eel as if there was no one left in the
world but herself. If she had been an affectionate child, who had been
used to being loved, she would have broken her heart, but even though
she was "Mistress Mary Quite Contrary" she was desolate, and the
bright-breasted little bird brought a look into her sour little face
which was almost a smile. She listened to him until he flew away. He was
not like an Indian bird and she liked him and wondered if she should
ever see him again. Perhaps he lived in the mysterious garden and knew
all about it.

Perhaps it was because she had nothing whatever to do that she thought
so much of the deserted garden. She was curious about it and wanted to
see what it was like. Why had Mr. Archibald Craven buried the key? If he
had liked his wife so much why did he hate her garden? She wondered if
she should ever see him, but she knew that if she did she should not
like him, and he would not like her, and that she should only stand and
stare at him and say nothing, though she should be wanting dreadfully to
ask him why he had done such a queer thing.

"People never like me and I never like people," she thought. "And I
never can talk as the Crawford children could. They were always talking
and laughing and making noises."

She thought of the robin and of the way he seemed to sing his song at
her, and as she remembered the tree-top he perched on she stopped rather
suddenly on the path.

"I believe that tree was in the secret garden--I feel sure it was," she
said. "There was a wall round the place and there was no door."

She walked back into the first kitchen-garden she had entered and found
the old man digging there. She went and stood beside him and watched
him a few moments in her cold little way. He took no notice of her and
so at last she spoke to him.

"I have been into the other gardens," she said.

"There was nothin' to prevent thee," he answered crustily.

"I went into the orchard."

"There was no dog at th' door to bite thee," he answered.

"There was no door there into the other garden," said Mary.

"What garden?" he said in a rough voice, stopping his digging for a
moment.

"The one on the other side of the wall," answered Mistress Mary. "There
are trees there--I saw the tops of them. A bird with a red breast was
sitting on one of them and he sang."

To her surprise the surly old weather-beaten face actually changed its
expression. A slow smile spread over it and the gardener