 CHAPTER 17 A TANTRUM She had got up very early in the morning and had worked hard in the garden, and she was tired and sleepy. So as soon as Martha had brought her supper and she had eaten it, she was glad to go to bed. As she laid her head on the pillow, she murmured to herself, I'll go out before breakfast and work with Dickon, and then, afterward, I believe I'll go to see him. She thought it was the middle of the night when she was awakened by such dreadful sounds that she jumped out of bed in an instant. What was it? What was it? The next minute she felt quite sure she knew. Doors were opened and shut and there were hurrying feet in the corridors, and some one was crying and screaming at the same time, screaming and crying in a horrible way. It's Colin, she said. He's having one of those tantrums the nurse called hysterics. How awful it sounds! As she listened to the sobbing screams, she did not wonder that people were so frightened that they gave him his own way and everything rather than hear them. She put her hands over her ears and felt sick and shivering. I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do, she kept saying. I can't bear it. Once she wondered if he would stop if she dared go to him, and then she remembered how he had driven her out of the room, and thought that perhaps the sight of her might make him worse. Even when she pressed her hands more tightly over her ears, she could not keep the awful sounds out. She hated them so, and was so terrified by them, that suddenly they began to make her angry, and she felt as if she should like to fly into a tantrum herself, and frighten him as he was frightening her. She was not used to anyone's timbers but her own. She took her hands from her ears and sprang up and stamped her foot. She ought to be stopped. Somebody ought to make him stop. Somebody ought to beat him," she cried out. Just then she heard feet almost running down the corridor, and her door opened and the nurse came in. She was not laughing now by any means. She even looked rather pale. He's worked himself into hysterics, she said in a great hurry. He'll do himself harm. No one can do anything with him. You come and try like a good child. He likes you. He turned me out of the room this morning," said Mary, stamping her foot with excitement. The stamp rather pleased the nurse. The truth was that she had been afraid she might find Mary crying and hiding her head under the bedclothes. That's right, she said. You're in the right humour. You go and scold him. Give him something new to think of. Do go, child, as quick as ever you can." It was not until afterward that Mary realized that the thing had been funny as well as dreadful. That it was funny that all the grown-up people were so frightened that they came to a little girl, just because they guessed she was almost as bad as Colin himself. She flew along the corridor, and the nearer she got to the screams, the higher her temper mounted. She felt quite wicked by the time she reached the door. She slapped it open with her hand and ran across the room to the four-posted bed. You stop! she almost shouted. You stop! I hate you. Everybody hates you. I wish everybody would run out of the house and let you scream yourself to death. You will scream yourself to death in a minute, and I wish you would. A nice sympathetic child could neither have thought nor said such things. But it just happened that the shock of hearing them was the best possible thing for this hysterical boy whom no one had ever dared to restrain or contradict. He had been lying on his face, beating his pillow with his hands, and he actually almost jumped around. He turned so quickly at the sound of the furious little voice. His face looked dreadful, white and red and swollen, and he was gasping and choking. But savage little Mary did not care an atom. If you scream another scream, she said, I'll scream too, and I can scream louder than you can, and I'll frighten you. I'll frighten you. He actually had stopped screaming because she had startled him so. The scream which had been coming almost choked him. The tears were streaming down his face, and he shook all over. I can't stop. He gasped and stopped. I can't. I can't. You can, shouted Mary. Half that ails you with hysterics and temper. Just hysterics, hysterics, hysterics. And she stamped each time she said it. I felt the lump. I felt it. Choked out Colin. I knew I should. I shall have a hunch on my back, and then I shall die. And he began to writhe again, and turned on his face, and sobbed and wailed. But he didn't scream. You didn't feel a lump, contradicted Mary fiercely. If you did it was only hysterical lump. Hysterics makes lumps. There's nothing the matter with your horrid back. Nothing but hysterics. Turn over and let me look at it. She liked the word hysterics, and felt somehow as if it had an effect on him. He was probably like herself, and had never heard it before. Nurse, she commanded, come here and show me his back this minute. The nurse, Mrs. Medlock and Martha, had been standing huddled together near the door, staring at her, their mouths half open. All three had gasped with fright, more than once. The nurse came forward as if she were half afraid. Colin was heaving great, breathless sobs. Perhaps he won't let me, she hesitated, in a low voice. Colin heard her, however, and he gasped out between two sobs. Show her. She'll see then. It was a poor, thin back to look at when it was bared. Every rib could be counted, and every joint of the spine, though Mistress Mary did not count them as she bent over and examined them with a solemn, savage little face. She looked so sour and old-fashioned, that the nurse turned her head aside to hide the twitching of her mouth. There was just a minute silence, for even Colin tried to hold his breath while Mary looked up and down his spine, and down and up, as intently as if she had been the great doctor from London. There's not a single lump there, she said at last. There's not a lump as big as a pin, except backbone lumps, and you can only feel them because you're thin. I've got backbone lumps myself, and they used to stick out as much as yours do, until I began to get fatter, and I'm not fat enough yet to hide them. There's not a lump as big as a pin. If you ever say there is again, I shall laugh." No one but Colin himself knew what effect those crossly-spoken childish words had on him. If he had ever had anyone to talk to about his secret terrors, if he had ever dared to let himself ask questions, if he had had childish companions, and had not lain on his back in the huge, closed house, breathing an atmosphere heavy with the fears of people who were most of them ignorant and tired of him, he would have found out that most of his fright and illness was created by himself. But he had lain and thought of himself and his aches and weariness for hours and days and months and years, and now that an angry, unsympathetic little girl insisted obstinately that he was not as ill as he thought he was, he actually felt as if she might be speaking the truth. I didn't know, ventured the nurse, that he thought he had a lump on his spine. His back is weak because he won't try to sit up. I could have told him there was no lump there. Colin gulped and turned his face a little to look at her. Could you? he said pathetically. Yes, sir. There! said Mary, and she gulped too. Colin turned on his face again, and but for his long, drawn, broken breaths, which were the dying down of his storm of sobbing, he lay still for a minute, though great tears streamed down his face and wet the pillow. Actually, the tears meant that a curious, great relief had come to him. Presently he turned and looked at the nurse again, and strangely enough he was not like a raja at all as he spoke to her. Do you think I could live to grow up? he said. The nurse was neither clever nor soft-hearted, but she could repeat some of the London doctors' words. You probably will if you do what you are told to do and not give way to your temper and stay out a great deal in the fresh air. Colin's tantrum had passed, and he was weak and worn out with crying, and this perhaps made him feel gentle. He put out his hand a little toward Mary, and I am glad to say that her own tantrum having passed, she was softened too, and met him half way with her hand, so that it was a sort of making up. I—I'll go out with you, Mary, he said. I shan't hate fresh air if we can find—he remembered just in time to stop himself from saying, if we can find the secret garden, and he ended, I shall like to go out with you if Dickon will come and push my chair. I do so want to see Dickon and the fox and the crow. The nurse remade the tumbled bed, and shook and straightened the pillows. Then she made Colin a cup of beef tea, and gave a cup to Mary, who really was very glad to get it after her excitement. Mrs. Medlock and Martha gladly slipped away, and after everything was neat and calm and in order, the nurse looked as if she would very gladly slip away also. She was a healthy young woman who resented being robbed of her sleep, and she yawned quite openly as she looked at Mary, who had pushed her big footstool close to the four-posted bed, and was holding Colin's hand. You must go back and get your sleep out, she said. He'll drop off after a while, if he's not too upset. Then I'll lie down myself in the next room. Would you like me to sing you that song I learned from my ire? Mary whispered to Colin. His hand pulled hers gently, and he turned his tired eyes on her appealingly. Oh, yes, he answered, it's such a soft song. I shall go to sleep in a minute. I will put him to sleep, Mary said to the yawning nurse, you can go if you like. Well, said the nurse, with an attempt at reluctance, if he doesn't go to sleep in half an hour you must call me. Very well, answered Mary. The nurse was out of the room in a minute, and as soon as she was gone Colin pulled Mary's hand again. I almost told, he said, but I stopped myself in time. I won't talk, and I'll go to sleep, but you said you had a whole lot of nice things to tell me. Have you— do you think you have found out anything at all about the way into the secret garden? Mary looked at his poor little tired face and swollen eyes, and her heart relented. Yes, she answered, I think I have. And if you will go to sleep, I will tell you tomorrow. His hand quite trembled. Oh, Mary, he said, oh, Mary, if I could get into it, I think I should live to grow up. Do you suppose that instead of singing the aya song, you could just tell me softly as you did that first day, what you imagine it looks like inside? I'm sure it will make me go to sleep. Yes, answered Mary, shut your eyes. He closed his eyes and lay quite still, and she held his hand and began to speak very slowly and in a very low voice. I think it has been left alone so long that it has grown all into a lovely tangle. I think the roses have climbed and climbed and climbed until they hang from the branches and walls and creep over the ground, almost like a strange grey mist. Some of them have died, but many are alive, and when the summer comes there will be curtains and fountains of roses. I think the ground I think the ground is full of daffodils and snow-drops and lilies and iris, working their way out of the dark. Now the spring has begun, perhaps—perhaps—the soft drone of her voice was making him stiller and stiller, and she saw it and went on. Perhaps they are coming up through the grass. Perhaps there are clusters of purple crocuses and gold ones even now. Perhaps the leaves are beginning to break out and uncurl, and perhaps the greyish changing and a green gore's veil is creeping and creeping over everything, and the birds are coming to look at it because it is so safe and still. And perhaps—perhaps—perhaps—very softly and slowly indeed, the robin has found a mate and is building a nest. And Colin was asleep. CHAPTER XVIII. Of course Mary did not awaken early the next morning. She slept late because she was tired, and when Martha brought her breakfast she told her that though Colin was quite quiet he was ill and feverish as he always was after he had worn himself out with a fit of crime. Mary ate her breakfast slowly as she listened. He says he wishes that I would please go and see him as soon as I can, Martha says. It's queer what a fancy he's took to thee. That did give it him last night for sure, didn't that? Nobody else would have dared to do it. Hey, poor lad, he's been spoiled till salt won't save him. Mother says as the two worst things as can happen to a child he's never to have his own way or always to have it. She doesn't know which is the worst. That was in a fine temper thyself too, but he says to me when I went into his room, please ask Miss Mary if she'll