 'em thrive, mothr,"
he wud say, "is to be frends with 'em for sure. 
They'r just like th' `creaturs.' If they'r thirsty giv
'em drink and if they'r hungry giv 'em a bit o' food. 
They want to liv same as we do.  If they died I shud feel
as if I'd been a bad lad and somhow treatd them hartless."

It was in these twilyt ours that Mrs. Sowerby herd of al
that hapnd at Misselthwaite Manr.  At first she was only
told that "Mester Colin" had taken a fancy to going out into
th grounds with Miss Mary and that it was doing him good. 
But it was not long befor it was agreed between th two
children that Dickon's mothr myt "com into th secret."
Somhow it was not doutd that she was "safe for sure."

So one butiful stil evenng Dickon told th hole story,
with al th thrilng details of th burid ke and th
robn and th gray haze wich had seemd like deadness
and th secret Mistress Mary had pland nevr to reveal. 
Th comng of Dickon and how it had been told to him,
th dout of Mester Colin and th final drama of his
introduction to th hidn domain, combined with th
incidnt of Ben Weatherstaff's angry face peerng over
th wal and Mester Colin's sudn indignnt strength,
made Mrs. Sowerby's nice-lookng face quite chanje color
sevrl times. 

"My word!" she said.  "It was a good thing that litl
lass came to th' Manr.  It's been th' makin' o' her an'
th' savin, o' him.  Standin' on his feet! An' us al thinkin'
he was a poor half-witted lad with not a strait bone in him."

She askd a gret many questions and her blu ys wer
ful of deep thinkng. 

"Wat do they make of it at th' Manr--him being so wel an'
cheerful an' nevr complainin'?" she inquired.  "They dont
no wat to make of it," ansrd Dickon.  "Evry day
as coms round his face looks difrnt.  It's fillin'
out and dosnt look so sharp an' th' waxy color is goin'.
But he has to do his bit o' complainin'," with a hyly
entrtaind grin. 

"Wat for, i' Mercy's name?" askd Mrs. Sowerby. 

Dickon chukld. 

"He dos it to keep them from guessin' wat's hapnd. 
If th doctr new he'd found out he cud stand on
his feet he'd likely rite and tel Mester Craven. 
Mester Colin's savin' th' secret to tel himself. 
He's goin' to practis his Majic on his legs evry day
til his fathr coms bak an' then he's goin' to march
into his room an' sho him he's as strait as othr lads. 
But him an' Miss Mary thinks it's best plan to do a
bit o' groanin' an' frettin' now an' then to thro folk
off th' sent."

Mrs. Sowerby was lafng a lo comfrtbl laf long
befor he had finishd his last sentnce. 

"Eh!" she said, "that pair's enjoyin' ther-selvs I'l warant. 
They'l get a good bit o' actin' out of it an' ther's nothin'
children likes as much as play actin'. Let's hear wat
they do, Dickon lad." Dickon stopd weedng and sat
up on his heels to tel her.  His ys wer twinklng with fun. 

"Mester Colin is carrid down to his chair evry time
he gos out," he explaind.  "An' he flys out at Jon,
th' footman, for not carryin' him careful enuf.  He makes
himself as helpless lookn' as he can an' nevr lifts his hed
until we'r out o' syt o' th' house.  An' he grunts an'
frets a good bit wen he's bein' setld into his chair. 
Him an' Miss Mary's both got to enjoyin' it an' wen he
groans an' complains she'l say, `Poor Colin! Dos it hurt
u so much? Ar u so weak as that, poor Colin?'--but th'
trubl is that somtimes they can scarce keep from burstin'
out laughin'. Wen we get safe into th gardn they laf
til they'v no breth left to laf with.  An' they hav
to stuf ther faces into Mester Colin's cushns to keep
th gardnrs from hearin', if any of, 'em's about."

"Th' mor they laf th' betr for 'em!" said Mrs. Sowerby,
stil lafng herself.  "Good helthy child laughin's
betr than pils any day o' th' year.  That pair'll
plump up for sure."

"They ar plumpin' up," said Dickon.  "They'r that hungry
they dont no how to get enuf to eat without makin'
talk.  Mester Colin says if he keeps sendin' for mor food
they wont beleve he's an invlid at al.  Miss Mary says
she'l let him eat her share, but he says that if she
gos hungry she'l get thin an' they mun both get fat at once."

Mrs. Sowerby lafd so hartily at th revlation of this
dificlty that she quite rokd bakwrd and forwrd
in her blu cloak, and Dickon lafd with her. 

"I'l tel thee wat, lad," Mrs. Sowerby said wen she
cud speak.  "I'v thot of a way to help 'em. Wen tha'
gos to 'em in th' mornin's tha' shal take a pail o'
good new milk an' I'l bake 'em a crusty cotaj loaf or
som buns wi' curants in 'em, same as u children like. 
Nothin's so good as fresh milk an' bred.  Then they cud
take off th' ej o' ther hungr wile they wer in ther
gardn an' th, fine food they get indors 'ud polish
off th' cornrs."

"Eh! mothr!" said Dickon admiringly, "wat a wondr tha'
art! Tha' always ses a way out o' things.  They was
quite in a pother yestrday.  They didnt se how they
was to manaj without orderin' up mor food--they felt
that emty inside."

"They'r two yung 'uns growin' fast, an' health's comin'
bak to both of 'em. Children like that feels like
yung wolvs an' food's flesh an, blod to 'em," said
Mrs. Sowerby.  Then she smiled Dickon's own curvng smile. 
"Eh! but they'r enjoyin' theirselves for sure,"
she said. 

She was quite ryt, th comfrtbl wondrful mothr
creatur--and she had nevr been mor so than wen she said
ther "play actin'" wud be ther joy.  Colin and Mary found
it one of ther most thrilng sorces of entrtainmnt. 
Th idea of protectng themselvs from suspicion had been
unconciusly sujestd to them first by th puzld
nurse and then by Dr. Craven himself. 

"Yr apetite.  Is improving very much, Mastr Colin,"
th nurse had said one day.  "U used to eat nothing,
and so many things disagreed with u."

"Nothing disagrees with me now" replyd Colin, and then seing
th nurse lookng at him curiusly he sudnly remembrd
that perhaps he ot not to apear too wel just yet. 
"At least things dont so ofn disagree with me. 
It's th fresh air."

"Perhaps it is," said th nurse, stil lookng at him with
a mystifyd expression.  "But I must talk to Dr. Craven
about it."

"How she stared at u!" said Mary wen she went away. 
"As if she thot ther must be somthing to find out."

"I wont hav her findng out things," said Colin. 
"No one must begin to find out yet." Wen Dr. Craven came
that mornng he seemd puzld, also.  He askd a numbr
of questions, to Colin's gret anoynce. 

"U stay out in th gardn a gret deal," he sujestd. 
"Wher do u go?"

Colin put on his favorit air of dignifyd indifrnce
to opinion. 

"I wil not let any one no wher I go," he ansrd. 
"I go to a place I like.  Evry one has ordrs to keep
out of th way.  I wont be wachd and stared at. 
U no that!"

"U seem to be out al day but I do not think it has
don u harm--I do not think so.  Th nurse says
that u eat much mor than u hav evr don befor."

"Perhaps," said Colin, promtd by a sudn inspration,
"perhaps it is an unatrl apetite."

"I do not think so, as yr food seems to agree with u,"
said Dr. Craven.  "U ar gainng flesh rapidly and yr
color is betr."

"Perhaps--perhaps I am bloatd and feverish," said Colin,
asuming a discurajng air of gloom.  "Peple ho ar
not going to liv ar ofn--difrnt." Dr. Craven shook
his hed.  He was holdng Colin's rist and he pushd up
his sleve and felt his arm. 

"U ar not feverish," he said thotfuly, "and such
flesh as u hav gaind is helthy.  If u can keep
this up, my boy, we need not talk of dyng.  Yr fathr
wil be happy to hear of this remarkbl improvemnt."

"I wont hav him told!" Colin broke forth fiercely. 
"It wil only disapoint him if I get worse again--and I
may get worse this very nyt.  I myt hav a rajing fever. 
I feel as if I myt be beginng to hav one now. 
I wont hav letrs ritn to my fathr--I wont--I wont!
U ar making me angry and u no that is bad for me. 
I feel hot alredy.  I hate being ritn about and being
talkd over as much as I hate being stared at!"

"Hush-h! my boy," Dr. Craven soothed him.  "Nothing shal
be ritn without yr permission.  U ar too sensitiv
about things.  U must not undo th good wich has
been don."

He said no mor about riting to Mr. Craven and wen he saw
th nurse he privatly warnd her that such a posbility
must not be mentiond to th patient. 

"Th boy is extrordnrily betr," he said. 
"His advance seems almost abnorml.  But of corse he
is doing now of his own fre wil wat we cud not make
him do befor.  Stil, he exites himself very esily
and nothing must be said to iritate him." Mary and
Colin wer much alarmd and talkd togethr anxiusly. 
From this time dated ther plan of "play actin'."

