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’ theirselves, I’ll warrant.  They’ll get a good bit o’ play 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 lookin’ as he can an’ never lifts his head until we’re out o’ sight o’ th’ house.  An’ he grunts an’ frets a good bit when he’s bein’ settled into his chair.  Him an’ Miss Mary’s both got to enjoyin’ it an’ when he groans an’ complains she’ll say, ’Poor Colin!  Does it hurt you so much?  Are you so weak as that, poor Colin?’—­but th’ trouble is that sometimes they can scarce keep from burstin’ out laughin’.  When we get safe into the garden they laugh till they’ve no breath left to laugh with.  An’ they have to stuff their faces into Mester Colin’s cushions to keep the gardeners from hearin’, if any of ’em’s about.”