please come and talk to me. Think of him saying please. Will you go, Miss? I'll run and see Dickon first, said Mary. No, I'll go and see Colin first and tell him—I know what I'll tell him, with a sudden inspiration. She had her hat on when she appeared in Colin's room, and for a second he looked disappointed. He was in bed. His face was pitifully white and there were dark circles round his eyes. I'm glad you came, he said. My headaches, and I ache all over because I'm so tired. Are you going somewhere? Mary went and leaned against his bed. I won't be long, she said. I'm going to Dickon, but I'll come back. Colin, it's—it's something about the garden. His whole face brightened, and a little colour came into it. Oh, is it? he cried out. I dreamed about it all night. I heard you say something about grey changing into green, and I dreamed I was standing in a place all filled with trembling little green leaves, and there were birds on nests everywhere, and they looked so soft and still. I'll lie and think about it until you come back. In five minutes Mary was with Dickon in their garden. The fox and the crow were with him again, and this time he had brought two tamed squirrels. I came over on the pony this morning, he said. Eh, he is a good little chap, jump is. I brought these two in my pockets. This year one is called Not, and this year other one is called Shell. When he said Not, one squirrel leaped onto his right shoulder, and when he said Shell, the other one leaped onto his left shoulder. When they sat down on the grass with captain curled at their feet, soot solemnly listening on a tree, and Not and Shell nosing close about them, it seemed to Mary that it would be scarcely bearable to leave such delightfulness. But when she began to tell her story, somehow the look in Dickon's funny face gradually changed her mind. She could see he felt sorry for Colin than she did. He looked up at the sky and all about him. Just listened to them birds. The world seems full of them, all whistling and piping, he said. Look at them darting about, and harking at them, calling to each other. Come springtime seems like as if all the world's Colin. The leaves is uncurling, so you can see them, and my word the nice smell there is about, sniffing with his happy turned up nose. And that poor lad lying shut up and seeing so little that he gets to think into things that sets him screaming. Hey, my! We won't get him out here. We won't get him watching and listening and sniffing up the air, and get him just soaked through with sunshine. And we won't lose no time about it. When he was very much interested, he often spoke quite broad Yorkshire, though at other times he tried to modify his dialect so that Mary could better understand. But she loved his broad Yorkshire, and had in fact been trying to learn to speak it herself. So she spoke a little now. Aye, that we won, she said, which meant, yes, indeed, we must. I'll tell thee what us'll do first, she proceeded, and Dickon grinned, because when the little wench tried to twist her tongue into speaking Yorkshire it amused him very much. He's took a greatly fancy to thee. He wants to see thee, and he wants to see certain captain. When I go back to the house to talk to him, I'll ask him if that kind of come and see him to-morrow morning, and bring that creatures with thee. And then, in a bit, when there's more leaves out, and up in a bud or two, we'll get him to come out, and then she'll push him in his chair, and we'll bring him here and show him everything. When she stopped she was quite proud of herself. She had never made a long speech in Yorkshire before, and she had remembered very well. The man talked a bit of Yorkshire like that to Mr. Collin, Dickon chuckled. Thou'll make him laugh, and there's now his good-for-ill, focused laugh in his. Mother says as she believes as half an hour's good laugh every morning to cure a chap as was making ready for typhus fever. I'm going to talk Yorkshire to him this very day, said Mary, chuckling herself. The garden had reached the time when every day and every night it seemed as if magicians were passing through it, drawing loveliness out of the earth and the boughs with ones. It was hard to go away and leave it all, particularly as nut had actually crept on to her dress, and shell had scrambled down the trunk of the apple-tree they sat under, and stayed there looking at her with inquiring eyes. But she went back to the house, and when she sat down close to Collin's bed, he began to sniff as Dickon did, though not in such an experienced way. You smell like flowers and—and fresh things, he cried out quite joyously. What is it you smell of? It's cool and warm and sweet all at the same time. It's the wind from the moor, said Mary. It comes to sit in on the grass under a tree with Dickon and with Captain and Sut in nut and shell. It's the springtime, and out of doors, and sunshine a-smell so greatly. She said it as broadly as she could, and you do not know how broadly Yorkshire sounds until you have heard someone speak it. Collin began to laugh. What are you doing? he said. I never heard you talk like that before. How funny it sounds. I'm giving thee a bit of Yorkshire, answered Mary triumphantly. I cannot talk as greatly as Dickon and Martha, but that concease I can shape a bit. Doesn't understand a bit of Yorkshire when that hears it, and thy Yorkshire lad thy cell bored in bread. Eh, I wonder that not ashamed of thy face. And then she began to laugh, too, and they both laughed until they could not stop themselves, and they laughed until the room echoed, and Mrs. Medlock, opening the door to come in, drew back into the corridor, and stood listening amazed. Well, upon my word, she said, speaking rather broad Yorkshire herself, because there was no one to hear her, and she was so astonished. Whoever heard the like, whoever on earth would have thought it. There was so much to talk about. It seemed as if Collin could never hear enough of Dickon and Captain and Surt and Nut and Shell and the pony whose name was Jump. Mary had run round into the wood with Dickon to see Jump. He was a tiny little shaggy moor pony with thick locks hanging over his eyes, and with a pretty face and a nuzzling velvet nose. He was rather thin with living on moor grass, but he was as tough and wiry as if the muscle in his little legs had been made of steel springs. He had lifted his head and whinnied softly the moment he saw Dickon, and he had trotted up to him and put his head across his shoulder, and then Dickon had talked into his ear, and Jump had talked back in all little whinnies and puffs and snorts. Dickon had made him give Mary a small front hoof, and kiss her on her cheek with his velvet muzzle. Does he really understand everything Dickon says? Collin asked. It seems as if he does, answered Mary. Dickon says anything will understand if you're friends with it for sure, but you have to be friends for sure. Collin lay quiet a little while, and his strange gray eyes seemed to be staring at the wall, but Mary saw he was thinking. I wish I was friends with things, he said at last, but I'm not. I never had anything to be friends with, and I can't bear people. Can't you bear me? asked Mary. Yes, I can, he answered. It's funny, but I even like you. Ben Weatherstaff said I was like him, said Mary. He said he'd warrant we'd both got the same nasty tempers. I think you're like him, too. We're all three alike. You and I am Ben Weatherstaff. He said we were neither of us much to look at, and we were as sour as we looked. But I don't feel as sour as I used to before I knew the Robin and Dickon. Did you feel as if you hated people? Yes, answered Mary without affectation. I should have detested you if I'd seen you before I saw the Robin and Dickon. Collin put out his thin hand and touched her. Mary, he said, I wish I hadn't said what I did about sending Dickon away. I hated you when you said he was like an angel, and I laugh at you, but—but perhaps he is. Well, it was rather funny to say it, she admitted frankly, because his nose does turn up, and he has a big mouth, and his clothes have patches all over them, and he talks broad Yorkshire. But—but if an angel did come to Yorkshire and live on the moor, if there was a Yorkshire angel, I believe he'd understand the green things, and know how to make them grow, and he would know how to talk to the wild creatures as Dickon does, and they'd know he was friends for sure. I shouldn't mind Dickon looking at me, said Collin. I want to see him. I'm glad you said that, answered Mary, because—because quite suddenly it came into her mind that this was the minute to tell him. Collin knew something new was coming. Because what? he cried eagerly. Mary was so anxious that she got up from her stool and came to him and caught hold of both his hands. Can I trust you? I trusted Dickon because birds trusted him. Can I trust you for sure—for sure? she implored. Her face was so solemn that he almost whispered his answer. Yes! Yes! Well, Dickon will come to see you tomorrow morning, and he'll bring his creatures with him. Oh! Oh! cried Collin out in delight. But that's not all. Mary went on almost pale with solemn excitement. The rest is better. There is a door into the garden. I found it. It is under the ivy on the wall. If he had been a strong, healthy boy, Collin would probably have shouted, Hooray! Hooray! Hooray! But he was weak and rather hysterical. His eyes grew bigger and bigger, and he gasped for breath. Oh! Mary! he cried out with half a sob. Shall I see it? Shall I get into it? Shall I live to get into it? And he clutched her hands and dragged her toward him. Of course you'll see it! snapped Mary indignantly. Of course you'll live to get into it! Don't be silly! And she was so unhysterical and natural and childish that she brought him to his senses, and he began to laugh at himself. And a few minutes afterwards she was sitting on her stool again, telling him not what she imagined the secret garden to be like, but what it really was. And Collin's aches and tiredness were forgotten, and he was listening and raptured. It is just what you thought it would be, he said at last. It sounds just as if you had really seen it. You know I said that when you told me first. Mary hesitated about two minutes, and then boldly spoke the truth. I had seen it. And I'd been in, she said. I found the key and got him weeks ago. But I dared tell you. I dared because I was so afraid I couldn't trust you for sure. End of Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Of The Secret Garden Of course Dr. Craven had been sent for the morning after Collin had had his tantrum. He was always sent for it once when such a thing occurred, and he always found, when he arrived, a white, shaken boy lying on his bed, sulky and still so hysterical that he was ready to break into fresh sobbing at the least word. In fact, Dr. Craven dreaded and detested the difficulties of these visits. On this occasion he was away from Missalthwaite Manor until afternoon. How is he? he asked Mrs. Medlock rather irritably when he arrived. He will break a blood vessel in one of those fits some day. The boy is half in stain with hysteria and soft indulgence. Well, sir, answered Mrs. Medlock, you'll scarcely believe your eyes when you see him. That plain, sour-faced child that's almost as bad as himself has just bewitched him. How she's done it, there's no telling. The Lord knows she's nothing to look at, and you scarcely ever hear her speak. But she did what none of us dared do. She just flew at him like a little cat last night, and stamped her feet and ordered him to stop screaming, and somehow she startled him so that he actually did stop. And this afternoon—well, just come up and see sir. It's past crediting. The scene which Dr. Craven beheld when he entered his patient's room was indeed rather astonishing to him. As Mrs. Medlock opened the door, he heard laughing and chattering. Colin was on his sofa in his dressing-gown, and he was sitting up quite straight, looking at a picture in one of the garden-books, and talking to the plain child, who at that moment could scarcely be called plain at all, because her face was so glowing with enjoyment. Those long spires of blue ones will have a lot of those, Colin was announcing, they're called Delfiniums. Dickon says their lark-spurs made big and grand, cried Mistress Mary, there are clumps there already. Then they saw Dr. Craven and stopped. Mary became quite still, and Colin looked fredful. I'm sorry to hear you were ill last night, my boy. Dr. Craven said a trifle nervously. He was rather a nervous man. I am better now, much better," Colin answered, rather like a raja. I am going out in my chair in a day or two, if it is fine. I want some fresh air. Dr. Craven sat