has died 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 believe it is--down to th' root. I'll cut it
low down an' see."

He knelt and with his knife cut the lifeless-looking branch 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 with all 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 live
wood sprung out of, an' if th' old wood's cut off an' it's dug round,
an' took care of there'll be--" he stopped and lifted his face to look
up at the climbing and 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 knew how to cut the dry and dead wood
away, and could tell when an 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 would cry out
joyfully under her breath when she caught sight of the least shade of
moist green. The spade, and hoe, and fork were very useful. He showed
her how to use the fork while he dug about roots with the spade and
stirred the earth and let the air in.

They were working industriously round one of the biggest standard roses
when he caught sight of something which made 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 pale green 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 the grass was so
thick and strong, and they looked as if they had 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 told thee better.
They'll grow now like Jack's bean-stalk. They're crocuses an' snowdrops,
an' these here is narcissuses," turning to an