"I may be oblijed to hav a tantrm," said Colin regretfuly. 
"I dont want to hav one and I'm not misrbl enuf
now to work myself into a big one.  Perhaps I cudnt hav
one at al.  That lump dosnt com in my throat now and I
keep thinkng of nice things insted of horibl ones. 
But if they talk about riting to my fathr I shal hav
to do somthing."

He made up his mind to eat less, but unfortunatly it
was not posbl to carry out this briliant idea wen he
wakend each mornng with an amazing apetite and th
table near his sofa was set with a brekfast of home-made
bred and fresh butr, sno-wite egs, rasbery jam
and clotd cream.  Mary always brekfastd with him
and wen they found themselvs at th table--particulrly
if ther wer delicat slices of sizlng ham sendng
forth temtng odors from undr a hot silvr covr--they
wud look into each other's ys in despration. 

"I think we shal hav to eat it al this mornng,
Mary," Colin always endd by sayng.  "We can send
away som of th lunch and a gret deal of th dinr."

But they nevr found they cud send away anything
and th hyly polishd condition of th emty plates
returnd to th pantry awakend much coment. 

"I do wish," Colin wud say also, "I do wish th slices
of ham wer thikr, and one mufn each is not enuf
for any one."

"It's enuf for a persn ho is going to die," ansrd Mary
wen first she herd this, "but it's not enuf for a
persn ho is going to liv.  I somtimes feel as if I
cud eat thre wen those nice fresh hethr and gorse
smels from th moor com porng in at th open windo."

Th mornng that Dickon--aftr they had been enjoyng
themselvs in th gardn for about two ours--went
behind a big rosebush and brot forth two tin pails
and reveald that one was ful of rich new milk with cream
on th top of it, and that th othr held cotaj-made
curant buns foldd in a clean blu and wite napkn,
buns so carefuly tukd in that they wer stil hot,
ther was a riot of surprised joyfulness.  Wat a wondrful
thing for Mrs. Sowerby to think of! Wat a kind,
clevr womn she must be! How good th buns wer! And
wat delicius fresh milk!

"Majic 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 Majic persn.  Tel her we ar grateful,
Dickon--extremely grateful." He was givn to using rathr
grown-up frases at times.  He enjoyd them.  He liked this
so much that he improved upon it. 

"Tel her she has been most bounteous and our gratitude
is extreme."

And then forgetng his grandur he fel to and stufd
himself with buns and drank milk out of th pail in copius
drafts in th manr of any hungry litl boy ho had
been taking unusul exrcise and brething in moorland
air and hos brekfast was mor than two ours behind him. 

This was th beginng of many agreeabl incidnts of th
same kind.  They actuly awoke to th fact that as Mrs. Sowerby
had forteen peple to provide food for she myt not hav
enuf to satisfy two extra apetites evry day.  So they
askd her to let them send som of ther shilngs to by things. 

Dickon made th stimulating discovry that in th wood
in th park outside th gardn wher Mary had first
found him piping to th wild creaturs ther was a deep
litl holo wher u cud bild a sort of tiny
ovn with stones and roast potatos and egs in it. 
Roastd egs wer a previusly unown luxury and very hot
potatos with salt and fresh butr in them wer fit for
a woodland king --besides being deliciusly satisfyng. 
U cud by both potatos and egs and eat as many
as u liked without feelng as if u wer taking food
out of th mouths of forteen peple. 

Evry butiful mornng th Majic was workd by th mystic
circl undr th plum-tre wich provided a canopy
of thiknng green leavs aftr its brief blosm-time
was endd.  Aftr th ceremny Colin always took his walkng
exrcise and thruout th day he exrcised his newly
found powr at intrvls.  Each day he grew strongr
and cud walk mor stedily and covr mor ground. 
And each day his belief in th Majic grew strongr--as
wel it myt.  He tryd one experimnt aftr anothr
as he felt himself gainng strength and it was Dickon
ho showd him th best things of al. 

"Yestrday," he said one mornng aftr an absnce,
"I went to Thwaite for mothr an' near th' Blu Cow In I
seed Bob Haworth.  He's th strongst chap on th' moor. 
He's th champion reslr an' he can jump hyr than any
othr chap an' thro th' hamr farthr.  He's gon al th'
way to Scotland for th' sports som years.  He's noed me
evr since I was a litl 'un an' he's a frendly sort an'
I axed him som questions.  Th' jentry cals him a athlete
and I thot o' thee, Mester Colin, and I says, `How did tha'
make tha' musls stik 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 sho that came
to Thwaite once showd me how to exrcise my arms an'
legs an' evry musl in my body.  An' I says, `Cud a
delicat chap make himself strongr with 'em, Bob?' an'
he lafd an' says, 'art tha' th' delicat chap?' an'
I says, `No, but I nos a yung jentlman that's gettin'
wel of a long ilness an' I wish I noed som o'
them triks to tel him about.' I didnt say no names an,
he didnt ask non.  He's frendly same as I said an'
he stood up an' showd me good-naturd like, an' I imitated
wat he did til I noed it by hart."

Colin had been lisnng exitedly. 

"Can u sho me?" he cryd.  "Wil u?"

"Y, to be sure," Dickon ansrd, getng up. 
"But he says tha' mun do 'em jentl at first an'
be careful not to tire thysel'. Rest in between times an'
take deep breths an' dont overdo."

"I'l be careful," said Colin.  "Sho me! Sho me! Dickon,
u ar th most Majic boy in th world!"

Dickon stood up on th grass and sloly went thru a
carefuly practicl but simpl series of musl exrcises. 
Colin wachd them with widenng ys.  He cud do a few
wile he was sitng down.  Presntly he did a few jently
wile he stood upon his alredy stedid feet.  Mary began
to do them also.  Soot, ho was wachng th performnce,
became much disturbd and left his branch and hopd
about restlesly because he cud not do them too. 

From that time th exrcises wer part of th day's dutis
as much as th Majic was.  It became posbl for both
Colin and Mary to do mor of them each time they tryd,
and such apetites wer th results that but for th basket
Dickon put down behind th bush each mornng wen he
arived they wud hav been lost.  But th litl ovn
in th holo and Mrs. Sowerby's bounties wer so satisfyng
that Mrs. Medlock and th nurse and Dr. Craven became
mystifyd again.  U can trifle with yr brekfast and
seem to disdain yr dinr if u ar ful to th brim
with roastd egs and potatos and richly frothed new
milk and oatcakes and buns and hethr hony and clotd cream. 

"They ar eatng next to nothing," said th nurse. 
"They'l die of starvation if they cant be persuaded
to take som nurishmnt.  And yet se how they look."

"Look!" exclaimd Mrs. Medlock indignntly.  "Eh! I'm moithered
to deth with them.  They'r a pair of yung Satans. 
Burstng ther jakets one day and th next turnng up
ther noses at th best meals Cook can temt them with. 
Not a mouthful of that lovly yung fowl and bred sauce
did they set a fork into yestrday--and th poor womn
fair inventd a pudng for them--and bak it's sent. 
She almost cryd.  She's afraid she'l be blamed if they
starv themselvs into ther graves."

Dr. Craven came and lookd at Colin long and carefuly,
He wor an extremely worrid expression wen th nurse
talkd with him and showd him th almost untuchd
tray of brekfast she had saved for him to look at--but
it was even mor worrid wen he sat down by Colin's
sofa and examnd him.  He had been cald to Londn on
busness and had not seen th boy for nearly two weeks. 
Wen yung things begin to gain helth they gain it rapidly. 
Th waxn tinj had left, Colins skin and a warm rose showd
thru it; his butiful ys wer clear and th holos
undr them and in his cheeks and templs had fild out. 
His once dark, hevy loks had begun to look as if they
sprang helthily from his forhed and wer soft and warm
with life.  His lips wer fulr and of a norml color. 
In fact as an imitation of a boy ho was a confirmd invlid
he was a disgraceful syt.  Dr. Craven held his chin in his
hand and thot him over. 

"I am sorry to hear that u do not eat any- thing,"
he said.  "That wil not do.  U wil lose al u hav
gaind --and u hav gaind amazingly.  U ate so wel
a short time ago."

"I told u it was an unatrl apetite," ansrd Colin. 

Mary was sitng on her stool nearby and she sudnly
made a very queer sound wich she tryd so violently
to repress that she endd by almost choking. 

"Wat is th matr?" said Dr. Craven, turnng to look
at her. 

Mary became quite severe in her manr. 

"It was somthing between a sneze and a cof," she replyd
with reproachful dignity, "and it got into my throat."

"But," she said aftrwrd to Colin, "I cudnt stop myself. 
It just burst out because al at once I cudnt help
remembrng that last big potato u ate and th way
yr mouth strechd wen u bit thru that thik
lovly crust with jam and clotd cream on it."

"Is ther any way in wich those children can get
food secretly?" Dr. Craven inquired of Mrs. Medlock. 

