She had finished her dinner and gone to her favorite seat on the hearth-rug.

“I wish—­I wish I had a little spade,” she said.

“Whatever does tha’ want a spade for?” asked Martha, laughing.  “Art tha’ goin’ to take to diggin’?  I must tell mother that, too.”

Mary looked at the fire and pondered a little.  She must be careful if she meant to keep her secret kingdom.  She wasn’t doing any harm, but if Mr. Craven found out about the open door he would be fearfully angry and get a new key and lock it up forevermore.  She really could not bear that.

“This is such a big lonely place,” she said slowly, as if she were turning matters over in her mind.  “The house is lonely, and the park is lonely, and the gardens are lonely.  So many places seem shut up.  I never did many things in India, but there were more people to look at—­natives and soldiers marching by—­and sometimes bands playing, and my Ayah told me stories.  There is no one to talk to here except you and Ben Weatherstaff.  And you have to do your work and Ben Weatherstaff won’t speak to me often.  I thought if I had a little spade I could dig somewhere as he does, and I might make a little garden if he would give me some seeds.”

Martha’s face quite lighted up.

“There now!” she exclaimed, “if that wasn’t one of th’ things mother said.  She says, ‘There’s such a lot o’ room in that big place, why don’t they give her a bit for herself, even if she doesn’t plant nothin’ but parsley an’ radishes?  She’d dig an’ rake away an’ be right down happy over it.’  Them was the very words she said.”

“Were they?” said Mary.  “How many things she knows, doesn’t she?”

“Eh!” said Martha.  “It’s like she says:  ’A woman as brings up twelve children learns something besides her A B C. Children’s as good as ‘rithmetic to set you findin’ out things.’”

“How much would a spade cost—­a little one?” Mary asked.

“Well,” was Martha’s reflective answer, “at Thwaite village there’s a shop or so an’ I saw little garden sets with a spade an’ a rake an’ a fork all tied together for two shillings.  An’ they was stout enough to work with, too.”

“I’ve got more than that in my purse,” said Mary.  “Mrs. Morrison gave me five shillings and Mrs. Medlock gave me some money from Mr. Craven.”

“Did he remember thee that much?” exclaimed Martha.

“Mrs. Medlock said I was to have a shilling a week to spend.  She gives me one every Saturday.  I didn’t know what to spend it on.”

“My word! that’s riches,” said Martha.  “Tha’ can buy anything in th’ world tha’ wants.  Th’ rent of our cottage is only one an’ threepence an’ it’s like pullin’ eye-teeth to get it.  Now I’ve just thought of somethin’,” putting her hands on her hips.

“What?” said Mary eagerly.

“In the shop at Thwaite they sell packages o’ flower-seeds for a penny each, and our Dickon he knows which is th’ prettiest ones an’ how to make ’em grow.  He walks over to Thwaite many a day just for th’ fun of it.  Does tha’ know how to print letters?” suddenly.