down by him, and felt his pulse, and looked at him curiously. It must be a very fine day, he said, and you must be very careful not to tire yourself. Fresh air won't tire me," said the young raja. As there had been occasions when this same young gentleman had shrieked aloud with rage, and had insisted that fresh air would give him cold and kill him, it is not to be wondered at that his doctor felt somewhat startled. I thought you did not like fresh air, he said. I don't when I am by myself," replied the raja, but my cousin is going out with me. And the nurse, of course, suggested Dr. Craven. No, I will not have the nurse, so magnificently that Mary could not help remembering how the young native prince had looked with his diamonds and emeralds and pearls stuck all over him, and the great rubies on the small dark hand he had waved to command his servants to approach with salams and receive his orders. My cousin knows how to take care of me. I am always better when she is with me. She made me better last night. A very strong boy I know will push my carriage. Dr. Craven felt rather alarmed. If this tiresome hysterical boy should chance to get well, he himself would lose all chance of inheriting misalthuate. But he was not an unscrupulous man, though he was a weak one, and he did not intend to let him run into actual danger. He must be a strong and a steady boy, he said, and I must know something about him. Who is he? What is his name? It's Dickon," Mary spoke up suddenly. She felt somehow that everybody who knew the Moor must know Dickon, and she was right, too. She saw that in a moment Dr. Craven's serious face relaxed into a relieved smile. Oh, Dickon, he said. If it is Dickon, you will be safe enough. He is as strong as a Moorpony as Dickon. And he is trusty," said Mary. He is the trustiest lad of Yorkshire. She had been talking Yorkshire to Colin, and she forgot herself. Did Dickon teach you that? asked Dr. Craven, laughing outright. I am learning it as if it was French," said Mary rather coldly. It's like a native dialect in India. Very clever people try to learn them. I like it, and so does Colin. Well, well, he said. If it amuses you, perhaps it won't do you any harm. Did you take your bromide last night, Colin? No, Colin answered. I wouldn't take it at first, and after Mary made me quiet, she talked me to sleep in a low voice, without the spring creeping into a garden. That sound soothing," said Dr. Craven, more perplexed than ever and glancing sideways at Mistress Mary sitting on her stool and looking down silently at the carpet. You are evidently better, but you must remember. I don't want to remember," interrupted the rajah, appearing again. When I lie by myself and remember, I begin to have pains everywhere, and I think of things that make me begin to scream because I hate them so. If there was a doctor anywhere who could make you forget you were ill, instead of remembering it, I would have him brought here. And he waved a thin hand which ought really to have been covered with royal signet-wings made of rubies. It is because my cousin makes me forget that she makes me better. Dr. Craven had never made such a short stay after a tantrum. Usually he was obliged to remain a very long time and do a great many things. This afternoon he did not give any medicine or leave any new orders, and he was spared any disagreeable scenes. When he went downstairs he looked very thoughtful, and when he talked to Mrs. Medlock in the library, she felt that he was a much puzzled man. Well, sir, she ventured. Could you have believed it? It is certainly a new state of affairs, said the doctor. I believe Susan Sowerby's right. I do that, said Mrs. Medlock. I stopped in her cottage on my way to Thwaite yesterday, and had a bit of talk with her. And she says to me, Well, Sarah Anne, she may be a good child, and she may be a pretty one, but she's a child, and children need children. We went to school together, Susan Sowerby and me. She's the best sick nurse I know, said Dr. Craven. When I find her in a cottage, I know the chances are that I shall save my patient. Mrs. Medlock smiled. She was fond of Susan Sowerby. She's got away with her, has Susan. She went on quite volubly. I have been thinking all morning of one thing she said yesterday. She says, Once when I was given the children a bit of preach after they'd been fighting, I says to them all, Where I was at school, my geography told us the world was shaped like an orange, and I found out before I was ten, that the whole orange doesn't belong to nobody. No one owns more than his bit of a quarter, and there's times it seems like there's not enough quarters to go round. But don't you, none of you, think as you own the whole orange, or you'll find out you're mistaken, and you won't find it out without hard knocks. What children learns from children, she says, is that there's no sense in grabbing at the whole orange, peel and all. If you do, you'll likely not even get the pips, and them's too bitter to eat. She's a shrewd woman, said Dr. Craven putting on his coat. Well, she's got a way of saying things, and it Mrs. Medlock much pleased. Sometimes I've said to her, Eh, Susan, if you was a different woman, and didn't talk such broad Yorkshire, I've seen the times when I should have said you was clever. That night Colin slept without once awakening, and when he opened his eyes in the morning, he lay still and smiled without knowing it. Smiled because he felt so curiously comfortable. It was actually nice to be awake, and he turned over and stretched his limbs luxuriously. He felt as if tight strings which had held him had loosened themselves and let him go. He did not know that Dr. Craven would have said that his nerves had relaxed and rested themselves. Instead of lying and staring at the wall, and wishing he had not awakened, his mind was full of the plans he and Mary had made yesterday, of pictures of the garden, and of Dickon and his wild creatures. It was so nice to have things to think about. And he had not been awake more than ten minutes when he heard feet running along the corridor, and Mary was at the door. The next minute she was in the room, and had run across to his bed, bringing with her a waft of fresh air full of the scent of the morning. You've been out! You've been out! There's that nice smell of leaves, he cried. She had been running, and her hair was loose and blown, and she was bright with the air and pink-cheeked, though he could not see it. It's so beautiful, she said, a little breathless with her speed. You never saw anything so beautiful. It is come. I thought it had come that other morning, but it was only coming. It is here now. It is come. The spring, Dickon says so. Has it? cried Colin, and though he really knew nothing about it, he felt his heart beat. He actually sat up in bed. Open the window, he added, laughing half with joyful excitement, and half at his own fancy. Perhaps we may hear golden trumpets. And though he laughed, Mary was at the window in a moment, and in a moment more it was opened wide, and freshness, and softness, and scents, and bird songs were pouring through. That's fresh air, she said. Lie on your back and draw in long breaths of it. That's what Dickon does when he's lying on the moor. He says he feels it in his veins, and it makes him strong, and he feels as if he could live forever and ever. Breathe it and breathe it. She was only repeating what Dickon had told her, but she caught Colin's fancy. Forever and ever. Does it make him feel like that? he said. And he did as she told him, drawing in long, deep breaths over and over again, until he felt something quite new and delightful was happening to him. Mary was at his bedside again. Things are crowding up out of the earth, she ran on in a hurry, and there are flowers uncurling and buds on everything, and the green veil is covered nearly all the gray, and the birds are in such a hurry about their nests, for fear they may be too late, that some of them are even fighting for places in the secret garden. And the rose bushes look as wick as wick can be, and there are prim roses in the lanes and woods, and the seeds we planted are up, and Dickon has brought the fox and the crow and the squirrels, and a newborn lamb. And then she paused for a breath. The newborn lamb Dickon had found three days before, lying by its dead mother among the gorse bushes on the moor. It was not the first motherless lamb he had found, and he knew what to do with it. He had taken it to the cottage wrapped in his jacket, and he had let it lie near the fire, and had fed it with warm milk. It was a soft thing with a darling, silly baby-face, and legs rather long for its body. Dickon had carried it over the moor in his arms, and its feeding-bottle was in his pocket with a squirrel. And when Mary had sat under a tree with its limp warmness huddled on her lap, she had felt as if she were too full of strange joy to speak. A lamb! A lamb! A living lamb who lay on your lap like a baby. She was describing it with great joy, and Colin was listening and drawing in long breaths of air when the nurse entered. She started a little at the sight of the open window. She had sat stifling in the room many a warm day, because her patient was sure that open windows gave people cold. Are you sure you're not chilly, Master Colin? she inquired. No, was the answer. I am breathing long breaths of fresh air. It makes you strong. I am going to get up to the sofa for breakfast. My cousin will have breakfast with me. The nurse went away, concealing a smile to give the order for two breakfasts. She found the servants all a more amusing place than the invalids chamber, and just now everybody wanted to hear the news from upstairs. There was a great deal of joking about the unpopular young recluse who, as the cook said, had found his master in good for him. The servants' hall had been very tired of the tantrums, and the butler, who was a man with a family, had more than once expressed his opinion that the invalid would be all the better for a good hiding. When Colin was on his sofa, and the breakfast for two was put upon the table, he made an announcement to the nurse in his most raja-like manner. A boy and a fox and a crow and two squirrels and a newborn lamb are coming to see me this morning. I want them brought upstairs as soon as they come," he said. You are not to begin playing with the animals in the servants' hall and keep them there. I want them here. The nurse gave a slight gasp and tried to conceal it with a cough. Yes, sir, she answered. I'll tell you what you can do," added Colin, waving his hand. You can tell Martha to bring them here. The boy is Martha's brother. His name is Dickon, and he is an animal charmer. I hope the animals won't bite, Master Colin, said the nurse. I told you he was a charmer, said Colin austerely. Charmers' animals never bite. There are snake charmers in India, said Mary, and they can put their snake's heads in their mouths. Goodness! shut up the nurse. They ate their breakfast with the morning air pouring in upon them. Colin's breakfast was a very good one, and Mary watched him with serious interest. You will begin to get fatter just as I did, she said. I never wanted my breakfast when I was in India, and now I always wanted. I wanted mine this morning, said Colin. Perhaps it was the fresh air. When do you think Dickon will come? He was not longing coming. In about ten minutes Mary held up her hand. Listen, she said. Did you hear a call? Colin listened and heard it. The oddest sound in the world here inside a house. A horse, car, car. Yes, he answered. That's soot, said Mary. Listen again. Do you hear a bleat, a tiny one? Oh, yes! cried Colin, quite flushing. That's the newborn lamb, said Mary. He's coming. Dickon's maul and boots were thick and clumsy, and though he tried to walk quietly, they made a clumping sound as he walked through the long corridors. Mary and Colin heard him marching, marching, until he passed through the tapestry door onto the soft carpet of Colin's own passage. If you please, sir—announced Martha, opening the door— if you please, sir—here's Dickon and his creatures. Dickon came in smiling his nicest, wide smile. The newborn lamb was in his arms, and the little red fox trotted by his side. Knut sat on his left shoulder and soot on his right, and Shell's head and paws peeped out of his coat pocket. Colin slowly sat up and stared and stared, as he had stared when he first saw Mary. But this was a stare of wonder and delight. The truth was, that in spite of all he had heard, he had not in the least understood what this boy would be like, and that his fox and his crow and his squirrels and his lamb were so near to him and his friendliness, that they seemed almost to be part of himself. Colin