"Ther's no way unless they dig it out of th erth or pik
it off th tres," Mrs. Medlock ansrd.  "They stay
out in th grounds al day and se no one but each othr. 
And if they want anything difrnt to eat from wat's
sent up to them they need only ask for it."

"Wel," said Dr. Craven, "so long as going without
food agrees with them we need not disturb ourselvs. 
Th boy is a new creatur."

"So is th girl," said Mrs. Medlock.  "She's begun to be
downryt pretty since she's fild out and lost her ugly
litl sour look.  Her hair's grown thik and helthy
lookng and she's got a bryt color.  Th glummest,
il-naturd litl thing she used to be and now her and Mastr
Colin laf togethr like a pair of crazy yung ones. 
Perhaps they'r. groing fat on that."

"Perhaps they ar," said Dr. Craven.  "Let them laf."



CHAPTR XXV

TH CURTN


And th secret gardn bloomd and bloomd and evry
mornng reveald new miracls.  In th robin's nest ther
wer Egs and th robin's mate sat upon them keepng them
warm with her fethry litl brest and careful wings. 
At first she was very nervus and th robn himself
was indignntly wachful.  Even Dickon did not go
near th close-grown cornr in those days, but waitd
until by th quiet workng of som mysterius spel he
seemd to hav conveyd to th sol of th litl pair
that in th gardn ther was nothing wich was not quite
like themselvs--nothing wich did not undrstand th
wonderfulness of wat was hapnng to them--th imense,
tendr, teribl, hart-brekng buty and solemnity
of Egs.  If ther had been one persn in that gardn
ho had not nown thru al his or her inrmost being
that if an Eg wer taken away or hurt th hole world
wud wirl round and crash thru space and com to
an end--if ther had been even one ho did not feel it
and act acordngly ther cud hav been no happiness
even in that goldn springtime air.  But they al new
it and felt it and th robn and his mate new they new it. 

At first th robn wachd Mary and Colin with sharp anxiety. 
For som mysterius reasn he new he need not wach Dickon. 
Th first moment he set his dew-bryt blak y on Dickon
he new he was not a stranjer but a sort of robn without
beak or fethrs.  He cud speak robn (wich is a quite
distinct languaj not to be mistaken for any othr). To speak
robn to a robn is like speakng French to a Frenchman. 
Dickon always spoke it to th robn himself, so th queer
jibrish he used wen he spoke to humans did not matr
in th least.  Th robn thot he spoke this jibrish
to them because they wer not intelijnt enuf to
undrstand fethrd speech.  His movemnts also wer robn. 
They nevr startld one by being sudn enuf to seem
danjerus or thretnng.  Any robn cud undrstand Dickon,
so his presnce was not even disturbng. 

But at th outset it seemd necesry to be on gard
against th othr two.  In th first place th boy
creatur did not com into th gardn on his legs. 
He was pushd in on a thing with weels and th skins
of wild anmls wer thrown over him.  That in itself
was doutful.  Then wen he began to stand up and move
about he did it in a queer unacustmd way and th
othrs seemd to hav to help him.  Th robn used
to secrete himself in a bush and wach this anxiusly,
his hed tiltd first on one side and then on th othr. 
He thot that th slo movemnts myt mean that he was
preparing to pounce, as cats do.  Wen cats ar preparing
to pounce they creep over th ground very sloly. 
Th robn talkd this over with his mate a gret deal
for a few days but aftr that he decided not to speak
of th subject because her terr was so gret that he
was afraid it myt be injurius to th Egs. 

Wen th boy began to walk by himself and even to move mor
quikly it was an imense relief.  But for a long time--or it
seemd a long time to th robn--he was a sorce of som anxiety. 
He did not act as th othr humans did.  He seemd very
fond of walkng but he had a way of sitng or lyng down
for a wile and then getng up in a disconcertng manr to begin again. 

One day th robn remembrd that wen he himself had
been made to lern to fly by his parents he had don
much th same sort of thing.  He had taken short flyts
of a few yards and then had been oblijed to rest. 
So it ocurd to him that this boy was lernng to fly--or
rathr to walk.  He mentiond this to his mate and wen he
told her that th Egs wud probbly conduct themselvs
in th same way aftr they wer flejd she was quite
comfrtd and even became eagrly intrestd and derived
gret plesur from wachng th boy over th ej of her
nest--tho she always thot that th Egs wud be
much clevrr and lern mor quikly.  But then she said
induljntly that humans wer always mor clumsy and slo
than Egs and most of them nevr seemd realy to lern
to fly at al.  U nevr met them in th air or on tre-tops.

Aftr a wile th boy began to move about as th othrs did,
but al thre of th children at times did unusul things. 
They wud stand undr th tres and move ther arms and legs
and heds about in a way wich was neithr walkng nor
runng nor sitng down.  They went thru these movemnts
at intrvls evry day and th robn was nevr able to
explain to his mate wat they wer doing or tyng to do. 
He cud only say that he was sure that th Egs wud
nevr flap about in such a manr; but as th boy ho cud
speak robn so fluently was doing th thing with them,
birds cud be quite sure that th actions wer not
of a danjerus natur.  Of corse neithr th robn
nor his mate had evr herd of th champion reslr,
Bob Haworth, and his exrcises for making th musls
stand out like lumps.  Robns ar not like human beings;
ther musls ar always exrcised from th first
and so they develop themselvs in a natrl manr. 
If u hav to fly about to find evry meal u eat,
yr musls do not becom atrofid (atrofid means wasted
away thru want of use).

Wen th boy was walkng and runng about and digng
and weedng like th othrs, th nest in th cornr was
broodd over by a gret pece and content.  Fears for
th Egs became things of th past.  Noing that yr
Egs wer as safe as if they wer lokd in a bank valt
and th fact that u cud wach so many curius things
going on made setng a most entrtainng ocupation. 
On wet days th Eggs' mothr somtimes felt even a litl
dul because th children did not com into th gardn. 

But even on wet days it cud not be said that Mary and
Colin wer dul.  One mornng wen th rain streamd down
unceasingly and Colin was beginng to feel a litl restiv,
as he was oblijed to remain on his sofa because it was
not safe to get up and walk about, Mary had an inspration. 

"Now that I am a real boy," Colin had said, "my legs and arms
and al my body ar so ful of Majic that I cant keep
them stil.  They want to be doing things al th time. 
Do u no that wen I waken in th mornng, Mary,
wen it's quite erly and th birds ar just shoutng
outside and everything seems just shoutng for joy--even
th tres and things we cant realy hear--I feel as if I
must jump out of bed and shout myself.  If I did it,
just think wat wud hapn!"

Mary gigld inordnatly. 

"Th nurse wud com runng and Mrs. Medlock wud
com runng and they wud be sure u had gon crazy
and they'd send for th doctr," she said. 

Colin gigld himself.  He cud se how they wud
al look--how horifyd by his outbrek and how amazed
to se him standng upryt. 

"I wish my fathr wud com home," he said.  "I want
to tel him myself.  I'm always thinkng about it--but we
cudnt go on like this much longr.  I cant stand lyng
stil and pretendng, and besides I look too difrnt. 
I wish it wasnt rainng today."

It was then Mistress Mary had her inspration. 

"Colin," she began mysteriusly, "do u no how many
rooms ther ar in this house?"

"About a thousnd, I supose," he ansrd. 

"Ther's about a hundred no one evr gos into," said Mary. 
"And one rainy day I went and lookd into evr so many of them. 
No one evr new, tho Mrs. Medlock nearly found me out. 
I lost my way wen I was comng bak and I stopd at
th end of yr coridr.  That was th secnd time I
herd u cryng."

Colin startd up on his sofa. 

"A hundred rooms no one gos into," he said.  "It sounds
almost like a secret gardn.  Supose we go and look at them. 
weel me in my chair and nobody wud no we went"

"That's wat I was thinkng," said Mary.  "No one wud dare
to folo us.  Ther ar galris wher u cud run. 
We cud do our exrcises.  Ther is a litl Indian
room wher ther is a cabnet ful of ivory elefnts. 
Ther ar al sorts of rooms."

"Ring th bel," said Colin. 

Wen th nurse came in he gave his ordrs. 

"I want my chair," he said.  "Miss Mary and I ar going
to look at th part of th house wich is not used. 
Jon can push me as far as th pictur-galry because ther
ar som stairs.  Then he must go away and leve us alone
until I send for him again."

Rainy days lost ther terrs that mornng.  Wen th
footman had weeld th chair into th pictur-galry
and left th two togethr in obedience to ordrs,
Colin and Mary lookd at each othr delytd.  As soon
as Mary had made sure that Jon was realy on his way bak
to his own quartrs belo stairs, Colin got out of his chair. 

"I am going to run from one end of th galry to th othr,"
he said, "and then I am going to jump and then we wil
do Bob Haworth's exrcises."

And they did al these things and many othrs.  They lookd
at th portrits and found th plan litl girl dresd
in green brocade and holdng th parot on her fingr. 

