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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Martha laughed as she had done the first morning.

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

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

"I should like to see your cottage."

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

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

"I like your mother," said Mary.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Martha looked reflective again.

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

Mary hesitated a moment and thought it over.

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

Martha grinned a little as if at some homely recollection.

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

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

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

Mary sniffed and thought she could.

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

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

"What will they be?" asked Mary.

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

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

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

"I am going to," answered Mary.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The next morning after the rainstorm, the whole moor has changed: The sky is bright and blue, the sun is shining, and the moor looks softer than before. Spring is coming. Mary decides that she wants to visit Martha's cottage someday, to meet her mother and her brother Dickon. Even so, Mary is sure that Dickon won't like her--after all, no one does. Martha asks Mary if she likes herself, and Mary agrees that she doesn't like herself at all. Mary goes out to find Ben Weatherstaff working. He says that the spring flowers will soon be blooming. Mary sees the robin and decides to follow it. The robin leads her to a hole in the ground where some dog has been digging. In the hole is an old keyring--and Mary realizes that it might be the key to the locked garden.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mary reflected a little.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mary gave her a long, steady look.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What is it for?" she asked curiously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mary looked stiffer than ever.

"Do you want me to kiss you?"

Martha laughed again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was standing inside the secret garden.

The Secret Garden sometimes reads like a PSA for fresh air and exercise: The more time Mary spends outside, the better she feels about life in general. The next morning, Martha comes back from a visit with her family. Martha has a present for Mary from her mother: a jump rope, so she'll have something to play with. Mary isn't very strong, so she can't skip for long, but she likes her new toy. Mary takes her new jump rope out to the garden to show Ben Weatherstaff how much she can skip. He's impressed to see Mary acting like a kid instead of a sour old woman. As Mary is skipping about, she sees the robin again, and a gust of wind exposes the hidden knob of a door in the ivy-covered wall. Mary puts the key in the door and turns the knob. She opens the door to the secret garden.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Martha's face quite lighted up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?" said Mary eagerly.

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

"I know how to write," Mary answered.

Martha shook her head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

                     "Your loving sister,
                     Martha Phoebe Sowerby."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do you mean--" Mary began.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Martha certainly started slightly.

"What makes thee ask that?" she said.

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

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

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

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

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

Even though it's still winter, Mary can see that the secret garden is full of all kinds of roses: climbing roses, rose bushes, more roses than you can shake a stick at. Mary has the creepy thought that she is the first person to speak inside the garden in ten years. Even though everything is overgrown, Mary sees little green shoots poking up here and there; she starts clearing away the dead leaves from these new shoots. Mary is actually enjoying herself, for once--and smiling the whole time. As Mary is chatting with Martha over dinner, she has a brilliant idea: Martha's brother Dickon is great with living things. And Mary has this secret garden she wants to bring back to life. So maybe Dickon can help her with the garden . Martha offers to send Dickon a letter asking him to buy gardening tools and seeds and whatever he needs to help Mary do some gardening. Dickon will walk over to Misselthwaite Manor himself to make the delivery. Martha's mother has also invited Mary to come over to their cottage for tea. Mary is thrilled that she is finally going to meet new people. As Mary as drowsing off, she asks Martha about the crying--she heard a crying voice again that day. Martha dodges the question.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh! look at him!" exclaimed Mary.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Cabbages an' 'taters an' onions."

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

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

Mary's face lighted up.

"Do you like roses?" she said.

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

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

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

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

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

"They was left to themselves."

Mary was becoming quite excited.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is it really calling us?" she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mary spends as much time as she can in the Secret Garden clearing away old, dead sticks. She also chats often with Ben Weatherstaff, the gardener. Ben seems flattered that Mary actually wants to listen to what a crusty old guy has to say. She starts asking Ben about roses: If you have a rose that's been left on its own for years and years, will it come back? As Mary is walking, she sees a boy playing a pipe. There are two rabbits at his feet and a squirrel watching him--clearly, this is Dickon the strange Nature Boy. He's brought Mary's garden tools and a few flower seeds. When Dickon hears the robin calling, he translates to Mary: "he's callin' some one he's friends with" . Dickon continues, "he likes thee. He's took thee on. He'll tell me all about thee in a minute" . Now, most people would be just a bit surprised to find out that Dickon can apparently talk to animals, but Mary's used to the idea of snake charmers from India, so this doesn't seem that weird to her. Dickon offers to help Mary plant her garden. Mary immediately gets weird--she doesn't know if she wants to reveal her secret--but finally, she's got no choice, so she brings Dickon into the Secret Garden. Dickon describes it as "a queer, pretty place! It's like as if a body was in a dream" .


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

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

"Did you know about it?" asked Mary.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dickon curved his wide smiling mouth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I did it," said Mary.

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

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

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

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

He ran from one clearing to another.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Dickon laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Does tha' like me?" she said.

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

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

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

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

Dickon grinned.

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

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

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

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

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

He sat down with his back against a tree.

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

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

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

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

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

And she was quite sure she was.

Dickon knows about the existence of the Secret Garden, of course--Martha told him about it, the same way she told Mary back in Chapter 5. But he never thought he'd see inside. Dickon says there is a lot of dead wood that needs to be cut away, but the strongest roses have kept growing all along. Weirdly, Dickon notices that there are some signs that someone has been cleaning it up in the last ten years--not regularly, but now and again. So there is still a mystery about the Secret Garden. Mary confesses to Dickon about the kids who called her Mistress Mary Quite Contrary back in India, but Dickon promises that he "likes wonderful, an' so does the robin" . Aw. So now Mary has two whole people who like her . Mary makes Dickon promise he won't tell about the Secret Garden, and Dickon swears that he'll keep her secret safe.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Martha beamed with satisfaction.

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

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

Martha chuckled delightedly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mary turned quite pale.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Come here!" he said.

Mary went to him.

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

"Are you well?" he asked.

"Yes," answered Mary.

"Do they take good care of you?"

"Yes."

He rubbed his forehead fretfully as he looked her over.

"You are very thin," he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He rubbed his forehead again and stared at her.

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

Then Mary gathered a scrap of courage.

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

"Yes, I think so," he replied.

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

He seemed to rouse himself.

"What do you want to do?"

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

He was watching her.

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

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

"Where do you play?" he asked next.

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

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

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

"May I?" she said tremulously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I will cum bak."

When Mary arrives at lunch, she tells Martha that Dickon is "beautiful" . Martha is a bit surprised since, gosh, she loves him, he's her kid brother--but he's a bit funny-looking. Mary's like, nope, he's perfect, and she is so happy to have met him. Martha has some news for Mary: Mr. Craven is home briefly, and he wants to meet Mary. Mrs. Medlock arrives to bring Mary to Mr. Craven. The biggest thing Mary notices about Mr. Craven is that he has a deeply unhappy face. He's not ugly, but his face is just miserable. Mr. Craven agrees with Mrs. Sowerby that Mary needs to build up her strength before she starts school with a governess. Mr. Craven asks if Mary wants anything--books? Toys? All Mary wants is a bit of earth where she can grow things. Mr. Craven says that there was once someone he really loved who also liked to make plants grow, so he gives Mary permission to take some land and grow things in it. Mary runs down to the Secret Garden to find Dickon with the good news. He's gone, but he leaves a note with a drawing of a missel thrush and a promise to come back. Mary understands what Dickon means: He's going to keep her garden a secret, the same way he would keep a bird's nest safe by keeping it a secret.