had never talked to a boy in his life, and he was so overwhelmed by his own pleasure and curiosity, that he did not even think of speaking. But Dickon did not feel the least shy or awkward. He had not felt embarrassed because the crow had not known his language, and had only stared and had not spoken to him the first time they met. Creatures were always like that until they found out about you. He walked over to Colin's sofa and put the newborn lamb quietly on his lap, and immediately the little creature turned to the warm velvet dressing-gown and began to nuzzle and nuzzle into its folds, and but its tight-curled head with soft impatience against his side. Of course, no boy could have helped speaking then. What is it doing? cried Colin. What does it want? It wants his mother, said Dickon, smiling more and more. I brought it to thee a bit hungry, because I know that I'd like to see it feed. He knelt down by the sofa and took a feeding-bottle from his pocket. Come on, little one, he said, turning the small woolly white head with a gentle brown hand. This is what that's after. Thou'll get more out of this than thou will out of silk velvet coats. There now. And he pushed the rubbered tip of the bottle into the nuzzling mouth, and the lamb began to suck it with ravenous ecstasy. After that there was no wondering what to say. By the time the lamb fell asleep, questions poured forth, and Dickon answered them all. He told them how he had found the lamb, just as the sun was rising three mornings ago. He had been standing on the moor, listening to a skylark, and watching him swing higher and higher into the sky, until he was only a speck in the heights of blue. I'd almost lost him for a song, and I was wondering how a chap could hear it, when it seemed as if he'd get out of the world in a minute, and just then I heard something else far off among the coarse bushes. It was a weak bleaton, and I knowed it was a new lamb as was hungry, and I knowed it wouldn't be hungry, if it hadn't lost its muller somehow. So I set off searching. Ye, I did have a look for it. I went out among the coarse bushes, and round and round, and I always seemed to take the wrong turn in. But at last I seeed a bit of white by a rock on top of the moor, and I climbed up, and I found the little one half dead with cold and clement. While he talked, Soot flew solemnly in and out of the open window, and called remarks about the scenery, while Nat and Shell made excursions into the big trees outside, and ran up and down trunks and explored branches. Captain curled up near Dickon, who sat on the half-brug from preference. They looked at the pictures in the gardening books, and Dickon knew all the flowers by their country names, and knew exactly which ones were already growing in the secret garden. I couldn't say that their name, he said, pointing to one under which was written Aquilegia, but us calls that a Cullambine, and that there one it's a snap dragon, and they both grow wild in hedges, but these is garden ones, and they're bigger in grandeur. There's some clumps of Cullambine in the garden. They'll look like a better blue and white butterfly as flood-room when they're out. I'm going to see them," cried Colin. I am going to see them. I, that that one," said Mary quite seriously, and the man would lose no time about it. I shall live forever and ever and ever. But they were obliged to wait more than a week, because first there came some very windy days, and then Colin was threatened with a cold, which two things happening one after the other would no doubt have thrown him into a rage, but that there was so much careful and mysterious planning to do, and almost every day Dickon came in, if only for a few minutes, to talk about what was happening on the moor, and in the lanes and hedges and on the borders of streams. The things he had to tell about otters and badges and water-rats' houses, not to mention birds' nests and field mice in their burrows, were enough to make you almost tremble with excitement, when you heard all the intimate details from an animal charmer, and realised with what thrilling eagerness and anxiety the whole busy underworld was working. They're same as us, said Dickon, only they have to build their homes every year, and it keeps them so busy they're first scuffled again done. The most absorbing thing, however, was the preparations to be made before Colin could be transported with sufficient secrecy to the garden. No one must see the chair carriage and Dickon and Mary after they turned a certain corner of the shrubbery and entered upon the walk outside the ivied walls. As each day passed, Colin had become more and more fixed in his feeling that the mystery surrounding the garden was one of its greatest charms. Nothing must spoil that. No one must ever suspect that they had a secret. People must think that he was simply going out with Mary and Dickon because he liked them and did not object to their looking at him. They had long and quite delightful talks about their route. They would go up this path and down that one, and cross the other, and go round among the fountain-flower beds as if they were looking at the bedding out-plants the head gardener Mr. Roach had been having arranged. That would seem such a rational thing to do that no one would think it at all mysterious. They would turn into the shrubbery walks and lose themselves until they came to the long walls. It was almost as serious and elaborately thought out as the plans of March made by great generals in times of war. Rumours of the new and curious things which were occurring in the invalids' apartments had, of course, filtered through the servants' hall into the stable yards and out among the gardeners. But notwithstanding this, Mr. Roach was startled one day when he received orders from Master Colin's room to the effect that he must report himself in the apartment no outsider had ever seen as the invalid himself desired to speak to him. Well, well, he said to himself as he hurriedly changed his coat. What's to do now? His royal highness that wasn't to be looked at, calling up a man he's never set eyes on. Mr. Roach was not without curiosity. He had never caught even a glimpse of the boy and had heard a dozen exaggerated stories about his uncanny looks and ways and his insane tempers. The thing he had heard oftenest was that he might die at any moment, and there had been numerous fanciful descriptions of a humped back and helpless limbs given by people who had never seen him. Things are changing in this house, Mr. Roach, said Mrs. Medlock, as she led him up the back staircase to the corridor onto which opened the hitherto mysterious chamber. Let's hope they're changing for the better, Mrs. Medlock, he answered. He couldn't well change for the worse, she continued, and queer as it all is, as them as fine as their duties made a lot easier to stand up under. Don't you be surprised, Mr. Roach, if you find yourself in the middle of a menagerie, and Martha Sowerby's dicken more at home than you or me could ever be? There really was a sort of magic about dicken, as Mary always privately believed. When Mr. Roach heard his name, he smiled quite leniently. He'd be at home in Buckingham Palace or at the bottom of a cold mine, he said, and yet it's not impudence, either. He's just fine, is that lad. It was perhaps well he had been prepared, or he might have been startled. When the bedroom door was opened, a large crow, which seemed quite at home, perched on the high back of a caravan chair, announced the entrance of the visitor by saying, quite loudly. In spite of Mrs. Medlock's warning, Mr. Roach only just escaped being sufficiently undignified to jump backward. The young Raja was neither in bed nor on his sofa. He was sitting in an armchair, and a young lamb was standing by him shaking its tail in feeding lamb fashion, as dicken knelt, giving it milk from its bottle. A squirrel was perched on dicken's bent back, attentively nibbling a nut. The little girl from India was sitting on a big footstool looking on. Here is Mr. Roach, Master Colin, said Mrs. Medlock. The young Raja turned and looked his servitor over. At least, that was what the head gardener felt happened. Oh! You are Roach, are you? he said. I sent for you to give you some very important orders. Very good, sir, answered Roach, wondering if he was to receive instructions to fell all the oaks in the park, or to transform the orchards into water gardens. I am going out in my chair this afternoon, said Colin. If the fresh air agrees with me, I may go out every day. When I go, none of the gardeners are to be anywhere near the long walk by the garden walls. No one is to be there. I shall go out about two o'clock, and every one must keep away until I send word that they may go back to their work. Very good, sir, replied Mr. Roach, much relieved to hear that the oaks might remain, and that the orchards were safe. Mary, said Colin, turning to her. What is that thing you say in India when you have finished talking and want people to go? You say, you have my permission to go, answered Mary. The rajah waved his hand. You have my permission to go, Roach, he said. But remember, this is very important. Ca, ca! remarked the crow hoarsely, but not impolitely. Very good, sir. Thank you, sir, said Mr. Roach, and Mrs. Medlock took him out of the room. Outside in the corridor, being a rather good-natured man, he smiled until he almost laughed. My word, he said, he's got a fine lordly way with him, hasn't he? Newt think he was a whole royal family rolled into one, Prince Consort and all. Eh, protested Mrs. Medlock. We've had to let him trample over every one of us since he had feet, and he thinks that's what folks was born for. Perhaps he'll grow out of it if he lives, suggested Mr. Roach. Well, there's one thing pretty sure, said Mrs. Medlock. If he does live, and that Indian child stays here, I'll warrant she teaches him that the whole orange does not belong to him, as Susan Sourby says, and he'll be likely to find out the size of his own quarter. Inside the room, Colin was leaning back on his cushions. It's all safe now, he said, and this afternoon I shall see it. This afternoon I shall be in it. Dickon went back to the garden with his creatures, and Mary stayed with Colin. She did not think he looked tired, but he was very quiet before their lunch came, and he was quiet while they were eating it. She wondered why and asked him about it. What big eyes you've got, Colin, she said. When you are thinking, they get as big as saucers. What are you thinking about now? I can't help thinking about what it will look like, he answered. The garden, asked Mary, the spring time, he said. I was thinking that I've really never seen it before. I scarcely ever went out, and when I did go I never looked at it. I didn't even think about it. I never saw it in India because there wasn't any, said Mary. Shut in and morbid as his life had been, Colin had more imagination than she had, and at least he had spent a good deal of time looking at wonderful books and pictures. That morning when you ran in and said, It's come, it's come, you made me feel quite queer. It sounded as if things were coming with a great procession and big bursts and wafts of music. I've a picture like it in one of my books, crowds of lovely people and children with garlands and branches with blossoms on them, everyone laughing and dancing and crowding and playing on pipes. That was why I said, Perhaps we shall hear golden trumpets, and told you to throw open the window. How funny, said Mary, that's really just what it feels like, and if all the flowers and leaves and green things and birds and wild creatures danced past at once, what a crowd it would be. I'm sure they'd dance and sing and flute, and that would be the wafts of music. They both laughed, but it was not because the idea was laughable, but because they both so liked it. A little later the nurse made Colin ready. She noticed that instead of lying like a log while his clothes were put on, he sat up and made some efforts to help himself, and he talked and laughed with Mary all the time. This is one of his good days, sir, she said to Dr. Craven, who dropped in to inspect him, he's in such good spirits that it makes him stronger. I'll call in again later in the afternoon after he has come in, said Dr. Craven. I must see how the going out agrees with him. I wish, in a very low voice, that he would let you go with him. I'd rather give up the case this moment, sir, than even stay here while it's suggested, answered the nurse with sudden firmness. I hadn't really decided to suggest it, said the doctor with a slight nervousness. We'll try the experiment. Dickens a lad I'd trust with a newborn child. The strongest footman in the house carried