For two or three minutes he stood looking round him,while Mary watched him, and then he began to walkabout softly, even more lightly than Mary had walked thefirst time she had found herself inside the four walls.

　　His eyes seemed to be taking in everything--the gray treeswith the gray creepers climbing over them and hangingfrom their branches, the tangle on the walls and amongthe grass, the evergreen alcoves with the stone seatsand tall flower urns standing in them.

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

　　"Did you know about it?" asked Mary.

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

　　"We must talk low," he said, "or some one'll hear us an'

　　wonder what's to do in here.""Oh! I forgot!" said Mary, feeling frightened and puttingher hand quickly against her mouth. "Did you know aboutthe garden?" she asked again when she had recovered herself.

　　Dickon nodded.

　　"Martha told me there was one as no one ever went inside,"he answered. "Us used to wonder what it was like."He stopped and looked round at the lovely gray tangleabout him, and his round eyes looked queerly happy.

　　"Eh! the nests as'll be here come springtime," he said.

　　"It'd be th' safest nestin' place in England.

　　No one never comin' near an' tangles o' trees an'

　　roses to build in. I wonder all th' birds on th'

　　moor don't build here."Mistress Mary put her hand on his arm again withoutknowing it.

　　"Will there be roses?" she whispered. "Can you tell? Ithought perhaps they were all dead.""Eh! No! Not them--not all of 'em!" he answered.

　　"Look here!"He stepped over to the nearest tree--an old, old one withgray lichen all over its bark, but upholding a curtainof tangled sprays and branches. He took a thick knifeout of his Pocket and opened one of its blades.

　　"There's lots o' dead wood as ought to be cut out," he said.

　　"An' there's a lot o' old wood, but it made some newlast year. This here's a new bit," and he touched a shootwhich looked brownish green instead of hard, dry gray.

　　Mary touched it herself in an eager, reverent way.

　　"That one?" she said. "Is that one quite alive quite?"Dickon curved his wide smiling mouth.

　　"It's as wick as you or me," he said; and Mary rememberedthat Martha had told her that "wick" meant "alive"or "lively.""I'm glad it's wick!" she cried out in her whisper.

　　"I want them all to be wick. Let us go round the gardenand count how many wick ones there are."She quite panted with eagerness, and Dickon was as eageras she was. They went from tree to tree and from bushto bush. Dickon carried his knife in his hand and showedher things which she thought wonderful.

　　"They've run wild," he said, "but th' strongest oneshas fair thrived on it. The delicatest ones hasdied out, but th' others has growed an' growed, an'

　　spread an' spread, till they's a wonder. See here!"and he pulled down a thick gray, dry-looking branch.

　　"A body might think this was dead wood, but I don't believeit is--down to th' root. I'll cut it low down an' see."He knelt and with his knife cut the lifeless-lookingbranch through, not far above the earth.

　　"There!" he said exultantly. "I told thee so.

　　There's green in that wood yet. Look at it."Mary was down on her knees before he spoke, gazing withall her might.

　　"When it looks a bit greenish an' juicy like that,it's wick," he explained. "When th' inside is dry an'

　　breaks easy, like this here piece I've cut off,it's done for. There's a big root here as all this livewood sprung out of, an' if th' old wood's cut off an'

　　it's dug round, and took care of there'll be--"he stopped and lifted his face to look up at the climbingand hanging sprays above him--"there'll be a fountain o'

　　roses here this summer."They went from bush to bush and from tree to tree.

　　He was very strong and clever with his knife and knewhow to cut the dry and dead wood away, and could tell whenan unpromising bough or twig had still green life in it.

　　In the course of half an hour Mary thought she could tell too,and when he cut through a lifeless-looking branch she wouldcry out joyfully under her breath when she caught sightof the least shade of moist green. The spade, and hoe,and fork were very useful. He showed her how to use thefork while he dug about roots with the spade and stirredthe earth and let the air in.

　　They were working industriously round one of the biggeststandard roses when he caught sight of something whichmade him utter an exclamation of surprise.

　　"Why!" he cried, pointing to the grass a few feet away.

　　"Who did that there?"It was one of Mary's own little clearings round the palegreen points.

　　"I did it," said Mary.

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

　　"I don't," she answered, "but they were so little, and thegrass was so thick and strong, and they looked as if theyhad no room to breathe. So I made a place for them.

　　I don't even know what they are."Dickon went and knelt down by them, smiling his wide smile.

　　"Tha' was right," he said. "A gardener couldn't have toldthee better. They'll grow now like Jack's bean-stalk. They'recrocuses an' snowdrops, an' these here is narcissuses,"turning to another patch, "an here's daffydowndillys.

　　Eh! they will be a sight."He ran from one clearing to another.

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

　　"I'm growing fatter," said Mary, "and I'm growing stronger.

　　I used always to be tired. When I dig I'm not tired at all.

　　I like to smell the earth when it's turned up.""It's rare good for thee," he said, nodding hishead wisely. "There's naught as nice as th' smell o'

　　good clean earth, except th' smell o' fresh growin'

　　things when th' rain falls on 'em. I get out on th'

　　moor many a day when it's rainin' an' I lie under a bush an'

　　listen to th' soft swish o' drops on th' heather an,I just sniff an, sniff. My nose end fair quivers like arabbit's, mother says.""Do you never catch cold?" inquired Mary, gazing athim wonderingly. She had never seen such a funny boy,or such a nice one.

　　"Not me," he said, grinning. "I never ketched coldsince I was born. I wasn't brought up nesh enough.

　　I've chased about th' moor in all weathers same as th'

　　rabbits does. Mother says I've sniffed up too much freshair for twelve year' to ever get to sniffin' with cold.

　　I'm as tough as a white-thorn knobstick."He was working all the time he was talking and Mary wasfol............