"Al these," said Colin, "must be my relations. 
They livd a long time ago.  That parot one, I beleve,
is one of my gret, gret, gret, gret ants.  She looks
rathr like u, Mary--not as u look now but as u
lookd wen u came here.  Now u ar a gret deal
fatr and betr lookng."

"So ar u," said Mary, and they both lafd. 

They went to th Indian room and amused themselvs with
th ivory elefnts.  They found th rose-colord brocade
budoir and th hole in th cushn th mouse had left,
but th mice had grown up and run away and th hole was emty. 
They saw mor rooms and made mor discovris than Mary
had made on her first pilgrmaj.  They found new coridrs
and cornrs and flyts of steps and new old picturs they
liked and weird old things they did not no th use of. 
It was a curiusly entrtainng mornng and th feelng
of wandrng about in th same house with othr peple
but at th same time feelng as if one wer miles away
from them was a fasnating thing. 

"I'm glad we came," Colin said.  "I nevr new I
livd in such a big queer old place.  I like it. 
We wil rambl about evry rainy day.  We shal always
be findng new queer cornrs and things."

That mornng they had found among othr things such
good apetites that wen they returnd to Colin's room
it was not posbl to send th lunchn away untuchd. 

Wen th nurse carrid th tray down-stairs she slapd it
down on th kichn dresr so that Mrs. Loomis, th cook,
cud se th hyly polishd dishs and plates. 

"Look at that!" she said.  "This is a house of mystry,
and those two children ar th gretst mystris in it."

"If they keep that up evry day," said th strong
yung footman Jon, "ther'd be smal wondr that he
weis twice as much to-day as he did a month ago. 
I shud hav to giv up my place in time, for fear
of doing my musls an injry."

That aftrnoon Mary noticed that somthing new had hapnd
in Colin's room.  She had noticed it th day befor but
had said nothing because she thot th chanje myt
hav been made by chance.  She said nothing today but she
sat and lookd fixedly at th pictur over th mantl. 
She cud look at it because th curtn had been drawn aside. 
That was th chanje she noticed. 

"I no wat u want me to tel u," said Colin,
aftr she had stared a few minuts.  "I always no wen
u want me to tel u somthing.  U ar wondrng wy
th curtn is drawn bak.  I am going to keep it like that."

"Wy?" askd Mary. 

"Because it dosnt make me angry any mor to se her lafng. 
I wakend wen it was bryt moonlyt two nyts ago
and felt as if th Majic was filng th room and making
everything so splendid that I cudnt lie stil. 
I got up and lookd out of th windo.  Th room was quite
lyt and ther was a pach of moonlyt on th curtn
and somhow that made me go and pul th cord.  She lookd
ryt down at me as if she wer lafng because she was glad
I was standng ther.  It made me like to look at her. 
I want to se her lafng like that al th time. 
I think she must hav been a sort of Majic persn perhaps."

"U ar so like her now," said Mary, "that somtimes I
think perhaps u ar her gost made into a boy."

That idea seemd to impress Colin.  He thot it over
and then ansrd her sloly. 

"If I wer her gost--my fathr wud be fond of me."

"Do u want him to be fond of u?" inquired Mary. 

"I used to hate it because he was not fond of me.  If he
grew fond of me I think I shud tel him about th Majic. 
It myt make him mor cheerful."



CHAPTR XXVI

"IT'S MOTHR!"


Ther belief in th Majic was an abiding thing. 
Aftr th morning's incantations Colin somtimes gave
them Majic lecturs. 

"I like to do it," he explaind, "because wen I gro
up and make gret sientific discovris I shal be
oblijed to lectur about them and so this is practis. 
I can only giv short lecturs now because I am very yung,
and besides Ben Weatherstaff wud feel as if he wer in
church and he wud go to sleep."

"Th' best thing about lecturin'," said Ben, "is that a chap can
get up an' say aught he pleses an' no othr chap can ansr
him bak.  I wudnt be agen' lecturin' a bit mysel' somtimes."

But wen Colin held forth undr his tre old Ben fixd
devourng ys on him and kept them ther.  He lookd
him over with criticl afection.  It was not so much
th lectur wich intrestd him as th legs wich lookd
straitr and strongr each day, th boyish hed wich held
itself up so wel, th once sharp chin and holo cheeks
wich had fild and roundd out and th ys wich had
begun to hold th lyt he remembrd in anothr pair. 
Somtimes wen Colin felt Ben's ernest gaze ment that he
was much impresd he wondrd wat he was reflectng on
and once wen he had seemd quite entranced he questiond him. 

"Wat ar u thinkng about, Ben Weatherstaff?" he askd. 

"I was thinkin'" ansrd Ben, "as I'd warant tha's,
gon up thre or four pound this week.  I was lookn'
at tha' calvs an' tha' sholdrs.  I'd like to get thee
on a pair o' scales."

"It's th Majic and--and Mrs. Sowerby's buns and milk
and things," said Colin.  "U se th sientific
experimnt has succeedd."

That mornng Dickon was too late to hear th lectur. 
Wen he came he was ruddy with runng and his funny face
lookd mor twinklng than usul.  As they had a good deal
of weedng to do aftr th rains they fel to work. 
They always had plenty to do aftr a warm deep sinkng rain. 
Th moistur wich was good for th flowrs was also good
for th weeds wich thrust up tiny blades of grass and points
of leavs wich must be puld up befor ther roots took
too firm hold.  Colin was as good at weedng as any one
in these days and he cud lectur wile he was doing it. 
"Th Majic works best wen u work, yrself," he said
this mornng.  "U can feel it in yr bones and musls. 
I am going to red books about bones and musls, but I am
going to rite a book about Majic.  I am making it up now. 
I keep findng out things."

It was not very long aftr he had said this that he
laid down his trowl and stood up on his feet. 
He had been silent for sevrl minuts and they had seen
that he was thinkng out lecturs, as he ofn did. 
Wen he dropd his trowl and stood upryt it seemd
to Mary and Dickon as if a sudn strong thot had made
him do it.  He strechd himself out to his talst hyt
and he threw out his arms exultntly.  Color gloed in
his face and his stranje ys widend with joyfulness. 
Al at once he had realized somthing to th ful. 

"Mary! Dickon!" he cryd.  "Just look at me!"

They stopd ther weedng and lookd at him. 

"Do u remembr that first mornng u brot me in here?"
he demandd. 

Dickon was lookng at him very hard.  Being an anml
charmr he cud se mor things than most peple cud
and many of them wer things he nevr talkd about. 
He saw som of them now in this boy.  "Y, that we do,"
he ansrd. 

Mary lookd hard too, but she said nothing. 

"Just this minut," said Colin, "al at once I remembrd
it myself--wen I lookd at my hand digng with th
trowl--and I had to stand up on my feet to se if it
was real.  And it is real! I'm wel--I'm wel!"

"Y, that th' art!" said Dickon. 

"I'm wel! I'm wel!" said Colin again, and his face went
quite red al over. 

He had nown it befor in a way, he had hoped it and felt
it and thot about it, but just at that minut somthing
had rushd al thru him--a sort of rapturus belief
and realization and it had been so strong that he cud
not help calng out. 

"I shal liv forevr and evr and evr!" he cryd grandly. 
"I shal find out thousnds and thousnds of things. 
I shal find out about peple and creaturs and everything
that gros--like Dickon--and I shal nevr stop making Majic. 
I'm wel! I'm wel! I feel--I feel as if I want to shout
out somthing--somthing thankful, joyful!"

Ben Weatherstaff, ho had been workng near a rose-bush,
glanced round at him. 

"Tha' myt sing th' Doxology," he sujestd in his
dryest grunt.  He had no opinion of th Doxology and he
did not make th sujestion with any particulr revrnce. 

But Colin was of an explorng mind and he new nothing
about th Doxology. 

"Wat is that?" he inquired. 

"Dickon can sing it for thee, I'l warant,"
replyd Ben Weatherstaff. 

Dickon ansrd with his al-perceving anml charmer's smile. 

"They sing it i' church," he said.  "Mothr says she
beleves th' skylarks sings it wen they gets up i' th' mornn'."

"If she says that, it must be a nice song," Colin ansrd. 
"I'v nevr been in a church myself.  I was always too il. 
Sing it, Dickon.  I want to hear it."

Dickon was quite simpl and unafectd about it. 
He undrstood wat Colin felt betr than Colin did himself. 
He undrstood by a sort of instinct so natrl that he
did not no it was undrstandng.  He puld off his cap
and lookd round stil smiling. 

"Tha' must take off tha' cap," he said to Colin,"
an' so mun tha', Ben--an' tha' mun stand up, tha' nos."

Colin took off his cap and th sun shon on and warmd his
thik hair as he wachd Dickon intently.  Ben Weatherstaff
scrambld up from his nes and bared his hed too with
a sort of puzld half-resentful look on his old face
as if he didnt no exactly wy he was doing this remarkbl thing. 

