LITMIR.BIZ

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dinner’s easy to carry about with me,” he said. “Mother always lets me put a bit o’ somethin’ in my pocket.”

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

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

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

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

      He sat down with his back against a tree.

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

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

      “Whatever happens, you—you never would tell?” she said.

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

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

      And she was quite sure she was.

      CHAPTER XII

      “MIGHT I HAVE A BIT OF EARTH?”

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

      “Tha’s a bit late,” she said. “Where has tha’ been?”

      “I’ve seen Dickon!” said Mary. “I’ve seen Dickon!”

      “I knew he’d come,” said Martha exultantly. “How does tha’ like him?”

      “I think—I think he’s beautiful!” said Mary in a determined voice.

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

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

      “I like it to turn up,” said Mary.

      “An’ his eyes is so round,” said Martha, a trifle doubtful. “Though they’re a nice color.”

      “I like them round,” said Mary. “And they are exactly the color of the sky over the moor.”

      Martha beamed with satisfaction.

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

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

      Martha chuckled delightedly.

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

      “How did you know he brought them?” asked Mary.

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

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

      “Who did tha’ ask about it?” she inquired.

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

      “I’ve never seen him,” said Mary. “I’ve only seen undergardeners and Ben Weatherstaff.”

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

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

      “There wouldn’t be no reason,” answered Martha. “You wouldn’t do no harm.”

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

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

      Mary turned quite pale.

      “Oh!” she said. “Why! Why! He didn’t want to see me when I came. I heard Pitcher say he didn’t.”

      “Well,” explained Martha, “Mrs. Medlock says it’s because o’ mother. She was walkin’ to Thwaite village an’ she met him. She’d never spoke to him before, but Mrs. Craven had been to our cottage two or three times. He’d forgot, but mother hadn’t an’ she made bold to stop him. I don’t know what she said to him about you but she said somethin’ as put him in th’ mind to see you before he goes away again, tomorrow.”

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

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

      “Oh! I’m so glad—so glad!” said Mary thankfully.

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

      “When do you think he will want to see—”

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

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

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

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

      “This is Miss Mary, sir,” she said.

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