grew larger and larger and
the spots on his cheeks burned.

"Tell me some more about him," he said.

"He knows all about eggs and nests," Mary went on. "And he knows where
foxes and badgers and otters live. He keeps them secret so that other
boys won't find their holes and frighten them. He knows about
everything that grows or lives on the moor."

"Does he like the moor?" said Colin. "How can he when it's such a
great, bare, dreary place?"

"It's the most beautiful place," protested Mary. "Thousands of lovely
things grow on it and there are thousands of little creatures all busy
building nests and making holes and burrows and chippering or singing
or squeaking to each other. They are so busy and having such fun under
the earth or in the trees or heather. It's their world."

"How do you know all that?" said Colin, turning on his elbow to look at
her.

"I have never been there once, really," said Mary suddenly remembering.
"I only drove over it in the dark. I thought it was hideous. Martha
told me about it first and then Dickon. When Dickon talks about it you
feel as if you saw things and heard them and as if you were standing in
the heather with the sun shining and the gorse smelling like honey--and
all full of bees and butterflies."

"You never see anything if you are ill," said Colin restlessly. He
looked like a person listening to a new sound in the distance and
wondering what it was.

"You can't if you stay in a room," said Mary.

"I couldn't go on the moor," he said in a resentful tone.

Mary was silent for a minute and then she said something bold.

"You might--sometime."

He moved as if he were startled.

"Go on the moor! How could I? I am going to die." "How do you know?"
said Mary unsympathetically. She didn't like the way he had of talking
about dying. She did not feel very sympathetic. She felt rather as if
he almost boasted about it.

"Oh, I've heard it ever since I remember," he answered crossly. "They
are always whispering about it and thinking I don't notice. They wish
I would, too."

Mistress Mary felt quite contrary. She pinched her lips together.

"If they wished I would," she said, "I wouldn't. Who wishes you would?"

"The servants--and of course Dr. Craven because he would get
Misselthwaite and be rich instead of poor. He daren't say so, but he
always looks cheerful when I am worse. When I had typhoid fever his
face got quite fat. I think my father wishes it,