Colin downstairs and put him in his wheeled chair near which Dickens waited outside. After the man-servant had arranged his rugs and cushions, the Raja waved his hand to him and to the nurse. You have my permission to go, he said, and they both disappeared quickly, and it must be confessed giggled when they were safely inside the house. Dickens began to push the wheeled chair slowly and steadily. Mistress Mary walked beside it, and Colin leaned back and lifted his face to the sky. The arch of it looked very high, and the small, snowy clouds seemed like white birds floating on outspread wings below its crystal blueness. The wind swept in soft, big breaths down from the moor, and were strange with a wild, clear-scented sweetness. Colin kept lifting his thin chest to draw it in, and his big eyes looked as if it were they which were listening, listening instead of his ears. There are so many sounds of singing and humming and calling out, he said. What is that scent the puffs of wind bring? It's the gorse on the moor that's opening out, answered Dickens. Hey, the bees are at it wonderful today! Not a human creature was to be caught sight of in the paths they took. In fact every gardener or gardener's lad had been witched away. But they wound in and out among the shrubbery and out and around the fountain beds, following their carefully planned route, for the mere mysterious pleasure of it. But when at last they turned into the long walk by the ivy walls, the excited sense of an approaching thrill made them, for some curious reason they could not have explained, begin to speak and whispers. This is it, breathed Mary. This is where I used to walk up and down and wonder and wonder. Is it? cried Colin, and his eyes began to search the ivy with eager curiousness. But I can see nothing, he whispered. There is no door. That's what I thought, said Mary. Then there was a lovely breathless silence, and the chair wheeled on. That is the garden where Ben Weatherstaff works, said Mary. Is it? said Colin. A few yards more and Mary whispered again. This is where the robin flew over the wall, she said. Is it? cried Colin. Oh, I wish he'd come again. And that, said Mary, with solemn delight, pointing under a big lilac bush, is where he perched on a little heap of earth and showed me the key. Then Colin sat up. Where? Where? There? he cried, and his eyes were as big as the wolfs in red riding-hood, when red riding-hood felt called upon to remark on them. Dickon stood still, and the wheeled chair stopped. And this, said Mary, stepping on to the bed close to the ivy, is where I went to talk to him when he chirped at me from the top of the wall. And this is the ivy, the wind blew back, and she took hold of the hanging green curtain. Oh, is it? Is it? gasped Colin. And here is the handle, and here is the door. Dickon, push him in, push him in quickly. And Dickon did it, with one strong, steady, splendid push. But Colin had actually dropped back against his cushions, even though he gasped with delight, and he had covered his eyes with his hands and held them there, shutting out everything until they were inside, and the chair stopped as if by magic, and the door was closed. Not till then did he take them away and look round and round and round, as Dickon and Mary had done. And over the walls and earth and trees and swinging sprays and tendrils, the fair green veil of tender little leaves had crept, and in the grass under the trees, and the grey urns in the alcoves, and here and there, everywhere, were touches or splashes of gold and purple and white, and the trees were showing pink and snow above his head, and there were fluttering of wings and faint sweet pipes and humming and scents and scents. And the sun fell warm upon his face, like a hand with a lovely touch. And in wonder Mary and Dickon stood and stared at him. He looked so strange and different, because a pink glow of colour had actually crept all over him, ivory face and neck and hands and all. I shall get well! I shall get well! he cried out. Mary, Dickon, I shall get well! And I shall live for ever and ever and ever! CHAPTER XXI One of the strange things about living in the world is that it is only now and then one is quite sure one is going to live forever and ever and ever. One knows it sometimes when one gets up at the tender, solemn dawn time, and goes out and stands alone and throws one's head far back, and looks up, and watches the pale sky slowly changing and flushing, and marvellous unknown things happening, until the East almost makes one cry out, and one's heart stands still at the strange, unchanging majesty of the rising of the sun, which has been happening every morning for thousands and thousands and thousands of years. One knows it then for a moment or so, and one knows it sometimes when one stands by oneself in a wood at sunset, and the mysterious deep gold stillness slanting through and under the branches seems to be saying slowly, again and again, something one cannot quite hear, however much one tries. Then sometimes the immense quiet of the dark blue at night with millions of stars waiting and watching makes one sure, and sometimes a sound of far-off music makes it true, and sometimes a look in someone's eyes. And it was like that with Colin when he first saw and heard and felt the springtime inside the four high walls of a hidden garden. That afternoon the whole world seemed to devote itself to being perfect and radiantly beautiful and kind to one boy. Perhaps out of pure heavenly goodness the spring came and crowned everything it possibly could into that one place. More than once Dickon paused in what he was doing, and stood still with a sort of growing wonder in his eyes, shaking his head softly. Hey, it is greatly, he said. I'm twelve going on thirteen, and there's a lot of afternoons in thirteen years, but it seems to me like I never seed one as greatly as this year. Aye, it is a greatly one, said Mary, and she sighed for me a joy. I'll warrant it's the greatest one as ever was in this world. Does that think, said Colin, with dreamy carefulness, as happened it was made like this year all of a purpose for me? My word, cried Mary admiringly, that there is a bitter good Yorkshire, thart-shape and first rate, that thart. And delight reigned. They drew the chair under the plum tree, which was snow white with blossoms and musical with bees. It was like a king's canopy, a fairy king's. There were flowering cherry trees near, and apple trees whose buds were pink and white, and here and there one had burst open wide. Between the blossoming branches of the canopy bits of blue sky looked down like wonderful eyes. Mary and Dickon worked a little here and there, and Colin watched them. They brought him things to look at, buds which were opening, buds which were tight closed, bits of twig whose leaves were just showing green, the feather of a woodpecker which had dropped on the grass, the empty shell of some bird early hatched. Dickon pushed the chair slowly round and round the garden, stopping every other moment to let him look at wonders springing out of the earth or trailing down from trees. It was like being taken in state round the country of a magic king and queen, and shown all the mysterious riches it contained. I wonder if we shall see the robin, said Colin. They'll see him often and now after a bit, answered Dickon. When the eggs hatches out, the little chap will be kept so busy it'll make his head swim. They'll see him flying backward and forward, carrying worms nigh as big as himself, and that much noise going on in the nest, when he gets there, as fair flusters him, so as he scarce knows which big mouth to drop the first piece in. And gaping beaks and squawks on every side. Mother says as when she sees the work a robin has to keep them gaping beaks filled, she feels like she was a lady with nothing to do. She says she's seen the little chaps when it seemed like the sweat must be dropping off them, though Fort can't see it. This made them giggle so delightedly that they were obliged to cover their mouths with their hands, remembering that they must not be heard. Colin had been instructed as to the law of whispers and low voices several days before. He liked the mysteriousness of it and did his best, but in the midst of excited enjoyment it is rather difficult never to laugh above a whisper. Every moment of the afternoon was full of new things, and every hour the sunshine grew more golden. The wheeled chair had been drawn back under the canopy, and Dickon sat down on the grass and had just drawn out his pipe, when Colin saw something he had not had time to notice before. That's a very old tree over there, isn't it? he said. Dickon looked across the grass at the tree, and Mary looked, and there was a brief moment of stillness. Yes, answered Dickon after it, and his low voice had a very gentle sound. Mary gazed at the tree and thought. The branches are quite gray, and there's not a single leaf anywhere, Colin went on. It's quite dead, isn't it? I admitted Dickon, but them roses as has climbed all over it will near hide every bit of the dead wood when they're full of leaves and flowers. It won't look dead then. It'll be the prettiest of all. Mary still gazed at the tree and thought. It looks as if a big branch had been broken off, said Colin. I wonder how it was done? It's been dawn many a year, answered Dickon. Hey! With a sudden relieved start and laying his hand on Colin, look at that robin! There he is! He's been foraging for his mate. Colin was almost too late, but he just caught sight of him—the flash of red-breasted bird with something in his beak. He darted through the greenness and into the close-grown corner and was out of sight. Colin leaned back on his cushion again, laughing a little. He's taking her tea to her. Perhaps it's five o'clock. I think I'd like some tea myself. And so they were safe. It was magic which sent the robin, said Mary secretly to Dickon afterward. I know it was magic. For both she and Dickon had been afraid Colin might ask something about the tree whose branch had broken off ten years ago, and they had talked it over together, and Dickon had stood and rubbed his head in a troubled way. We won't look as if it wasn't nor different from the other trees, he had said. We could never tell him how it broke, poor lad. If he says anything about it, we won't—we won't try to look cheerful. Aye, that we won, had answered Mary. But she had not felt as if she looked cheerful when she gazed at the tree. She wandered and wandered in those few moments if there was any reality in that other thing Dickon had said. He had gone on rubbing his rust red hair in a puzzled way, but a nice, comforted look had begun to grow in his blue eyes. Mrs. Craven was a very lovely young lady—he had gone on rather hesitatingly—and mother she thinks maybe she's about misal-thwait many a time, looking after Mr. Colin, same as all mothers do when they're took out of the world. They have to come back, that sees. Happened she's been in the garden, and happened it was her set us to work, and told us to bring him here. Mary had thought he meant something about magic. She was a great believer in magic. Secretly, she quite believed that Dickon worked magic—of course, good magic—on everything near him, and that was why people liked him so much, and wild creatures knew he was their friend. She wondered, indeed, if it were not possible that his gift had brought the robin just at the right moment when Colin asked that dangerous question. She felt that his magic was working all the afternoon, and making Colin look like an entirely different boy. It did not seem possible that he could be the crazy creature who had screamed and beaten and bitten his pillow. Even his ivory whiteness seemed to change. The faint glow of color which had shown on his face and neck and hands when he first got inside the garden, really never quite died away. He looked as if he were made of flesh, instead of ivory or wax. They saw the robin carry food to his mate two or three times, and it was so suggestive of afternoon tea that Colin felt they must have some. Go and make one of the men's servants bring some in a basket to the road-edendron walk, he said, and then you and Dickon can bring it here. It was an agreeable idea, easily carried out, and when the white cloth was spread upon the grass, with hot tea and buttered toast and crumpets, a delightfully hungry meal was eaten, and several birds on domestic errands paused to inquire what was going on, and were led into investigating crumbs with great activity. Nut and shell whisked up trees with pieces of cake, and soot took the entire half of a buttered crumpet into a corner, and pecked at and examined and turned it over and made horse remarks about it, until