and the strange child who had
lived in India, and been waited upon by "blacks," was novelty enough to
attract her.

She sat down on the hearth herself without waiting to be asked.

"Art tha' thinkin' about that garden yet?" she said. "I knew tha' would.
That was just the way with me when I first heard about it."

"Why did he hate it?" Mary persisted.

Martha tucked her feet under her and made herself quite comfortable.

"Listen to th' wind wutherin' round the house," she said. "You could
bare stand up on the moor if you was out on it to-night."

Mary did not know what "wutherin'" meant until she listened, and then
she understood. It must mean that hollow shuddering sort of roar which
rushed round and round the house as if the giant no one could see were
buffeting it and beating at the walls and windows to try to break in.
But one knew he could not get in, and somehow it made one feel very safe
and warm inside a room with a red coal fire.

"But why did he hate it so?" she asked, after she had listened. She
intended to know if Martha did.

Then Martha gave up her store of knowledge.

"Mind," she said, "Mrs. Medlock said it's not to be talked about.
There's lots o' things in this place that's not to be talked over.
That's Mr. Craven's orders. His troubles are none servants' business, he
says. But for th' garden he wouldn't be like he is. It was Mrs. Craven's
garden that she had made when first they were married an' she just loved
it, an' they used to 'tend the flowers themselves. An' none o' th'
gardeners was ever let to go in. Him an' her used to go in an' shut th'
door an' stay there hours an' hours, readin' an' talkin'. An' she was
just a bit of a girl an' there was an old tree with a branch bent like a
seat on it. An' she made roses grow over it an' she used to sit there.
But one day when she was sittin' there th' branch broke an' she fell on
th' ground an' was hurt so bad that next day she died. Th' doctors
thought he'd go out o' his mind an' die, too. That's why he hates it. No
one's never gone in since, an' he won't let any one talk about it."

Mary did not ask any more questions. She looked at the red fire and
listened to the wind "wutherin'." It seemed to be "wutherin'" louder
than ever.

At that moment a very good thing was happening to her. Four good things
had happened to her, in fact, since she came to Misselthwaite Manor. She
had felt as if she had understood a robin and that he had understood
h