Dickon stood out among th tres and rose-bushs
and began to sing in quite a simpl matr-of-fact
way and in a nice strong boy voice:

         "Prase God from hom al blesngs flo,
         Prase Him al creaturs here belo,
         Prase Him abov ye Hevnly Host,
         Prase Fathr, Son, and Holy Gost.                 
                     Amen."

Wen he had finishd, Ben Weatherstaff was standng
quite stil with his jaws set obstnatly but with a
disturbd look in his ys fixd on Colin.  Colin's face
was thotful and apreciativ. 

"It is a very nice song," he said.  "I like it.  Perhaps it
means just wat I mean wen I want to shout out that I am
thankful to th Majic." He stopd and thot in a puzld way. 
"Perhaps they ar both th same thing.  How can we no
th exact names of everything? Sing it again, Dickon. 
Let us try, Mary.  I want to sing it, too.  It's my song. 
How dos it begin? `Prase God from hom al blesngs flow'?"

And they sang it again, and Mary and Colin liftd ther
voices as musicly as they cud and Dickon's sweld quite
loud and butiful--and at th secnd line Ben Weatherstaff
raspingly cleard his throat and at th third line he joind
in with such vigr that it seemd almost savaj and wen
th "Amen" came to an end Mary observd that th very same
thing had hapnd to him wich had hapnd wen he found
out that Colin was not a cripl--his chin was twichng
and he was staring and winkng and his lethry old cheeks wer wet. 

"I nevr seed no sense in th' Doxology afor," he said horsly,
"but I may chanje my mind i' time.  I shud say tha'd
gon up five pound this week Mester Colin--five on 'em!"

Colin was lookng across th gardn at somthing atractng
his atention and his expression had becom a startld one. 

"Ho is comng in here?" he said quikly.  "Ho is it?"

Th dor in th ivied wal had been pushd jently open
and a womn had entrd.  She had com in with th last
line of ther song and she had stood stil lisnng and
lookng at them.  With th ivy behind her, th sunlyt
driftng thru th tres and dappling her long blu cloak,
and her nice fresh face smiling across th greenry
she was rathr like a softly colord ilustration in
one of Colin's books.  She had wondrful afectionat
ys wich seemd to take everything in--al of them,
even Ben Weatherstaff and th "creaturs" and evry flowr
that was in bloom.  Unexpectdly as she had apeard,
not one of them felt that she was an intruder at al. 
Dickon's ys lytd like lamps. 

"It's mothr--that's ho it is!" he cryd and went across
th grass at a run. 

Colin began to move toward her, too, and Mary went with him. 
They both felt ther pulses beat fastr. 

"It's mothr!" Dickon said again wen they met halfway. 
"I noed tha' wantd to se her an' I told her wher th'
dor was hid."

Colin held out his hand with a sort of flushd royl
shyness but his ys quite devourd her face. 

"Even wen I was il I wantd to se u," he said,
"u and Dickon and th secret gardn.  I'd nevr wantd
to se any one or anything befor."

Th syt of his upliftd face brot about a sudn
chanje in her own.  She flushd and th cornrs of her
mouth shook and a mist seemd to sweep over her ys. 

"Eh! dear lad!" she broke out tremulusly.  "Eh! dear lad!"
as if she had not nown she wer going to say it.  She did
not say, "Mester Colin," but just "dear lad" quite sudnly. 
She myt hav said it to Dickon in th same way if she
had seen somthing in his face wich tuchd her. 
Colin liked it. 

"Ar u surprised because I am so wel?" he askd. 
She put her hand on his sholdr and smiled th mist
out of her ys.  "Y, that I am!" she said; "but tha'rt
so like thy mothr tha' made my hart jump."

"Do u think," said Colin a litl awkwrdly, "that wil
make my fathr like me?"

"Y, for sure, dear lad," she ansrd and she gave
his sholdr a soft quik pat.  "He mun com home--he
mun com home."

"Susan Sowerby," said Ben Weatherstaff, getng close
to her.  "Look at th' lad's legs, wilt tha'? They was
like drumsticks i' stockin' two month' ago--an' I herd
folk tel as they was bandy an' nok-kneed both at th'
same time.  Look at 'em now!"

Susan Sowerby lafd a comfrtbl laf. 

"They'r goin' to be fine strong lad's legs in a bit,"
she said.  "Let him go on playin' an' workn' in th gardn an'
eatin' harty an' drinkin' plenty o' good sweet milk an'
ther'l not be a finer pair i' Yorkshr, thank God for it."

She put both hands on Mistress Mary's sholdrs and lookd
her litl face over in a mothrly fashn. 

"An' thee, too!" she said.  "Tha'rt grown near as harty
as our 'lisabeth Elen.  I'l warant tha'rt like thy
mothr too.  Our Martha told me as Mrs. Medlock herd she
was a pretty womn.  Tha'lt be like a blush rose wen tha'
gros up, my litl lass, bless thee."

She did not mention that wen Martha came home on her
"day out" and described th plan salo child she had said
that she had no confidnce watevr in wat Mrs. Medlock
had herd.  "It dosnt stand to reasn that a pretty
womn cud be th' mothr o' such a fou' litl lass,"
she had add obstnatly. 

Mary had not had time to pay much atention to her
chanjing face.  She had only nown that she lookd
"difrnt" and seemd to hav a gret deal mor hair
and that it was groing very fast.  But remembrng
her plesur in lookng at th Mem Sahib in th past
she was glad to hear that she myt som day look like her. 

Susan Sowerby went round ther gardn with them and was
told th hole story of it and shown evry bush and tre
wich had com alive.  Colin walkd on one side of her
and Mary on th othr.  Each of them kept lookng up
at her comfrtbl rosy face, secretly curius about
th delytful feelng she gave them--a sort of warm,
suportd feelng.  It seemd as if she undrstood them
as Dickon undrstood his "creaturs." She stoopd over th
flowrs and talkd about them as if they wer children. 
Soot folod her and once or twice cawed at her and flew
upon her sholdr as if it wer Dickon's. Wen they told
her about th robn and th first flyt of th yung ones
she lafd a mothrly litl melo laf in her throat. 

"I supose learnin' 'em to fly is like learnin'
children to walk, but I'm feard I shud be al
in a worrit if mine had wings insted o' legs," she said. 

It was because she seemd such a wondrful womn in her
nice moorland cotaj way that at last she was told
about th Majic. 

"Do u beleve in Majic?" askd Colin aftr he had
explaind about Indian fakirs.  "I do hope u do."

"That I do, lad," she ansrd.  "I nevr noed it by
that name but wat dos th' name matr? I warant they
cal it a difrnt name i' France an' a difrnt one i'
Jermny.  Th' same thing as set th' seeds swellin' an' th'
sun shinin' made thee a wel lad an' it's th' Good Thing. 
It isnt like us poor fools as think it matrs if us is
cald out of our names.  Th' Big Good Thing dosnt stop
to worrit, bless thee.  It gos on makin' worlds by th'
milion--worlds like us.  Nevr thee stop believin' in th'
Big Good Thing an' knowin' th' world's ful of it--an'
cal it wat tha' likes.  Tha' wert singin' to it wen I
com into th' gardn."

"I felt so joyful," said Colin, openng his butiful
stranje ys at her.  "Sudnly I felt how difrnt I
was--how strong my arms and legs wer, u no--and
how I cud dig and stand--and I jumpd up and wantd
to shout out somthing to anything that wud lisn."

"Th' Majic lisnd wen tha' sung th' Doxology. 
It wud ha' lisnd to anything tha'd sung.  It was th'
joy that matrd.  Eh! lad, lad--wat's names to th'
Joy Maker," and she gave his sholdrs a quik soft
pat again. 

She had pakd a basket wich held a regulr feast
this mornng, and wen th hungry our came and Dickon
brot it out from its hiding place, she sat down with
them undr ther tre and wachd them devour ther food,
lafng and quite gloatng over ther apetites.  She was
ful of fun and made them laf at al sorts of od things. 
She told them storis in brod Yorkshr and taut them
new words.  She lafd as if she cud not help it
wen they told her of th in- cresing dificlty ther
was in pretendng that Colin was stil a fretful invlid. 

"U se we cant help lafng nearly al th time
wen we ar togethr," explaind Colin.  "And it
dosnt sound il at al.  We try to choke it bak
but it wil burst out and that sounds worse than evr."

"Ther's one thing that coms into my mind so ofn,"
said Mary, "and I can scarcely evr hold in wen I think
of it sudnly.  I keep thinkng supose Colin's face
shud get to look like a ful moon.  It isnt like one
yet but he gets a tiny bit fatr evry day--and supose
som mornng it shud look like one--wat shud we do!"

"Bless us al, I can se tha' has a good bit o' play actin'
to do," said Susan Sowerby.  "But tha' wont hav to keep
it up much longr.  Mester Craven'll com home."

"Do u think he wil?" askd Colin.  "Wy?"

Susan Sowerby chukld softly. 

