was "safe for
sure."

So one beautiful still evening Dickon told the whole story, with all
the thrilling details of the buried key and the robin and the gray haze
which had seemed like deadness and the secret Mistress Mary had planned
never to reveal. The coming of Dickon and how it had been told to him,
the doubt of Mester Colin and the final drama of his introduction to
the hidden domain, combined with the incident of Ben Weatherstaff's
angry face peering over the wall and Mester Colin's sudden indignant
strength, made Mrs. Sowerby's nice-looking face quite change color
several times.

"My word!" she said. "It was a good thing that little lass came to th'
Manor. It's been th' makin' o' her an' th' savin, o' him. Standin' on
his feet! An' us all thinkin' he was a poor half-witted lad with not a
straight bone in him."

She asked a great many questions and her blue eyes were full of deep
thinking.

"What do they make of it at th' Manor--him being so well an' cheerful
an' never complainin'?" she inquired. "They don't know what to make of
it," answered Dickon. "Every day as comes round his face looks
different. It's fillin' out and doesn't look so sharp an' th' waxy
color is goin'. But he has to do his bit o' complainin'," with a
highly entertained grin.

"What for, i' Mercy's name?" asked Mrs. Sowerby.

Dickon chuckled.

"He does it to keep them from guessin' what's happened. If the doctor
knew he'd found out he could stand on his feet he'd likely write and
tell Mester Craven. Mester Colin's savin' th' secret to tell himself.
He's goin' to practise his Magic on his legs every day till his father
comes back an' then he's goin' to march into his room an' show him he's
as straight as other lads. But him an' Miss Mary thinks it's best plan
to do a bit o' groanin' an' frettin' now an' then to throw folk off th'
scent."

Mrs. Sowerby was laughing a low comfortable laugh long before he had
finished his last sentence.

"Eh!" she said, "that pair's enjoyin' their-selves I'll warrant.
They'll get a good bit o' actin' out of it an' there's nothin' children
likes as much as play actin'. Let's hear what they do, Dickon lad."
Dickon stopped weeding and sat up on his heels to tell her. His eyes
were twinkling with fun.

"Mester Colin is carried down to his chair every time he goes out," he
explained. "An' he flies out at John, th' footman, for not carryin'
him careful enough. He makes himself as helpless loo