was a very strange thing indeed. A boy was sitting under a tree, playing on a rough wooden pipe. He was about twelve. He looked very clean and his nose turned up and his cheeks were as red as poppies. And on the trunk of the tree, 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.
When he saw Mary he spoke to her,
“Don’t move. They are afraid.”
Mary remained motionless. He stopped playing his pipe and rose from the ground. The squirrel scampered back up into the branches of the tree, the pheasant withdrew its head and the rabbits began to hop away.
“I’m Dickon,” the boy said. “I know you’re Miss Mary.”
“Did you get Martha’s letter?” she asked.
He nodded his head.
“That’s why I’m here.”
He took something which was lying on the ground beside him.
“I’ve got the garden tools. A little spade and rake and a fork and hoe. Eh! They are good. There’s a trowel, too. And some seeds.”
“Will you show the seeds to me?” Mary 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 many smaller packages with a picture of a flower on each one.
He stopped and turned his head quickly.
“Where’s that robin?” he said.
The chirp came from a thick holly bush.
“Aye,” said Dickon, “he’s calling someone. He says ‘Here I am. Look at me.’ 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 you,” said Dickon. “And he likes you. He’ll tell me all about you in a minute.”
He moved quite close to the bush with the slow movement. Then he made a sound almost like the robin’s own twitter. The robin listened a few seconds, intently, and then answered.
“He’s a friend of yours,” chuckled Dickon.
“Do you understand everything birds say?” said Mary.
“I think I do, and they think I do,” he said. “I’ve lived on the moor with them so long. I’ve watched them a lot. I think I’m one of them. Sometimes I think perhaps I’m a bird, or a fox, or a rabbit, or a squirrel, or even a beetle.”
He laughed and came back to the log and began to talk about the flower seeds. He told her how to plant them, and watch them, and feed and water them.
“Look,” he said suddenly. “I’ll plant them for you myself. Where is your garden?”
She turned red and then pale.
“I don’t know anything about boys,” she said slowly. “Can you keep a secret, if I tell you one? It’s a great secret.”
Dickon rubbed his hand over his head again, but he answered quite good-humoredly.
“I’m keeping secrets all the time,” he said. “Aye, I can keep secrets.”
“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.”
Dickon’s curious blue eyes grew rounder and rounder.
“Eh-h-h!” he said.
“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.”
“Where is it?” asked Dickon.
Mary got up from the log at once.
“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 look on his face. He moved 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.
“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 it, and round and round again.
“Eh!” he almost whispered, “it is a queer, pretty place! It’s like a dream.”
Chapter XI
Mary’s nest
“What a garden!” Dickon said, in a whisper.
“Did you know about it?” asked Mary.
Dickon nodded.
“Martha told me about it,” he answered.
He stopped and looked round at the lovely gray tangle about him, and his eyes looked happy.
“Eh! It will be the safest nesting place in England.”
Mary put her hand on his arm.
“Will there be roses?” she whispered. “Can you tell? Perhaps they were all dead.”
“Eh! No! Not all of them!” he answered. “Look here!”
He stepped over to the nearest tree with a curtain of tangled sprays and branches. He took a thick knife out of his pocket and opened one of its blades.
“I see dead wood here,” he said. “But this one is alive,” and he touched a shoot which looked green instead of hard, dry gray.
Mary touched it herself.
“That one?” she said. “Is that one quite alive?”
“It’s as alive as you or me,” he said.
“I’m glad it’s alive!” she cried out. “I want them all to be alive. Let us go round the garden and count how many alive ones there are.”
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.
“These are dead,” he said, “but those are strong. See here!” and he pulled down a thick gray branch. He knelt and with his knife cut the branch through, not far above the earth.
“There!” he said exultantly. “I told you so. It’s alive. Look at it. There’s a big root here,” he stopped and lifted his face. “There will be a fountain of 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
