Mary took the picture back to the house when she wentto her supper and she showed it to Martha.

　　"Eh!" said Martha with great pride. "I never knew ourDickon was as clever as that. That there's a pictureof a missel thrush on her nest, as large as life an'

　　twice as natural."Then Mary knew Dickon had meant the picture to be a message.

　　He had meant that she might be sure he would keep her secret.

　　Her garden was her nest and she was like a missel thrush.

　　Oh, how she did like that queer, common boy!

　　She hoped he would come back the very next day and shefell asleep looking forward to the morning.

　　But you never know what the weather will do in Yorkshire,particularly in the springtime. She was awakened inthe night by the sound of rain beating with heavy dropsagainst her window. It was pouring down in torrentsand the wind was "wuthering" round the corners and inthe chimneys of the huge old house. Mary sat up in bedand felt miserable and angry.

　　"The rain is as contrary as I ever was," she said.

　　"It came because it knew I did not want it."She threw herself back on her pillow and buried her face.

　　She did not cry, but she lay and hated the sound of theheavily beating rain, she hated the wind and its "wuthering."She could not go to sleep again. The mournful sound kepther awake because she felt mournful herself. If she hadfelt happy it would probably have lulled her to sleep.

　　How it "wuthered" and how the big raindrops poured downand beat against the pane!

　　"It sounds just like a person lost on the moorand wandering on and on crying," she said.

　　She had been lying awake turning from side to sidefor about an hour, when suddenly something made her situp in bed and turn her head toward the door listening.

　　She listened and she listened.

　　"It isn't the wind now," she said in a loud whisper.

　　"That isn't the wind. It is different. It is that crying Iheard before."The door of her room was ajar and the sound came downthe corridor, a far-off faint sound of fretful crying.

　　She listened for a few minutes and each minute she becamemore and more sure. She felt as if she must find outwhat it was. It seemed even stranger than the secretgarden and the buried key. Perhaps the fact that shewas in a rebellious mood made her bold. She put her footout of bed and stood on the floor.

　　"I am going to find out what it is," she said. "Everybody isin bed and I don't care about Mrs. Medlock--I don't care!"There was a candle by her bedside and she took it upand went softly out of the room. The corridor lookedvery long and dark, but she was too excited to mind that.

　　She thought she remembered the corners she must turnto find the short corridor with the door covered withtapestry--the one Mrs. Medlock had come through the dayshe lost herself. The sound had come up that passage.

　　So she went on with her dim light, almost feeling her way,her heart beating so loud that she fancied she couldhear it. The far-off faint crying went on and led her.

　　Sometimes it stopped for a moment or so and then began again.

　　Was this the right corner to turn? She stopped and thought.

　　Yes it was. Down this passage and then to the left,and then up two broad steps, and then to the right again.

　　Yes, there was the tapestry door.

　　She pushed it open very gently and closed it behind her,and she stood in the corridor and could hear the cryingquite plainly, though it was not loud. It was on the otherside of the wall at her left and a few yards farther onthere was a door. She could see a glimmer of light comingfrom beneath it. The Someone was crying in that room,and it was quite a young Someone.

　　So she walked to the door and pushed it open, and thereshe was standing in the room!

　　It was a big room with ancient, handsome furniture in it.

　　There was a low fire glowing faintly on the hearth and anight light burning by the side of a carved four-postedbed hung with brocade, and on the bed was lying a boy,crying fretfully.

　　Mary wondered if she was in a real place or if she hadfallen asleep again and was dreaming without knowing it.

　　The boy had a sharp, delicate face the color of ivoryand he seemed to have eyes too big for it. He hadalso a lot of hair which tumbled over his foreheadin heavy locks and made his thin face seem smaller.

　　He looked like a boy who had been ill, but he was cryingmore as if he were tired and cross than as if he were in pain.

　　Mary stood near the door with her candle in her hand,holding her breath. Then she crept across the room, and,as she drew nearer, the light attracted the boy's attentionand he turned his head on his pillow and stared at her,his gray eyes opening so wide that they seemed immense.

　　"Who are you?" he said at last in a half-frightened whisper.

　　"Are you a ghost?""No, I am not," Mary answered, her own whisper soundinghalf frightened. "Are you one?"He stared and stared and stared. Mary could not helpnoticing what strange eyes he had. They were agategray and they looked too big for his face because theyhad black lashes all round them.

　　"No," he replied after waiting a moment or so.

　　"I am Colin.""Who is Colin?" she faltered.

　　"I am Colin Craven. Who are you?""I am Mary Lennox. Mr. Craven is my uncle.""He is my father," said the boy.

　　"Your father!" gasped Mary. "No one ever told me hehad a boy! Why didn't they?""Come here," he said, still keeping his strange eyesfixed on her with an anxious expression.

