She stopped and listened to him and somehow his cheerful, friendly little whistle gave her a pleased feeling—­even a disagreeable little girl may be lonely, and the big closed house and big bare moor and big bare gardens had made this one feel as if there was no one left in the world but herself.  If she had been an affectionate child, who had been used to being loved, she would have broken her heart, but even though she was “Mistress Mary Quite Contrary” she was desolate, and the bright-breasted little bird brought a look into her sour little face which was almost a smile.  She listened to him until he flew away.  He was not like an Indian bird and she liked him and wondered if she should ever see him again.  Perhaps he lived in the mysterious garden and knew all about it.

Perhaps it was because she had nothing whatever to do that she thought so much of the deserted garden.  She was curious about it and wanted to see what it was like.  Why had Mr. Archibald Craven buried the key?  If he had liked his wife so much why did he hate her garden?  She wondered if she should ever see him, but she knew that if she did she should not like him, and he would not like her, and that she should only stand and stare at him and say nothing, though she should be wanting dreadfully to ask him why he had done such a queer thing.

“People never like me and I never like people,” she thought.  “And I never can talk as the Crawford children could.  They were always talking and laughing and making noises.”

She thought of the robin and of the way he seemed to sing his song at her, and as she remembered the tree-top he perched on she stopped rather suddenly on the path.

“I believe that tree was in the secret garden—­I feel sure it was,” she said.  “There was a wall round the place and there was no door.”

She walked back into the first kitchen-garden she had entered and found the old man digging there.  She went and stood beside him and watched him a few moments in her cold little way.  He took no notice of her and so at last she spoke to him.

“I have been into the other gardens,” she said.

“There was nothin’ to prevent thee,” he answered crustily.

“I went into the orchard.”

“There was no dog at th’ door to bite thee,” he answered.

“There was no door there into the other garden,” said Mary.

“What garden?” he said in a rough voice, stopping his digging for a moment.

“The one on the other side of the wall,” answered Mistress Mary.  “There are trees there—­I saw the tops of them.  A bird with a red breast was sitting on one of them and he sang.”

To her surprise the surly old weather-beaten face actually changed its expression.  A slow smile spread over it and the gardener looked quite different.  It made her think that it was curious how much nicer a person looked when he smiled.  She had not thought of it before.