he decided to swallow it all joyfully in one gulp. The afternoon was dragging towards its mellow hour. The sun was deepening the gold of its lances. The bees were going home, and the birds were flying past less often. Dickon and Mary were sitting on the grass, the tea-basket was repacked, ready to be taken back to the house, and Colin was lying against his cushions, with his heavy locks pushed back from his forehead, and his face looking quite a natural colour. I don't want this afternoon to go, he said, but I shall come back tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after, and the day after. You'll get plenty of fresh air, won't you? said Mary. I'm going to get nothing else, he answered. I've seen the spring now, and I'm going to see the summer. I'm going to see everything grow here. I'm going to grow here myself. That thou will, said Dickon. I so love the walkin' about here, diggin' same as other froker for a long. Colin flushed tremendously. Walk! he said. Dig! Shall I? Dickon's glance at him was delicately cautious. Neither he nor Mary had ever asked if anything was the matter with his legs. For sure thou will, he said stoutly, that thou's got legs of thy own, same as other folks. Mary was rather frightened until she heard Colin's answer. Nothing really ails them, he said, but they're so thin and weak, they shake so that I'm afraid to try to stand on them. Both Mary and Dickon drew a relieved breath. When thou stops bein' afraid thou'llt stand on them, Dickon said with renewed cheer, and thou'llt stop bein' afraid in a bit. I shall, said Colin, and he lay still as if he were wondering about things. They were really very quiet for a little while. The sun was dropping lower. It was that hour when everything stills itself, and they really had had a busy and exciting afternoon. Colin looked as if he were resting luxuriously. Even the creatures had ceased moving about, and had drawn together and were resting near them. Soot had perched on a low branch and drawn up one leg, and dropped the gray film drowsily over his eyes. Mary privately thought he looked as if he might snore in a minute. In the midst of this stillness, it was rather startling when Colin half lifted his head and exclaimed in a loud, suddenly alarmed whisper, Who is that man? Dickon and Mary scrambled to their feet. Man! they both cried in low, quick voices. Colin pointed to the high wall. Look! he whispered excitedly. Just look! Mary and Dickon wheeled about and looked. There was Ben Weatherstaff's indignant face glaring at them over the wall from the top of a ladder. He actually shook his fist at Mary. If I wasn't a bachelor, and thou was a winch of mine, he cried, I'd give thee a hidein.' He mounted another step threateningly, as if it were his energetic intention to jump down and deal with her. But as she came toward him, he evidently thought better of it, and stood on the top step of his ladder, shaking his fist down at her. I never thought much of thee, he harangued. I could now bide thee the first time I set eyes on thee. A scrawny, buttermilk-faced young besom, all usaskin' questions and poke in thy nose where it wasn't a-wanted. I never know'd how thou got so thick with me, if it hadn't have been for the Robin, drat him. Ben Weatherstaff, called out Mary finding her breath, she stood below him and called up to him with a sort of gasp. Ben Weatherstaff, it was the Robin who showed me the way. Then it did seem, as if Ben really would scramble down on her side of the wall, he was so outraged. Thou young badden, he called down at her, layin' thy badness on a Robin, not but what he's impotent to know for anythin'. Him showin' thee the way, him, thy young note. She could see his next words burst out because he was overpowered by curiosity. How ever in the world did that get in? It was the Robin who showed me the way, she protested obstinately. He didn't know he was doing it, but he did. And I can't tell you from here why you're shaking a fist at me. He stopped shaking his fist very suddenly at that very moment, and his jaw actually dropped as he stared over her head at something he saw coming over the grass toward him. At the first sound of his torrent of words, Colin had been so surprised that he had only sat up and listened as if he were spellbound. But in the midst of it he had recovered himself and beckoned imperiously to Dickon. Weal me over there, he commanded. Weal me quite close and stop right in front of him. And this, if you please, this is what Ben Weatherstaff beheld, and which made his jaw drop. A wheeled chair with luxurious cushions and robes which came toward him, looking rather like some sort of state coach, because a young raja leaned back in it with royal command in his great black rim-dyes, and a thin white hand extended haughtily toward him. And it stopped right under Ben Weatherstaff's nose. It was really no wonder his mouth dropped open. Do you know who I am? demanded the raja. How Ben Weatherstaff stared. His red old eyes fixed themselves on what was before him, as if he were seeing a ghost. He gazed and gazed and gulped a lump down his throat, and did not say a word. Do you know who I am? demanded Colin still more imperiously. Answer! Ben Weatherstaff put his gnarled hand up and past it over his eyes and over his forehead. And then he did answer, in a queer, shaky voice. Who the art? he said. I, that I do, with that mother's eyes staring at me out of that face. Lord knows how that come here, but there at the poor cripple. Colin forgot that he had ever had a back. His face flushed scarlet, and he sat bolt upright. I'm not a cripple! he cried out furiously. I'm not! He's not! cried Mary, almost shouting up the wall in her fierce indignation. He's not got a lump as big as a pin. I looked, and there was none there, not one. Ben Weatherstaff passed his hand over his forehead again, and gazed as if he could never gaze enough. His hand shook, and his mouth shook, and his voice shook. He was an ignorant old man, a tactless old man, and he could only remember the things he had heard. That, that hasn't got a crooked back, he said hoarsely. No! shouted Colin. That, that hasn't got crooked legs, quavered Ben more hoarsely still. It was too much. The strength which Colin usually threw into his tantrums rushed through him now in a new way. Never yet had he been accused of crooked legs, even in whispers, and the perfectly simple belief in their existence, which was revealed by Ben Weatherstaff's voice, was more than raja flesh and blood could endure. His anger and insulted pride made him forget everything but this one moment, and filled him with a power he had never known before, an almost unnatural strength. Come here! he shouted to Dickon, and he actually began to tear the coverings off his lower limbs and disentangle himself. Come here, come here this minute! Dickon was by his side in a second. Mary caught her breath in a short gasp, and felt her self turn pale. He can do it, he can do it, he can do it, he can! She gabbled over to herself under her breath as fast as ever she could. There was a brief fierce scramble. The rugs were tossed on the ground. Dickon held Colin's arm. The thin legs were out. The thin feet were on the grass. Colin was standing upright, upright, as straight as an arrow, and looking strangely tall. His head thrown back, and his strange eyes flashing, lightning. Look at me! he flung up at Ben Weatherstaff. Just look at me, you! Just look at me! He's as straight as I am! cried Dickon. He's as straight as any lad in Yorkshire. What Ben Weatherstaff did, Mary thought queer beyond measure. He choked and gulped, and suddenly tears ran down his weather-wrinkled cheeks, as he struck his old hands together. Hey! he burst forth. The lies forked tells. The art is thin as a lath, and as white as a wreath. But there's not a knob on thee. I'll make a morn yet. God bless thee! Dickon held Colin's arm strongly, but the boy had not begun to falter. He stood straighter and straighter, and looked Ben Weatherstaff in the face. I'm your master, he said, when my father is away, and you are to obey me. This is my garden. Don't dare to say a word about it. You get down from that ladder and go out to the long walk, and Miss Mary will meet you and bring you here. I want to talk to you. We did not want you, but now you will have to be in the secret. Be quick. Ben Weatherstaff's crabbed old face was still wet, with that one queer rush of tears. It seemed as if he could not take his eyes from thin, straight Colin standing on his feet, with his head thrown back. Hey, lad! he almost whispered. Hey, my lad! And then, remembering himself, he suddenly touched his hat, gardener fashion, and said, Yes, sir, yes, sir! and obediently disappeared as he descended the ladder. End of Chapter 21 Chapter 22 of The Secret Garden This Librivox recording is in the public domain, recording by Karen Savage. The Secret Garden, by Francis Hodgson Burnett. Chapter 22 When the Sun Went Down When his head was out of sight, Colin turned to Mary. Go and meet him, he said, and Mary flew across the grass to the door under the ivy. Dickon was watching him with sharp eyes. There were scarlet spots on his cheeks, and he looked amazing, but he showed no signs of spalling. I can stand, he said, and his head was still held up, and he said it quite grandly. I told thee thou could as soon as I stopped being afraid, answered Dickon, and thou stopped. Yes, I've stopped, said Colin. Then suddenly he remembered something Mary had said. Are you making magic? he asked sharply. Dickon's curly mouth spread in a cheerful grin. Thou's doing magic thyself, he said. It's same magic as makes the easier work out of the earth, and he touched with this thick boot a clump of crocuses in the grass. Colin looked down at them. Aye, he said slowly. There could not be bigger magic than that there. There could not be. He drew himself up straighter than ever. I'm going to walk to that tree, he said, pointing to one a few feet away from him. I'm going to be standing when Weatherstaff comes here. I can rest against the tree if I like. When I want to sit down, I will sit down, but not before. Bring a rug from the chair. He walked to the tree, and though Dickon held his arm, he was wonderfully steady. When he stood against the tree-trunk, it was not too plain that he supported himself against it, and he still held himself so straight that he looked tall. When Ben Weatherstaff came through the door in the wall, he saw him standing there, and he heard Mary muttering something under her breath. What art saiyan! he asked rather testily, because he did not want his attention distracted from the long, thin, straight, boy-figure and proud face. But she did not tell him. What she was saying was this. You can do it. You can do it. I told you you could. You can do it. You can. She was saying it to Colin, because she wanted to make magic and keep him on his feet, looking like that. She could not bear that he should give in before Ben Weatherstaff. He did not give in. She was uplifted by a sudden feeling that he looked quite beautiful in spite of his thinness. He fixed his eyes on Ben Weatherstaff in his funny, imperious way. Look at me, he commanded. Look at me all over. Am I a hunchback? Have I got crooked legs? Ben Weatherstaff had not quite got over his emotion, but he had recovered a little, and answered almost in his usual way. Not there, he said, now to the sort. What's that Ben doing with thy cell, hiding out a sight and letting folk think thou was cripple and half-witted? Half-witted! said Colin angrily. Who thought that? Lots of fools, said Ben. The world's full of jackasses, brainy, and they never brain out but lies. What did that shut thyself up for? Everyone thought I was going to die, said Colin shortly. I'm not. And he said it with such decision Ben Weatherstaff looked him over, up and down, down and up. Thou die, he said with dry exultation. Now to the sort. Thou's got too much pluck in thee. When I see thee, put thy legs on the ground in such a hurry, I knowed thou was all right. Sit thee down on the rug a bit, young master, and give me thy orders. There was a queer mixture of craved tenderness and shrewd understanding in his manner. Mary had poured out speeches rapidly as she could, as they had come down the long walk. The chief thing to be remembered, she had told him, was that Colin was getting well, getting well. The garden was doing it. No one must let him remember about having humps and dying. The Raja condescended to seat himself on a rug under the tree. What work do you do in the garden's weatherstaff, he inquired. Anything I'm told to do, answered old Ben. I'm kept on by favour, because she liked me. She, said Colin, thy mother, answered Ben Weatherstaff. My mother, said Colin, and