ne him good. He
spoke to her of his own accord.

"Springtime's comin'," he said. "Cannot tha' smell it?"

Mary sniffed and thought she could.

"I smell something nice and fresh and damp," she said.

"That's th' good rich earth," he answered, digging away. "It's in a good
humor makin' ready to grow things. It's glad when plantin' time comes.
It's dull in th' winter when it's got nowt to do. In th' flower gardens
out there things will be stirrin' down below in th' dark. Th' sun's
warmin' 'em. You'll see bits o' green spikes stickin' out o' th' black
earth after a bit."

"What will they be?" asked Mary.

"Crocuses an' snowdrops an' daffydowndillys. Has tha' never seen them?"

"No. Everything is hot, and wet, and green after the rains in India,"
said Mary. "And I think things grow up in a night."

"These won't grow up in a night," said Weatherstaff. "Tha'll have to
wait for 'em. They'll poke up a bit higher here, an' push out a spike
more there, an' uncurl a leaf this day an' another that. You watch 'em."

"I am going to," answered Mary.

Very soon she heard the soft rustling flight of wings again and she knew
at once that the robin had come again. He was very pert and lively, and
hopped about so close to her feet, and put his head on one side and
looked at her so slyly that she asked Ben Weatherstaff a question.

"Do you think he remembers me?" she said.

"Remembers thee!" said Weatherstaff indignantly. "He knows every cabbage
stump in th' gardens, let alone th' people. He's never seen a little
wench here before, an' he's bent on findin' out all about thee. Tha's no
need to try to hide anything from _him_."

"Are things stirring down below in the dark in that garden where he
lives?" Mary inquired.

"What garden?" grunted Weatherstaff, becoming surly again.

"The one where the old rose-trees are." She could not help asking,
because she wanted so much to know. "Are all the flowers dead, or do
some of them come again in the summer? Are there ever any roses?"

"Ask him," said Ben Weatherstaff, hunching his shoulders toward the
robin. "He's the only one as knows. No one else has seen inside it for
ten year'."

Ten years was a long time, Mary thought. She had been born ten years
ago.

She walked away, slowly thinking. She had begun to like the garden just
as she had begun to like the robin and Dickon and Martha's mother. She
was beginning to like Martha, too. That seemed a good many people to
like--when yo