Mary drank some tea and ate a little toast and some marmalade.

“You wrap up warm an’ run out an’ play you,” said Martha.  “It’ll do you good and give you some stomach for your meat.”

Mary went to the window.  There were gardens and paths and big trees, but everything looked dull and wintry.

“Out?  Why should I go out on a day like this?”

“Well, if tha’ doesn’t go out tha’lt have to stay in, an’ what has tha’ got to do?”

Mary glanced about her.  There was nothing to do.  When Mrs. Medlock had prepared the nursery she had not thought of amusement.  Perhaps it would be better to go and see what the gardens were like.

“Who will go with me?” she inquired.

Martha stared.

“You’ll go by yourself,” she answered.  “You’ll have to learn to play like other children does when they haven’t got sisters and brothers.  Our Dickon goes off on th’ moor by himself an’ plays for hours.  That’s how he made friends with th’ pony.  He’s got sheep on th’ moor that knows him, an’ birds as comes an’ eats out of his hand.  However little there is to eat, he always saves a bit o’ his bread to coax his pets.”

It was really this mention of Dickon which made Mary decide to go out, though she was not aware of it.  There would be birds outside though there would not be ponies or sheep.  They would be different from the birds in India and it might amuse her to look at them.

Martha found her coat and hat for her and a pair of stout little boots and she showed her her way down-stairs.

“If tha’ goes round that way tha’ll come to th’ gardens,” she said, pointing to a gate in a wall of shrubbery.  “There’s lots o’ flowers in summer-time, but there’s nothin’ bloomin’ now.”  She seemed to hesitate a second before she added, “One of th’ gardens is locked up.  No one has been in it for ten years.”

“Why?” asked Mary in spite of herself.  Here was another locked door added to the hundred in the strange house.

“Mr. Craven had it shut when his wife died so sudden.  He won’t let no one go inside.  It was her garden.  He locked th’ door an’ dug a hole and buried th’ key.  There’s Mrs. Medlock’s bell ringing—­I must run.”

After she was gone Mary turned down the walk which led to the door in the shrubbery.  She could not help thinking about the garden which no one had been into for ten years.  She wondered what it would look like and whether there were any flowers still alive in it.  When she had passed through the shrubbery gate she found herself in great gardens, with wide lawns and winding walks with clipped borders.  There were trees, and flower-beds, and evergreens clipped into strange shapes, and a large pool with an old gray fountain in its midst.  But the flower-beds were bare and wintry and the fountain was not playing.  This was not the garden which was shut up.  How could a garden be shut up?  You could always walk into a garden.