“Everybody knows him.  Dickon’s wanderin’ about everywhere.  Th’ very blackberries an’ heather-bells knows him.  I warrant th’ foxes shows him where their cubs lies an’ th’ skylarks doesn’t hide their nests from him.”

Mary would have liked to ask some more questions.  She was almost as curious about Dickon as she was about the deserted garden.  But just that moment the robin, who had ended his song, gave a little shake of his wings, spread them and flew away.  He had made his visit and had other things to do.

“He has flown over the wall!” Mary cried out, watching him.  “He has flown into the orchard—­he has flown across the other wall—­into the garden where there is no door!”

“He lives there,” said old Ben.  “He came out o’ th’ egg there.  If he’s courtin’, he’s makin’ up to some young madam of a robin that lives among th’ old rose-trees there.”

“Rose-trees,” said Mary.  “Are there rose-trees?”

Ben Weatherstaff took up his spade again and began to dig.

“There was ten year’ ago,” he mumbled.

“I should like to see them,” said Mary.  “Where is the green door?  There must be a door somewhere.”

Ben drove his spade deep and looked as uncompanionable as he had looked when she first saw him.

“There was ten year’ ago, but there isn’t now,” he said.

“No door!” cried Mary.  “There must be.”

“None as any one can find, an’ none as is any one’s business.  Don’t you be a meddlesome wench an’ poke your nose where it’s no cause to go.  Here, I must go on with my work.  Get you gone an’ play you.  I’ve no more time.”

And he actually stopped digging, threw his spade over his shoulder and walked off, without even glancing at her or saying good-by.

CHAPTER V

THE CRY IN THE CORRIDOR

At first each day which passed by for Mary Lennox was exactly like the others.  Every morning she awoke in her tapestried room and found Martha kneeling upon the hearth building her fire; every morning she ate her breakfast in the nursery which had nothing amusing in it; and after each breakfast she gazed out of the window across to the huge moor which seemed to spread out on all sides and climb up to the sky, and after she had stared for a while she realized that if she did not go out she would have to stay in and do nothing—­and so she went out.  She did not know that this was the best thing she could have done, and she did not know that, when she began to walk quickly or even run along the paths and down the avenue, she was stirring her slow blood and making herself stronger by fighting with the wind which swept down from the moor.  She ran only to make herself warm, and she hated the wind which rushed at her face and roared and held her back as if it were some giant she could not see.  But the big breaths of rough fresh air blown over the heather filled her lungs with something which was good for her whole thin body and whipped some red color into her cheeks and brightened her dull eyes when she did not know anything about it.