he looked about him quietly. This was her garden, wasn't it? Aye, it was that, and Ben Weatherstaff looked about him too. She were main fond of it. It is my garden now, I am fond of it. I shall come here every day, announced Colin, but it is to be a secret. My orders are that no one is to know that we come here. Dickon and my cousin have worked and made it come alive. I shall send for you sometimes to help, but you must come when no one can see you. Ben Weatherstaff's face twisted itself in a dry old smile. I've come here before when no one saw me, he said. What? exclaimed Colin. When? The last time I was here, rubbing his chin and looking around, was about two years ago. But no one has been in it for ten years, cried Colin. There was no door. I'm no one, said old Ben dryly, and I didn't come through the door. I come over the wall. The rheumatics held me back the last two years. That come indeed a bit of pruning, cried Dickon. I couldn't make out how it had been done. She was so fond of it she was, said Ben Weatherstaff slowly, and she was such a pretty young thing. She says to me once, Ben, says she, laughing, if ever I mill or if I go away, you must take care of my roses. When she did go away, the orders was no one was ever to come nigh. But I come, with grumpy obstinacy, over the wall I come, until the rheumatics stopped me, and I did a bit of work once a year. She'd gave her order first. It wouldn't have been as weak as it is if I hadn't done it, said Dickon. I did wonder. I'm glad you did it, Weatherstaff, said Colin. You'll know how to keep the secret. I'll know, sir, answered Ben, and it'll be easier for a man with rheumatics to come in at the door. On the grass near the tree Mary had dropped her trowel. Colin stretched out his hand and took it up. A nod expression came into his face, and he began to scratch at the earth. His thin hand was weak enough, but presently as they watched him, Mary with quite breathless interest, he drove the end of the trowel into the soil, and turned some over. You can do it, you can do it, said Mary to herself. I tell you you can. Dickon's round eyes were full of eager curiousness, but he said not a word. Ben Weatherstaff looked on with interested face. Colin persevered. After he had turned a few trowelfuls of soil, he spoke exultantly to Dickon in his best Yorkshire. Thou saidest that I've me walkin' about here, same as other folk, and thou saidest that I've me Dickon. I thought that was just Leon to please me. This is only the first day, and I've walked, and here I am Dickon. Ben Weatherstaff's mouth fell open again when he heard him, but he ended by chuckling. He he said, That sounds as if that got Whitsynow. That a Yorkshire lad for sure, and that Dickon too. How d thou like to plant a bit of something? I can get thee a rose in a pot. Go and get it! said Colin, digging excitedly. Quick, quick! It was done quickly enough indeed. Ben Weatherstaff went his way for getting rheumatics. Dickon took his spade and dug the hole deeper and wider than a new digger with thin, wide hands could make it. Mary slipped out to run and bring back a watering can. When Dickon had deepened the hole, Colin went on turning the soft earth over and over. He looked up at the sky, flushed and glowing with the strangely new exercise, slight as it was. I want to do it before the sun goes quite, quite down, he said. Mary thought that perhaps the sun held back a few minutes just on purpose. Ben Weatherstaff brought the rose in its pot from the greenhouse. He hobbled over the grass as fast as he could. He had begun to be excited too. He knelt down by the hole and broke the pot from the mould. Here, lad, he said, handing the plant to Colin, set it in the earth thyself, same as the king does when he goes to a new place. The thin, wide hands shook a little, and Colin's flush grew deeper as he set the rose in the mould and held it, while old Ben made firm the earth. It was filled in and pressed down and made steady. Mary was leaning forward on her hands and knees. Soot had flown down and marched forward to see what was being done. Nutt and Shell chatted about it from a cherry tree. It's planted, said Colin at last, and the sun is only slipping over the edge. Help me up, Dickon! I want to be standing when it goes. That's part of the magic. And Dickon helped him, and the magic, or whatever it was, so gave him strength, that when the sun did slip over the edge and end the strange lovely afternoon for them, there he actually stood, on his two feet, laughing. End of CHAPTER XXII Dr. Craven had been waiting some time at the house when they returned to it. He had indeed begun to wonder if it might not be wise to send someone out to explore the garden paths. When Colin was brought back to his room, the poor man looked him over seriously. You should not have stayed so long, he said. You must not overexert yourself. I am not tired at all, said Colin. It has made me well. Tomorrow I am going out in the morning as well as in the afternoon. I am not sure that I can allow it, answered Dr. Craven. I am afraid it would not be wise. It would not be wise to try to stop me, said Colin quite seriously. I am going. Even Mary had found out that one of Colin's chief peculiarities was that he did not know in the least what a rude little brute he was with his way of ordering people about. He had lived on a sort of desert island all his life, and as he had been the king of it, he had made his own manners, and it had no one to compare himself with. Mary had indeed been rather like him herself, and since she had been at misalthuate, had gradually discovered that her own manners had not been of the kind which is usual or popular. Having made this discovery, she naturally thought it of enough interest to communicate to Colin. So she sat and looked at him curiously for a few minutes after Dr. Craven had gone. She wanted to make him ask her why she was doing it, and of course, she did. What are you looking at me for? he said. I am thinking that I am rather sorry for Dr. Craven. So am I, said Colin calmly, but not without an error of some satisfaction. He won't get misalthuate at all now I am not going to die. I am sorry for him because of that, of course, said Mary, but I was thinking just then that it must have been very horrid to have had to be polite for ten years to a boy who was always rude. I would never have done it. Am I rude? Colin inquired undisturbedly. If you had been his own boy, and he had been a slapping sort of man, said Mary, he would have slapped you. But he dared, said Colin. No, he dared, answered Mistress Mary, thinking the thing out quite without prejudice. Nobody ever dared to do anything you didn't like, because you were going to die in things like that. You were such a poor thing. But—announced Colin stubbornly—I am not going to be a poor thing. I won't let people think I am one. I stood on my feet this afternoon. It is always having your own way that has made you so queer. Mary went on, thinking aloud. Colin turned his head, frowning. Am I queer? he demanded. Yes. Answered Mary. Very. But you needn't be cross, she added impartially, because so am I queer, and so is Ben Weatherstaff. But I am not as queer as I was before I began to like people, and before I found the garden. I don't want to be queer, said Colin. I am not going to be. And he frowned again with determination. He was a very proud boy. He lay thinking for a while, and then Mary saw his beautiful smile begin, and gradually change his whole face. I shall stop being queer, he said, if I go every day to the garden. There is magic in there. Good magic, you know, Mary. I am sure there is. So am I, said Mary. Even if it isn't real magic, Colin said, we can pretend it is. Something is there. Something. It's magic, said Mary, but not black. It's as white as snow. They always called it magic, and indeed it seemed like it in the months that followed, the wonderful months, the radiant months, the amazing ones. Oh! the things which happened in that garden! If you have never had a garden you cannot understand, and if you have had a garden, you will know that it would take a whole book to describe all that came to pass there. At first it seemed that green things would never cease pushing their way through the earth, in the grass, in the beds, even in the crevices of the walls. Then the green things began to show buds, and the buds began to unfurl and show color, every shade of blue, every shade of purple, every tint and hue of crimson. In its happy days flowers had been tucked away into every inch and hole and corner. Ben Weatherstaff had seen it done, and had himself scraped out mortar from between the bricks of the wall, and made pockets of earth for lovely clinging things to grow on. Iris and white lilies rose out of the grass and sheaves, and the green alcoves filled themselves with amazing armies of the blue and white flower lances of tall delphiniums, or columbines, or campanulas. She was main fund of them she was, Ben Weatherstaff said. She liked them things as was always pointing up to the blue sky, she used to tell. Not as she was one of them as looked down on earth, not her. She just loved it, but she said as the blue sky always looked so joyful. The seeds Dickon and Mary had planted grew as if fairies attended them. Satiny poppies of all tints danced in the breeze by the score, gaily defying flowers which had lived in the garden for years, and which it might be confessed, seemed rather to wonder how such new people had got there. And the roses, the roses, rising out of the grass, tangled around the sundial, breathing the tree trunks and hanging from their branches, climbing up the walls and spreading over them with long garlands falling in cascades. They came alive day by day, hour by hour. Fair fresh leaves and buds, and buds, tiny at first, but swelling and working magic until they burst and uncurled into cups of scent delicately spilling themselves over their brims and filling the garden air. Colin saw it all, watching each change as it took place. Every morning he was brought out, and every hour of each day when it didn't rain he spent in the garden. Even grey days pleased him. He would lie on the grass, watching things growing, he said. If you watched long enough, he declared, you could see buds unsheath themselves. Also you could make the acquaintance of strange, busy insect things running about on various unknown, but evidently serious, errands, sometimes carrying tiny scraps of straw or feather or food, or climbing blades of grass as if they were trees, from whose tops one could look out and explore the country. A mole throwing up its mound at the end of its burrow, and making its way out at last with the long-nailed paws which looked so like elfish hands, had absorbed him one whole morning. Ants' ways, beetles' ways, bees' ways, frogs' ways, birds' ways, plants' ways gave him a new world to explore, and when Dickon revealed them all and added foxes' ways, otters' ways, ferrets' ways, squirrels' ways, and trout and water-rats and badgers' ways, there was no end to the things to talk about and think over. And this was not half of the magic. The fact that he had really once stood on his feet had set Colin thinking tremendously, and when Mary told him of the spell she had worked, he was excited and approved of it greatly. He talked of it constantly. Of course there must be lots of magic in the world, he said wisely one day, but people don't know what it is like or how to make it. Perhaps the beginning is just to say nice things are going to happen until you make them happen. I am going to try and experiment. The next morning, when they went to the secret garden, he centred once for Benweather staff. Ben came as quickly as he could, and found the Raja standing on his feet under a tree and looking very grand, but also very beautifully smiling. Good morning, Benweather staff, he said. I want you and Dickon and Miss Mary to stand in a row and listen to me, because I am going to tell you something very important. Hi, hi, sir! answered Benweather staff, touching his forehead. One of the long concealed charms of Benweather staff was that in his boyhood he had once run away to sea, and had made voyages, so he could reply like a sailor. I am going to try a scientific experiment, explained the Raja. When I grow up, I am going to make great scientific discoveries, and I am going to begin now with this experiment. Hi, hi, sir! said Benweather staff promptly, though this was the first time he had heard of great scientific discoveries. It was the first time Mary had heard of them either, but even at this stage she had begun to realize that, queer as he was, Colin had read about a great many singular things, and was somehow a very convincing sort of boy. When he held