Mary skipped round all the gardens and round the orchard, resting every few minutes.  At length she went to her own special walk and made up her mind to try if she could skip the whole length of it.  It was a good long skip and she began slowly, but before she had gone half-way down the path she was so hot and breathless that she was obliged to stop.  She did not mind much, because she had already counted up to thirty.  She stopped with a little laugh of pleasure, and there, lo and behold, was the robin swaying on a long branch of ivy.  He had followed her and he greeted her with a chirp.  As Mary had skipped toward him she felt something heavy in her pocket strike against her at each jump, and when she saw the robin she laughed again.

“You showed me where the key was yesterday,” she said.  “You ought to show me the door to-day; but I don’t believe you know!”

The robin flew from his swinging spray of ivy on to the top of the wall and he opened his beak and sang a loud, lovely trill, merely to show off.  Nothing in the world is quite as adorably lovely as a robin when he shows off—­and they are nearly always doing it.

Mary Lennox had heard a great deal about Magic in her Ayah’s stories, and she always said that what happened almost at that moment was Magic.

One of the nice little gusts of wind rushed down the walk, and it was a stronger one than the rest.  It was strong enough to wave the branches of the trees, and it was more than strong enough to sway the trailing sprays of untrimmed ivy hanging from the wall.  Mary had stepped close to the robin, and suddenly the gust of wind swung aside some loose ivy trails, and more suddenly still she jumped toward it and caught it in her hand.  This she did because she had seen something under it—­a round knob which had been covered by the leaves hanging over it.  It was the knob of a door.

She put her hands under the leaves and began to pull and push them aside.  Thick as the ivy hung, it nearly all was a loose and swinging curtain, though some had crept over wood and iron.  Mary’s heart began to thump and her hands to shake a little in her delight and excitement.  The robin kept singing and twittering away and tilting his head on one side, as if he were as excited as she was.  What was this under her hands which was square and made of iron and which her fingers found a hole in?

It was the lock of the door which had been closed ten years and she put her hand in her pocket, drew out the key and found it fitted the keyhole.  She put the key in and turned it.  It took two hands to do it, but it did turn.

And then she took a long breath and looked behind her up the long walk to see if any one was coming.  No one was coming.  No one ever did come, it seemed, and she took another long breath, because she could not help it, and she held back the swinging curtain of ivy and pushed back the door which opened slowly—­slowly.