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inside there were ever so many neater and smaller packages with a picture of a flower on each one.

ā€œThereā€™s a lot oā€™ mignonette anā€™ poppies,ā€ he said. ā€œMignonetteā€™s thā€™ sweetest smellinā€™ thing as grows, anā€™ itā€™ll grow wherever you cast it, same as poppies will. Them asā€™ll come up anā€™ bloom if you just whistle to ā€™em, themā€™s thā€™ nicest of all.ā€

He stopped and turned his head quickly, his poppy-cheeked face lighting up.

ā€œWhereā€™s that robin as is callinā€™ us?ā€ he said.

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

ā€œIs it really calling us?ā€ she asked.

ā€œAye,ā€ said Dickon, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, ā€œheā€™s callinā€™ someone heā€™s friends with. Thatā€™s same as sayinā€™ ā€˜Here I am. Look at me. I wants a bit of a chat.ā€™ There he is in the bush. Whose is he?ā€

ā€œHeā€™s Ben Weatherstaffā€™s, but I think he knows me a little,ā€ answered Mary.

ā€œAye, he knows thee,ā€ said Dickon in his low voice again. ā€œAnā€™ he likes thee. Heā€™s took thee on. Heā€™ll tell me all about thee in a minute.ā€

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

ā€œAye, heā€™s a friend oā€™ yours,ā€ chuckled Dickon.

ā€œDo you think he is?ā€ cried Mary eagerly. She did so want to know. ā€œDo you think he really likes me?ā€

ā€œHe wouldnā€™t come near thee if he didnā€™t,ā€ answered Dickon. ā€œBirds is rare choosers anā€™ a robin can flout a body worse than a man. See, heā€™s making up to thee now. ā€˜Cannot thaā€™ see a chap?ā€™ heā€™s sayinā€™.ā€

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

ā€œDo you understand everything birds say?ā€ said Mary.

Dickonā€™s grin spread until he seemed all wide, red, curving mouth, and he rubbed his rough head.

ā€œI think I do, and they think I do,ā€ he said. ā€œIā€™ve lived on thā€™ moor with ā€™em so long. Iā€™ve watched ā€™em break shell anā€™ come out anā€™ fledge anā€™ learn to fly anā€™ begin to sing, till I think Iā€™m one of ā€™em. Sometimes I think pā€™raps Iā€™m a bird, or a fox, or a rabbit, or a squirrel, or even a beetle, anā€™ I donā€™t know it.ā€

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.

ā€œSee here,ā€ he said suddenly, turning round to look at her. ā€œIā€™ll plant them for thee myself. Where is thaā€™ garden?ā€

Maryā€™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.

ā€œThaā€™s got a bit oā€™ garden, hasnā€™t thaā€™?ā€ 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.

ā€œWouldnā€™t they give thee a bit?ā€ he asked. ā€œHasnā€™t thaā€™ got any yet?ā€

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

ā€œI donā€™t know anything about boys,ā€ she said slowly. ā€œCould you keep a secret, if I told you one? Itā€™s a great secret. I donā€™t know what I should do if anyone found it out. I believe I should die!ā€ 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.

ā€œIā€™m keepinā€™ secrets all thā€™ time,ā€ he said. ā€œIf I couldnā€™t keep secrets from thā€™ other lads, secrets about foxesā€™ cubs, anā€™ birdsā€™ nests, anā€™ wild thingsā€™ holes, thereā€™d be naught safe on thā€™ moor. Aye, I can keep secrets.ā€

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

ā€œIā€™ve stolen a garden,ā€ she said very fast. ā€œIt isnā€™t mine. It isnā€™t anybodyā€™s. Nobody wants it, nobody cares for it, nobody ever goes into it. Perhaps everything is dead in it already; I donā€™t know.ā€

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

ā€œI donā€™t care, I donā€™t care! Nobody has any right to take it from me when I care about it and they donā€™t. Theyā€™re letting it die, all shut in by itself,ā€ she ended passionately, and she threw her arms over her face and burst out cryingā ā€”poor little Mistress Mary.

Dickonā€™s curious blue eyes grew rounder and rounder.

ā€œEh-h-h!ā€ he said, drawing his exclamation out slowly, and the way he did it meant both wonder and sympathy.

ā€œIā€™ve nothing to do,ā€ said Mary. ā€œNothing belongs to me. I found it myself and I got into it myself. I was only just like the robin, and they wouldnā€™t take it from the robin.ā€

ā€œWhere is it?ā€ 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.

ā€œCome with me and Iā€™ll show you,ā€ 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 birdā€™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.

ā€œItā€™s this,ā€ she said.

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