er
than any other season if you're too curious."

"If we talk about him I can't help looking at him," Mary said as softly
as possible. "We must talk of something else. There is something I
want to tell you."

"He'll like it better if us talks o' somethin' else," said Dickon.
"What is it tha's got to tell me?"

"Well--do you know about Colin?" she whispered.

He turned his head to look at her.

"What does tha' know about him?" he asked.

"I've seen him. I have been to talk to him every day this week. He
wants me to come. He says I'm making him forget about being ill and
dying," answered Mary.

Dickon looked actually relieved as soon as the surprise died away from
his round face.

"I am glad o' that," he exclaimed. "I'm right down glad. It makes me
easier. I knowed I must say nothin' about him an' I don't like havin'
to hide things."

"Don't you like hiding the garden?" said Mary.

"I'll never tell about it," he answered. "But I says to mother,
'Mother,' I says, 'I got a secret to keep. It's not a bad 'un, tha'
knows that. It's no worse than hidin' where a bird's nest is. Tha'
doesn't mind it, does tha'?'"

Mary always wanted to hear about mother.

"What did she say?" she asked, not at all afraid to hear.

Dickon grinned sweet-temperedly.

"It was just like her, what she said," he answered. "She give my head
a bit of a rub an' laughed an' she says, 'Eh, lad, tha' can have all
th' secrets tha' likes. I've knowed thee twelve year'.'"

"How did you know about Colin?" asked Mary.

"Everybody as knowed about Mester Craven knowed there was a little lad
as was like to be a cripple, an' they knowed Mester Craven didn't like
him to be talked about. Folks is sorry for Mester Craven because Mrs.
Craven was such a pretty young lady an' they was so fond of each other.
Mrs. Medlock stops in our cottage whenever she goes to Thwaite an' she
doesn't mind talkin' to mother before us children, because she knows us
has been brought up to be trusty. How did tha' find out about him?
Martha was in fine trouble th' last time she came home. She said tha'd
heard him frettin' an' tha' was askin' questions an' she didn't know
what to say."

Mary told him her story about the midnight wuthering of the wind which
had wakened her and about the faint far-off sounds of the complaining
voice which had led her down the dark corridors with her candle and had
ended with her opening of the door of the dimly lighted room