　　She came close to the bed and he put out his handand touched her.

　　"You are real, aren't you?" he said. "I have such realdreams very often. You might be one of them."Mary had slipped on a woolen wrapper before she lefther room and she put a piece of it between his fingers.

　　"Rub that and see how thick and warm it is," she said.

　　"I will pinch you a little if you like, to show you how realI am. For a minute I thought you might be a dream too.""Where did you come from?" he asked.

　　"From my own room. The wind wuthered so I couldn't goto sleep and I heard some one crying and wanted to findout who it was. What were you crying for?""Because I couldn't go to sleep either and my head ached.

　　Tell me your name again.""Mary Lennox. Did no one ever tell you I had cometo live here?"He was still fingering the fold of her wrapper, but hebegan to look a little more as if he believed in her reality.

　　"No," he answered. "They daren't.""Why?" asked Mary.

　　"Because I should have been afraid you would see me.

　　I won't let people see me and talk me over.""Why?" Mary asked again, feeling more mystified every moment.

　　"Because I am like this always, ill and having to lie down.

　　My father won't let people talk me over either.

　　The servants are not allowed to speak about me.

　　If I live I may be a hunchback, but I shan't live.

　　My father hates to think I may be like him.""Oh, what a queer house this is!" Mary said.

　　"What a queer house! Everything is a kind of secret.

　　Rooms are locked up and gardens are locked up--and you!

　　Have you been locked up?""No. I stay in this room because I don't want to be movedout of it. It tires me too much.""Does your father come and see you?" Mary ventured.

　　"Sometimes. Generally when I am asleep. He doesn't wantto see me.""Why?" Mary could not help asking again.

　　A sort of angry shadow passed over the boy's face.

　　"My mother died when I was born and it makes him wretchedto look at me. He thinks I don't know, but I've heardpeople talking. He almost hates me.""He hates the garden, because she died," said Mary halfspeaking to herself.

　　"What garden?" the boy asked.

　　"Oh! just--just a garden she used to like," Mary stammered.

　　"Have you been here always?" "Nearly always. Sometimes Ihave been taken to places at the seaside, but I won'tstay because people stare at me. I used to wear an ironthing to keep my back straight, but a grand doctor camefrom London to see me and said it was stupid. He toldthem to take it off and keep me out in the fresh air.

　　I hate fresh air and I don't want to go out.""I didn't when first I came here," said Mary. "Why doyou keep looking at me like that?""Because of the dreams that are so real," he answeredrather fretfully. "Sometimes when I open my eyes I don'tbelieve I'm awake.""We're both awake," said Mary. She glanced round the roomwith its high ceiling and shadowy corners and dim fire-light.

　　"It looks quite like a dream, and it's the middle of the night,and everybody in the house is asleep--everybody but us.

　　We are wide awake.""I don't want it to be a dream," the boy said restlessly.

　　Mary thought of something all at once.

　　"If you don't like people to see you," she began,"do you want me to go away?"He still held the fold of her wrapper and he gave ita little pull.

　　"No," he said. "I should be sure you were a dream if you went.

　　If you are real, sit down on that big footstool and talk.

　　I want to hear about you."Mary put down her candle on the table near the bedand sat down on the cushioned stool. She did not wantto go away at all. She wanted to stay in the mysterioushidden-away room and talk to the mysterious boy.

　　"What do you want me to tell you?" she said.

　　He wanted to know how long she had been at Misselthwaite;he wanted to know which corridor her room was on; he wantedto know what she had been doing; if she disliked the mooras he disliked it; where she had lived before she cameto Yorkshire. She answered all these questions and manymore and he lay back on his pillow and listened. He madeher tell him a great deal about India and about her voyageacross the ocean. She found out that because he had beenan invalid he had not learned things as other children had.

　　One of his nurses had taught him to read when he was quitelittle and he was always reading and looking at picturesin splendid books.

　　Though his father rarely saw him when he was awake, he wasgiven all sorts of wonderful things to amuse himself with.

　　He never seemed to have been amused, however. He could haveanything he asked for and was never made to do anything he didnot like to do. "Everyone is obliged to do what pleases me,"he said indifferently. "It makes me ill to be angry.

　　No one believes I shall live to grow up."He said it as if he was so accustomed to the idea that ithad ceased to matter to him at all. He seemed to likethe sound of Mary's voice. As she went on talking helistened in a drowsy, interested way. Once or twice shewondered if he were not gradually falling into a doze.

　　But at last he asked a question which opened up a new subject.

　　"How old are you?" he asked.

　　"I am ten," answered Mary, forgetting herself for the moment,"and so are you.""How do you know that?" he demanded in a surprised voice.

............