to do.

"Every one 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 it had ceased to
matter to him at all. He seemed to like the sound of Mary's voice. As
she went on talking he listened in a drowsy, interested way. Once or
twice she wondered 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.

"Because when you were born the garden door was locked and the key was
buried. And it has been locked for ten years."

Colin half sat up, turning toward her, leaning on his elbows.

"What garden door was locked? Who did it? Where was the key buried?" he
exclaimed as if he were suddenly very much interested.

"It--it was the garden Mr. Craven hates," said Mary nervously. "He
locked the door. No one--no one knew where he buried the key."

"What sort of a garden is it?" Colin persisted eagerly.

"No one has been allowed to go into it for ten years," was Mary's
careful answer.

But it was too late to be careful. He was too much like herself. He too
had had nothing to think about and the idea of a hidden garden attracted
him as it had attracted her. He asked question after question. Where was
it? Had she never looked for the door? Had she never asked the
gardeners?

"They won't talk about it," said Mary. "I think they have been told not
to answer questions."

"I would make them," said Colin.

"Could you?" Mary faltered, beginning to feel frightened. If he could
make people answer questions, who knew what might happen!

"Every one is obliged to please me. I told you that," he said. "If I
were to live, this place would sometime belong to me. They all know
that. I would make them tell me."

Mary had not known that she herself had been spoiled, but she could see
quite plainly that this mysterious boy had been. He thought that the
whole world belonged to him. How peculiar he was and how coolly he spoke
of not living.

"Do you think you won't live?" she asked, partly because she was
curious and partly in hope of making him forget the garden.

"I don't suppose I shall," he answered as indifferently as he had spoken
before. "Ever since I remember anything I hav