"I supose it 'ud ny brek thy hart if he found
out befor tha' told him in tha' own way," she said. 
"Tha's laid awake nyts plannin' it."

"I cudnt ber any one else to tel him," said Colin. 
"I think about difrnt ways evry day, I think now I
just want to run into his room." "That'd be a fine
start for him," said Susan Sowerby.  "I'd like to se
his face, lad.  I wud that! He mun com bak --that
he mun."

One of th things they talkd of was th visit they
wer to make to her cotaj.  They pland it al. 
They wer to drive over th moor and lunch out of dors
among th hethr.  They wud se al th twelv children
and Dickon's gardn and wud not com bak until they
wer tired. 

Susan Sowerby got up at last to return to th house
and Mrs. Medlock.  It was time for Colin to be weeld
bak also.  But befor he got into his chair he stood
quite close to Susan and fixd his ys on her with a
kind of bewildrd adration and he sudnly caut
hold of th fold of her blu cloak and held it fast. 

"U ar just wat I--wat I wantd," he said.  "I wish
u wer my mothr--as wel as Dickon's!"

Al at once Susan Sowerby bent down and drew him
with her warm arms close against th bosm undr
th blu cloak--as if he had been Dickon's brothr. 
Th quik mist swept over her ys. 

"Eh! dear lad!" she said.  "Thy own mother's in this 'ere
very gardn, I do beleve.  She couldna' keep out of it. 
Thy fathr mun com bak to thee--he mun!"



CHAPTR XXVII

IN TH GARDN


In each century since th beginng of th world wondrful
things hav been discovrd.  In th last century mor
amazing things wer found out than in any century befor. 
In this new century hundreds of things stil mor
astoundng wil be brot to lyt.  At first peple
refuse to beleve that a stranje new thing can be don,
then they begin to hope it can be don, then they se it
can be don--then it is don and al th world wondrs
wy it was not don centuris ago.  One of th new things
peple began to find out in th last century was that
thots--just mere thots--ar as powrful as electric
batris--as good for one as sunlyt is, or as bad
for one as poisn.  To let a sad thot or a bad one get
into yr mind is as danjerus as letng a scarlet fever
jerm get into yr body.  If u let it stay ther aftr
it has got in u may nevr get over it as long as u liv. 

So long as Mistress Mary's mind was ful of disagreeabl
thots about her dislikes and sour opinions of peple
and her determnation not to be plesed by or intrestd
in anything, she was a yelo-faced, sikly, bord and
reched child.  Circmstnces, howevr, wer very
kind to her, tho she was not at al aware of it. 
They began to push her about for her own good.  Wen her
mind graduly fild itself with robns, and moorland
cotajs crowdd with children, with queer crabd
old gardnrs and comn litl Yorkshr housmaids,
with springtime and with secret gardns comng alive day
by day, and also with a moor boy and his "creaturs," ther
was no room left for th disagreeabl thots wich afectd
her livr and her dijestion and made her yelo and tired. 

So long as Colin shut himself up in his room and thot
only of his fears and weakness and his detestation
of peple ho lookd at him and reflectd ourly on
humps and erly deth, he was a hystericl half-crazy
litl hypocondriac ho new nothing of th sunshine
and th spring and also did not no that he cud get
wel and cud stand upon his feet if he tryd to do it. 
Wen new butiful thots began to push out th old
hideus ones, life began to com bak to him, his blod ran
helthily thru his veins and strength pord into him
like a flod.  His sientific experimnt was quite practicl
and simpl and ther was nothing weird about it at al. 
Much mor surprising things can hapn to any one ho,
wen a disagreeabl or discurajd thot coms into his mind,
just has th sense to remembr in time and push it out
by putng in an agreeabl determndly curajus one. 
Two things canot be in one place. 

         "Wher, u tend a rose, my lad,
         A thisl canot gro."

Wile th secret gardn was comng alive and two children
wer comng alive with it, ther was a man wandrng about
certn far-away butiful places in th Norwejan fiords
and th vallis and mountns of Switzrland and he was
a man ho for ten years had kept his mind fild with dark
and hart-broken thinkng.  He had not been curajus;
he had nevr tryd to put any othr thots in th place of
th dark ones.  He had wandrd by blu lakes and thot them;
he had lain on mountn-sides with sheets of deep blu
gentians bloomng al about him and flowr breths filng
al th air and he had thot them.  A teribl soro
had falen upon him wen he had been happy and he had
let his sol fil itself with blakness and had refused
obstnatly to alow any rift of lyt to pierce thru. 
He had forgotn and desertd his home and his dutis. 
Wen he travld about, darkns so broodd over him that
th syt of him was a rong don to othr peple because
it was as if he poisnd th air about him with gloom. 
Most stranjers thot he must be eithr half mad or a man
with som hidn crime on his sol.  He, was a tal man
with a drawn face and crooked sholdrs and th name he
always entrd on hotel rejistrs was, "Archibald Craven,
Misselthwaite Manr, Yorkshr, England."

He had travld far and wide since th day he saw Mistress
Mary in his study and told her she myt hav her "bit
of erth." He had been in th most butiful places in Europ,
tho he had remaind nowher mor than a few days. 
He had chosen th quietst and remotest spots. 
He had been on th tops of mountns hos heds wer
in th clouds and had lookd down on othr mountns
wen th sun rose and tuchd them with such lyt
as made it seem as if th world wer just being born. 

But th lyt had nevr seemd to tuch himself until
one day wen he realized that for th first time in ten
years a stranje thing had hapnd.  He was in a wondrful
vally in th Austrian Tyrol and he had been walkng alone
thru such buty as myt hav liftd, any man's sol
out of shado.  He had walkd a long way and it had not
liftd his.  But at last he had felt tired and had thrown
himself down to rest on a carpet of moss by a stream. 
It was a clear litl stream wich ran quite merrily along
on its naro way thru th luscius damp greeness. 
Somtimes it made a sound rathr like very lo laftr
as it bubld over and round stones.  He saw birds
com and dip ther heds to drink in it and then flik
ther wings and fly away.  It seemd like a thing alive
and yet its tiny voice made th stilness seem deepr. 
Th vally was very, very stil. 

As he sat gazing into th clear runng of th watr,
Archibald Craven graduly felt his mind and body
both gro quiet, as quiet as th vally itself. 
He wondrd if he wer going to sleep, but he was not. 
He sat and gazed at th sunlit watr and his ys began
to se things groing at its ej.  Ther was one lovly
mass of blu forget-me-nots groing so close to th stream
that its leavs wer wet and at these he found himself lookng
as he remembrd he had lookd at such things years ago. 
He was actuly thinkng tendrly how lovly it was and
wat wondrs of blu its hundreds of litl blosms wer. 
He did not no that just that simpl thot was sloly
filng his mind--filng and filng it until othr things
wer softly pushd aside.  It was as if a sweet clear
spring had begun to rise in a stagnnt pool and had risn
and risn until at last it sweptthe dark watr away. 
But of corse he did not think of this himself.  He only
new that th vally seemd to gro quietr and quietr
as he sat and stared at th bryt delicat bluness. 
He did not no how long he sat ther or wat was hapnng
to him, but at last he moved as if he wer awakenng
and he got up sloly and stood on th moss carpet,
drawng a long, deep, soft breth and wondrng at himself. 
Somthing seemd to hav been unbound and relesed in him,
very quietly. 

"Wat is it?" he said, almost in a wispr, and he pasd
his hand over his forhed.  "I almost feel as if--I
wer alive!"

I do not no enuf about th wonderfulness of undiscovrd
things to be able to explain how this had hapnd to him. 
Neithr dos any one else yet.  He did not undrstand
at al himself--but he remembrd this stranje our
months aftrwrd wen he was at Misselthwaite again
and he found out quite by accidnt that on this very day
Colin had cryd out as he went into th secret gardn:

"I am going to liv forevr and evr and evr!"

Th singulr calmness remaind with him th rest of th
evenng and he slept a new reposeful sleep; but it was
not with him very long.  He did not no that it cud
be kept.  By th next nyt he had opend th dors
wide to his dark thots and they had com troopng
and rushng bak.  He left th vally and went on his
wandrng way again.  But, stranje as it seemd to him,
ther wer minuts--somtimes half-ours--wen, without
his noing wy, th blak burdn seemd to lift itself
again and he new he was a livng man and not a ded one. 
Sloly--sloly--for no reasn that he new of--he was
"comng alive" with th gardn. 

As th goldn sumr chanjed into th deep goldn autm he
went to th Lake of Como.  Ther he found th lovliness
of a dream.  He spent his days upon th crystl bluness
of th lake or he walkd bak into th soft thik verdure
of th hils and trampd until he was tired so that he
myt sleep.  But by this time he had begun to sleep betr,
he new, and his dreams had cesed to be a terr to him. 

"Perhaps," he thot, "my body is groing strongr."