up his head and fixed his strange eyes on you, it seemed as if you believed him almost in spite of yourself, though he was only ten years old, going on eleven. At this moment he was especially convincing, because he suddenly felt the fascination of actually making a sort of speech like a grown-up person. The great scientific discoveries I am going to make, he went on, will be about magic. Magic is a great thing, and scarcely any one knows anything about it, except a few people in old books, and Mary a little because she was born in India where there are fakirs. I believe Dickon knows some magic, but perhaps he doesn't know he knows it. He charms animals and people. I would never have let him come to see me if he had not been an animal-charmer, which is a boy-charmer too, because a boy is an animal. I am sure there is magic in everything. Only we have not sense enough to get hold of it, and make it do things for us, like electricity and horses and steam. This sounded so imposing that Ben Weatherstaff became quite excited, and really could not keep still. I-I, sir," he said, and he began to stand up quite straight. When Mary found this garden it looked quite dead, the orator proceeded. Then something began pushing things up out of the soil, and making things out of nothing. One day things weren't there, and another they were. I had never watched things before, and it made me feel very curious. Scientific people are always curious, and I am going to be scientific. I keep saying to myself, What is it? What is it? It's something, it can't be nothing. I don't know its name, so I call it magic. I have never seen the sunrise, but Mary and Dick can have, and from what they tell me, I am sure that is magic too. Something pushes it up and draws it. Sometimes, since I've been in the garden, I have looked up through the trees of the sky, and I have had a strange feeling of being happy, as if something were pushing and drawing in my chest and making me breathe fast. Magic is always pushing and drawing and making things out of nothing. Everything is made out of magic, leaves and trees, flowers and birds, badges and foxes and squirrels and people, so it must be all around us. In this garden, in all the places, the magic in this garden has made me stand up and know I am going to live to be a man. I am going to make the scientific experiment of trying to get some, and put it in myself and make it push and draw me and make me strong. I don't know how to do it, but I think that if you keep thinking about it and calling it, perhaps it will come. Perhaps that is the first baby way to get it. When I was going to try to stand that first time, Mary kept saying to herself as fast as she could, you can do it, you can do it, and I did. I had to try myself at the same time, of course, but her magic helped me, and so did Dickens. Every morning and evening, and as often in the day-time as I can remember, I am going to say, magic is in me, magic is making me well, I am going to be as strong as Dickens, as strong as Dickens, and you must all do it too. That is my experiment. Will you help, Benweatherstaff? Ai-ai, sir! said Benweatherstaff. Ai-ai. If you keep doing it every single day as regularly as soldiers go through drill, we shall see what will happen, and find out if the experiment succeeds. You learn things by saying them over and over and thinking about them until they stay in your mind for ever, and I think it will be the same with magic. If you keep calling it to come to you and help you, it will get to be part of you, and it will stay and do things. I once heard an officer in India tell my mother that there were Fakirs who said words over and over thousands of times, said Mary. I've heard Gem Fettleworth's wife say the same than over thousands of times. Colin Gemma drunken brute, said Benweatherstaff dryly. Some it always comes without sure enough. He gave her a good hyden, and went to the blue lion, and got as drunk as a lord. Colin drew his brows together and thought a few minutes. Then he cheered up. Well, he said, you see, something did come of it. She used the wrong magic until she made him beat her. If she'd used the right magic, and had said something nice, perhaps he wouldn't have got as drunk as a lord, and perhaps he might have bought her a new bonnet. Benweatherstaff chuckled, and there was a shrewd admiration in his little old eyes. That a clever lad, as well as a straight-legged one, missed her, Colin, he said. Next time I see best Fettleworth, I'll give her a bitter hint to what magical do for her. She'd be rare and pleased if the scientific experiment worked, and so'd Gem. Dickon had stood listening to the lecture, his round eyes shining with curious delight. Nut and shell were on his shoulders, and he held a long-eared white rabbit in his arm, and stroked and stroked it softly, while it laid its ears along its back and enjoyed itself. Do you think the experiment will work? Colin asked him, wondering what he was thinking. He so often wondered what Dickon was thinking when he saw him looking at him, or at one of his creatures, with his happy, wide smile. He smiled now, and his smile was wider than usual. I, he answered, that I do. It'll work the same as the seeds do when the sun shines on them. It'll work for sure. Shall us begin it now? Colin was delighted, and so was Mary. Fired by recollections of faquirs and devotees and illustrations, Colin suggested that they should all sit cross-legged under the tree which made a canopy. It will be like sitting in a sort of temple, said Colin. I'm rather tired, and I want to sit down. Hey! said Dickon. Thou mustn't begin by saying that tired. Thou must spoil the magic. Colin turned and looked at him into his innocent round eyes. That's true, he said slowly. I must only think of the magic. It all seemed most majestic and mysterious when they sat down in their circle. Ben Weatherstar felt as if he had somehow been led into appearing at a prayer meeting. Ordinarily he was very fixed in being what he called, again prayer meetings. But this being the Rajah's affair, he did not resent it, and was indeed inclined to be gratified at being called upon to assist. Mistress Mary felt solemnly enraptured. Dickon held his rabbit in his arm, and perhaps he made some charmer's signal no one heard, for when he sat down, cross-legged like the rest, the crow, the fox, the squirrels, and the lamb slowly drew near and made part of the circle, settling each into a place of rest as if of their own desire. The creatures have come, said Colin gravely. They want to help us. Colin really looked quite beautiful, Mary thought. He held his head high, as if he felt like a sort of priest, and his strange eyes had a wonderful look in them. The light shone on him through the tree canopy. Now we will begin, he said. Shall we sway backward and forward, Mary, as if we were dervishes? I cannot do no swaying backward and forward, said Ben Weatherstaff. I have got the rheumatics. The magic will take them away, said Colin in a high priest tone. But we won't sway until it has done it. We will only chant. I cannot do no chanting, said Ben Weatherstaff a trifle testily. They turned me out of the church choir the only time I ever tried it. No one smiled. They were all too much in earnest. Colin's face was not even crossed by a shadow. He was thinking only of the magic. Then I will chant, he said, and he began, looking like a strange boy-spirit. The sun is shining. The sun is shining. That is the magic. The flowers are growing. The roots are stirring. That is the magic. Being alive is the magic. Being strong is the magic. The magic is in me. The magic is in me. It is in me. It is in me. It is in every one of us. It is in Ben Weatherstaff's back. Magic. Magic. Come and help. He said it a great many times, not a thousand times, but quite a goodly number. Mary listened and tranced. She felt as if it were at once queer and beautiful, and she wanted him to go on and on. Ben Weatherstaff began to feel soothed into a sort of dream which was quite agreeable. The humming of the bees and the blossoms mingled with the chanting voice and drowsily melted into a dose. Dickon sat cross-legged with his rabidest sleep on his arm, and a hand resting on the lamb's back. Surt had pushed away a squirrel and huddled close to him on his shoulder. The gray film dropped over his eyes. At last Colin stopped. Now I am going to walk around the garden, he announced. Ben Weatherstaff's head had just dropped forward, and he lifted it with a jerk. You have been asleep, said Colin. Now to the sort, mumbled Ben. Sermon was good now, but I am bound to get out of for the collection. He was not quite awake yet. You're not in church, said Colin. Not me, said Ben, straightening himself. Who said I were? I heard every bit of it. You said the magic was in my back. The doctor calls it rheumatics. The rajah waved his hand. That was the wrong magic, he said. You will get better. You have my permission to go to your work, but come back to-morrow. I'd like to see thee walk around the garden, grunted Ben. It was not an unfriendly grunt, but it was a grunt. In fact, being a stubborn old party and not having entire faith and magic, he had made up his mind that if he were sent away he would climb his ladder and look over the wall so that he might be ready to hobble back if there were any stumbling. The rajah did not object to his staying, and so the procession was formed. It really did look like a procession. Colin was at its head with Dickon on one side and Mary on the other. Ben Weatherstaff walked behind, and the creatures trailed after them, the lamb and the fox cub keeping close to Dickon, the white rabbit hopping along or stopping to nibble, and soot following with the solemnity of a person who felt himself in charge. It was a procession which moved slowly but with dignity. Every few yards it stopped to rest. Colin leaned on Dickon's arm, and privately Ben Weatherstaff kept a sharp look out. But now and then Colin took his hand away from its support and walked a few steps alone. His head was held up all the time, and he looked very grand. The magic is in me, he kept saying. The magic is making me strong. I can feel it. I can feel it. It seemed very certain that something was upholding and uplifting him. He sat on the seeds in the alcoves, and once or twice he sat down on the grass, and several times he paused in the path and leaned on Dickon, but he would not give up until he had gone all around the garden. When he returned to the canopy-tree his cheeks were flushed, and he looked triumphant. I did it! The magic worked, he cried. That is my first scientific discovery. What will Dr. Craven say? broke out Mary. He won't say anything, Colin answered, because he will not be told. This is to be the biggest secret of all. No one is to know anything about it until I have grown so strong that I can walk and run like any other boy. I shall come here every day in my chair, and I shall be taken back in it. I won't have people whispering and asking questions, and I won't let my father hear about it until the experiment has quite succeeded. Then, some time when he comes back to Misslethwait, I shall just walk into a study and say, Here I am. I am like any other boy. I am quite well, and I shall live to be a man. It has to be done by a scientific experiment. He will think he is in a dream, cried Mary. He won't believe his eyes. Colin flushed triumphantly. He had made himself believe that he was going to get well, which was really more than half the battle, if he had been aware of it. And the thought which stimulated him more than any other was this imagining what his father would look like when he saw that he had a son who was as straight and strong as other father's sons. One of his darkest miseries in the unhealthy, morbid past days, had been his hatred of being a sickly, weak-backed boy whose father was afraid to look at him. He'll be obliged to believe them, he said. One of the things I am going to do after the magic works, and before I begin to make scientific discoveries, is to be an athlete. We shall have thee taken to boxing in a week or so, said Ben Weatherstaff. Thoualt end will win in the belt, and be in champion-priced fighter of all England. Colin fixed his eyes on him sternly. Weatherstaff, he said, that is disrespectful. You must not take liberties, because you are in the secret. However much the magic works, I shall not be a prize-fighter. I shall be a scientific discoverer." Axe pardoned. Axe pardoned, sir. Answered Ben, touching his forehead in salute. I ought to have seen it wasn't a joke in matter. But his eyes twinkled, and secretly he was immensely pleased. He really did not mind being snubbed, since the snubbing meant that the lad was gaining strength and spirit.