It was groing strongr but--because of th rare
peceful ours wen his thots wer chanjed--his sol
was sloly groing strongr, too.  He began to think
of Misselthwaite and wondr if he shud not go home. 
Now and then he wondrd vagely about his boy and askd
himself wat he shud feel wen he went and stood
by th carvd four-postd bed again and lookd down at
th sharply chiseled ivory-wite face wile it slept and,
th blak lashs rimd so startlngly th close-shut ys. 
He shrank from it. 

One marvl of a day he had walkd so far that wen he
returnd th moon was hy and ful and al th world
was purpl shado and silvr.  Th stilness of lake
and shor and wood was so wondrful that he did not go
into th vila he livd in.  He walkd down to a litl
bowered terace at th water's ej and sat upon a seat
and brethed in al th hevnly sents of th nyt. 
He felt th stranje calmness stealng over him and it grew
deepr and deepr until he fel asleep. 

He did not no wen he fel asleep and wen he began
to dream; his dream was so real that he did not feel
as if he wer dreamng.  He remembrd aftrwrd how
intensly wide awake and alert he had thot he was. 
He thot that as he sat and brethed in th sent of
th late roses and lisnd to th lapng of th watr
at his feet he herd a voice calng.  It was sweet
and clear and happy and far away.  It seemd very far,
but he herd it as distinctly as if it had been at his
very side. 

"Archi! Archi! Archi!" it said, and then again,
sweetr and clearr than befor, "Archi! Archi!"

He thot he sprang to his feet not even startld. 
It was such a real voice and it seemd so natrl that he
shud hear it. 

"Lilias! Lilias!" he ansrd.  "Lilias! wher ar u?"

"In th gardn," it came bak like a sound from
a goldn flute.  "In th gardn!"

And then th dream endd.  But he did not awaken. 
He slept soundly and sweetly al thru th lovly nyt. 
Wen he did awake at last it was briliant mornng and a
servnt was standng staring at him.  He was an Italian
servnt and was acustmd, as al th servnts of th
vila wer, to acceptng without question any stranje thing
his foren mastr myt do.  No one evr new wen he
wud go out or com in or wher he wud choose to sleep
or if he wud roam about th gardn or lie in th boat
on th lake al nyt.  Th man held a salver with som
letrs on it and he waitd quietly until Mr. Craven
took them.  Wen he had gon away Mr. Craven sat a few
moments holdng them in his hand and lookng at th lake. 
His stranje calm was stil upon him and somthing mor--a
lytness as if th cruel thing wich had been don had
not hapnd as he thot--as if somthing had chanjed. 
He was remembrng th dream--th real--real dream. 

"In th gardn!" he said, wondrng at himself.  "In th
gardn! But th dor is lokd and th ke is burid deep."

Wen he glanced at th letrs a few minuts later he
saw that th one lyng at th top of th rest was an
English letr and came from Yorkshr.  It was directd
in a plan woman's hand but it was not a hand he new. 
He opend it, scarcely thinkng of th riter, but th
first words atractd his atention at once. 


"Dear Sir:

I am Susan Sowerby that made bold to speak to u
once on th moor.  It was about Miss Mary I spoke. 
I wil make bold to speak again.  Plese, sir, I wud
com home if I was u.  I think u wud be glad to com
and--if u wil excuse me, sir--I think yr lady wud
ask u to com if she was here.

                      Yr obedient servnt,
                      Susan Sowerby."


Mr. Craven red th letr twice befor he put it bak
in its envlope.  He kept thinkng about th dream. 

"I wil go bak to Misselthwaite," he said.  "Yes, I'l
go at once."

And he went thru th gardn to th vila and ordrd
Pichr to prepare for his return to England. 


In a few days he was in Yorkshr again, and on his long
railroad jurny he found himself thinkng of his boy
as he had nevr thot in al th ten years past. 
During those years he had only wishd to forget him. 
Now, tho he did not intend to think about him,
memris of him constntly driftd into his mind. 
He remembrd th blak days wen he had raved like a madman
because th child was alive and th mothr was ded. 
He had refused to se it, and wen he had gon to look
at it at last it had been, such a weak reched thing
that evryone had been sure it wud die in a few days. 
But to th surprise of those ho took care of it th days
pasd and it livd and then evryone beleved it wud be a
deformd and cripld creatur. 

He had not ment to be a bad fathr, but he had not felt
like a fathr at al.  He had suplyd doctrs and nurses
and luxuris, but he had shrunk from th mere thot
of th boy and had burid himself in his own misry. 
Th first time aftr a year's absnce he returnd
to Misselthwaite and th smal misrbl lookng thing
languidly and indifrntly liftd to his face th gret
gray ys with blak lashs round them, so like and yet
so horibly unlike th happy ys he had adord, he cud
not ber th syt of them and turnd away pale as deth. 
Aftr that he scarcely evr saw him exept wen he was asleep,
and al he new of him was that he was a confirmd invlid,
with a vicius, hystericl, half-insane tempr.  He cud
only be kept from furis danjerus to himself by being
givn his own way in evry detail. 

Al this was not an upliftng thing to recal, but as
th train wirld him thru mountn passes and goldn
plains th man ho was "comng alive" began to think
in a new way and he thot long and stedily and deeply. 

"Perhaps I hav been al rong for ten years,"
he said to himself.  "Ten years is a long time. 
It may be too late to do anything--quite too late. 
Wat hav I been thinkng of!"

Of corse this was th rong Majic--to begin by sayng
"too late." Even Colin cud hav told him that. 
But he new nothing of Majic--eithr blak or wite. 
This he had yet to lern.  He wondrd if Susan Sowerby
had taken curaj and ritn to him only because th
mothrly creatur had realized that th boy was much
worse--was fataly il.  If he had not been undr th
spel of th curius calmness wich had taken posession
of him he wud hav been mor reched than evr. 
But th calm had brot a sort of curaj and hope with it. 
Insted of givng way to thots of th worst he actuly
found he was tryng to beleve in betr things. 

"Cud it be posbl that she ses that I may be able
to do him good and control him? " he thot.  "I wil go
and se her on my way to Misselthwaite."

But wen on his way across th moor he stopd th carrij
at th cotaj, sevn or eit children ho wer playng
about gathrd in a group and bobng sevn or eit
frendly and polite curtsies told him that ther mothr
had gon to th othr side of th moor erly in th mornng
to help a womn ho had a new baby.  "Our Dickon,"
they volunteerd, was over at th Manr workng in one
of th gardns wher he went sevrl days each week. 

Mr. Craven lookd over th colection of sturdy litl
bodis and round red-cheekd faces, each one grinng
in its own particulr way, and he awoke to th fact
that they wer a helthy likebl lot.  He smiled at ther
frendly grins and took a goldn sovren from his poket
and gave it to "our 'lizabeth Elen" ho was th oldst. 

"If u divide that into eit parts ther wil be half
a crown for each of, u," he said. 

Then amid grins and chukls and bobng of curtsies he
drove away, leving ecstasy and nujng elbos and litl
jumps of joy behind. 

Th drive across th wonderfulness of th moor was
a soothing thing.  Wy did it seem to giv him a sense
of homecomng wich he had been sure he cud nevr feel
again--that sense of th buty of land and sky and purpl
bloom of distnce and a warmng of th hart at drawng,
nearr to th gret old house wich had held those of
his blod for six hundred years? How he had drivn
away from it th last time, shudrng to think of its
closed rooms and th boy lyng in th four-postd bed
with th brocaded hangngs.  Was it posbl that perhaps
he myt find him chanjed a litl for th betr
and that he myt overcom his shrinkng from him?
How real that dream had been--how wondrful and clear
th voice wich cald bak to him, "In th gardn--In th gardn!"

"I wil try to find th ke," he said.  "I wil try
to open th dor.  I must--tho I dont no wy."

Wen he arived at th Manr th servnts ho
receved him with th usul ceremny noticed that he
lookd betr and that he did not go to th remote
rooms wher he usuly livd atendd by Pichr. 
He went into th libry and sent for Mrs. Medlock. 
She came to him somwat exited and curius and flustrd. 

"How is Mastr Colin, Medlock?" he inquired.  "Wel, sir,"
Mrs. Medlock ansrd, "he's--he's difrnt, in a manr
of speakng."

"Worse?" he sujestd. 

Mrs. Medlock realy was flushd. 

"Wel, u se, sir," she tryd to explain, "neithr
Dr. Craven, nor th nurse, nor me can exactly make him out."

"Wy is that?"

"To tel th truth, sir, Mastr Colin myt be betr
and he myt be chanjing for th worse.  His apetite,
sir, is past undrstandng--and his ways--"

"Has he becom mor--mor peculir?" her mastr, askd,
nitng his brows anxiusly. 

"That's it, sir.  He's groing very peculir--wen u
compare him with wat he used to be.  He used to eat nothing
and then sudnly he began to eat somthing enormus --and
then he stopd again al at once and th meals wer sent
bak just as they used to be.  U nevr new, sir, perhaps,
that out of dors he nevr wud let himself be taken. 
Th things we'v gon thru to get him to go out in
his chair wud leve a body tremblng like a leaf. 
He'd thro himself into such a state that Dr. Craven said
he cudnt be responsbl for forcing him.  Wel, sir,
just without warnng--not long aftr one of his worst
tantrms he sudnly insistd on being taken out evry day
by Miss Mary and Susan Sowerby's boy Dickon that cud push
his chair.  He took a fancy to both Miss Mary and Dickon,
and Dickon brot his tame anmls, and, if u'l
credit it, sir, out of dors he wil stay from mornng until nyt."

"How dos he look?" was th next question. 

"If he took his food natrl, sir, u'd think he was putng
on flesh--but we'r afraid it may be a sort of bloat. 
He lafs somtimes in a queer way wen he's alone with
Miss Mary.  He nevr used to laf at al.  Dr. Craven
is comng to se u at once, if u'l alow him. 
He nevr was as puzld in his life."

"Wher is Mastr Colin now?" Mr. Craven askd. 

"In th gardn, sir.  He's always in th gardn--tho
not a human creatur is alowd to go near for fear
they'l look at him."

Mr. Craven scarcely herd her last words. 

"In th gardn," he said, and aftr he had sent Mrs. Medlock
away he stood and repeatd it again and again. 
"In th gardn!"

He had to make an efrt to bring himself bak to
th place he was standng in and wen he felt he was
on erth again he turnd and went out of th room. 
He took his way, as Mary had don, thru th dor in th
shrubry and among th laurels and th fountn beds. 
Th fountn was playng now and was encircld by beds
of briliant autm flowrs.  He crosd th lawn and
turnd into th Long Walk by th ivied walls.  He did not
walk quikly, but sloly, and his ys wer on th path. 
He felt as if he wer being drawn bak to th place
he had so long forsaken, and he did not no wy. 
As he drew near to it his step became stil mor slo. 
He new wher th dor was even tho th ivy hung thik
over it--but he did not no exactly wher it lay--that
burid ke. 

So he stopd and stood stil, lookng about him,
and almost th moment aftr he had pausd he startd
and lisnd--askng himself if he wer walkng in a dream. 

Th ivy hung thik over th dor, th ke was burid
undr th shrubs, no human being had pasd that portl
for ten lonely years--and yet inside th gardn ther
wer sounds.  They wer th sounds of runng scuflng
feet seemng to chase round and round undr th tres,
they wer stranje sounds of loerd supresd
voices--exclmations and smothrd joyus crys. 
It seemd actuly like th laftr of yung things,
th uncontrolbl laftr of children ho wer tryng not
to be herd but ho in a moment or so--as ther exitemnt
mountd--wud burst forth.  Wat in heaven's name was he
dreamng of--wat in heaven's name did he hear? Was he
losing his reasn and thinkng he herd things wich wer
not for human ears? Was it that th far clear voice had ment?

And then th moment came, th uncontrolbl moment
wen th sounds forgot to hush themselvs.  Th feet ran
fastr and fastr--they wer nearng th gardn dor--ther
was quik strong yung brething and a wild outbrek
of lafng shos wich cud not be containd--and th
dor in th wal was flung wide open, th sheet of ivy
swingng bak, and a boy burst thru it at ful speed and,
without seing th outsider, dashd almost into his arms. 

Mr. Craven had extendd them just in time to save him
from falng as a result of his unseing dash against him,
and wen he held him away to look at him in amazemnt
at his being ther he truly gaspd for breth. 

He was a tal boy and a hansm one.  He was gloing
with life and his runng had sent splendid color leapng
to his face.  He threw th thik hair bak from his forhed
and liftd a pair of stranje gray ys--ys ful of boyish
laftr and rimd with blak lashs like a frinj. 
It was th ys wich made Mr. Craven gasp for breth. 
"Ho--Wat? Ho!" he stamrd. 

This was not wat Colin had expectd--this was not wat he
had pland.  He had nevr thot of such a meetng. 
And yet to com dashng out--winng a race--perhaps it
was even betr.  He drew himself up to his very talst. 
Mary, ho had been runng with him and had dashd thru
th dor too, beleved that he manajd to make himself
look talr than he had evr lookd befor--inchs talr. 

"Fathr," he said, "I'm Colin.  U cant beleve it. 
I scarcely can myself.  I'm Colin."

Like Mrs. Medlock, he did not undrstand wat his fathr
ment wen he said hurridly:

"In th gardn! In th gardn!"

"Yes," hurrid on Colin.  "It was th gardn that did
it--and Mary and Dickon and th creaturs--and th Majic. 
No one nos.  We kept it to tel u wen u came. 
I'm wel, I can beat Mary in a race.  I'm going to be
an athlete."

He said it al so like a helthy boy--his face flushd,
his words tumblng over each othr in his eagrness--that
Mr. Craven's sol shook with unbeleving joy. 

Colin put out his hand and laid it on his father's arm. 

"Arnt u glad, Fathr?" he endd.  "Arnt u glad?
I'm going to liv forevr and evr and evr!"

Mr. Craven put his hands on both th boy's sholdrs
and held him stil.  He new he dared not even try
to speak for a moment. 

"Take me into th gardn, my boy," he said at last. 
"And tel me al about it."

And so they led him in. 

Th place was a wildrness of autm gold and purpl
and violet blu and flaming scarlet and on evry side wer
sheves of late lilis standng togethr--lilis wich wer
wite or wite and ruby.  He remembrd wel wen th
first of them had been plantd that just at this seasn
of th year ther late gloris shud reveal themselvs. 
Late roses climbd and hung and clustrd and th sunshine
deepnng th hu of th yeloing tres made one feel
that one, stood in an embowered templ of gold. 
Th newcomr stood silent just as th children had don
wen they came into its grayness.  He lookd round and round. 

"I thot it wud be ded," he said."

"Mary thot so at first," said Colin.  "But it came alive."

Then they sat down undr ther tre--al but Colin,
ho wantd to stand wile he told th story. 

It was th stranjest thing he had evr herd, Archibald Craven
thot, as it was pord forth in hedlong boy fashn. 
Mystry and Majic and wild creaturs, th weird midnyt
meetng--th comng of th spring--th passion of insultd
pride wich had dragd th yung Raja to his feet to defy
old Ben Weatherstaff to his face.  Th od companionship,
th play actng, th gret secret so carefuly kept. 
Th lisnr lafd until tears came into his ys and
somtimes tears came into his ys wen he was not lafng. 
Th Athlete, th Lecturr, th Sientific Discovrr
was a lafbl, lovbl, helthy yung human thing. 

"Now," he said at th end of th story, "it need not be
a secret any mor.  I dare say it wil frytn them
nearly into fits wen they se me--but I am nevr going
to get into th chair again.  I shal walk bak with u,
Fathr--to th house."


Ben Weatherstaff's dutis rarely took him away from th gardns,
but on this ocasion he made an excuse to carry som
vejtbls to th kichn and being invited into th servants'
hal by Mrs. Medlock to drink a glass of beer he was on
th spot--as he had hoped to be--wen th most dramatic
event Misselthwaite Manr had seen during th presnt
jenration actuly took place.  One of th windos lookng
upon th cortyard gave also a glimps of th lawn. 
Mrs. Medlock, noing Ben had com from th gardns,
hoped that he myt hav caut syt of his mastr
and even by chance of his meetng with Mastr Colin. 

"Did u se eithr of them, Weatherstaff?" she askd. 

Ben took his beer-mug from his mouth and wiped his lips
with th bak of his hand. 

"Y, that I did," he ansrd with a shrewdly synificnt air. 

"Both of them?" sujestd Mrs. Medlock. 

"Both of 'em," returnd Ben Weatherstaff.  "Thank ye kindly,
mam, I cud sup up anothr mug of it."

"Togethr?" said Mrs. Medlock, hastily overfilling his
beer-mug in her exitemnt. 

"Togethr, mam," and Ben gulpd down half of his new
mug at one gulp. 

"Wher was Mastr Colin? How did he look? Wat did they
say to each othr?"

"I didna' hear that," said Ben, "along o' only bein' on th'
stepladr lookin, over th' wal.  But I'l tel thee this. 
Ther's been things goin' on outside as u house peple
nos nowt about.  An' wat tha'll find out tha'll find
out soon."

And it was not two minuts befor he swalod th last
of his beer and waved his mug solemly toward th windo
wich took in thru th shrubry a pece of th lawn. 

"Look ther," he said, "if tha's curius.  Look wat's comin'
across th' grass."

Wen Mrs. Medlock lookd she threw up her hands and gave
a litl shriek and evry man and womn servnt within hearng
boltd across th servants' hal and stood lookng thru
th windo with ther ys almost startng out of ther heds. 

Across th lawn came th Mastr of Misselthwaite and he
lookd as many of them had nevr seen him.  And by his,
side with his hed up in th air and his ys ful
of laftr walkd as strongly and stedily as any boy
in Yorkshr--Mastr Colin. 


[End.]