“I know how to write,” Mary answered.

Martha shook her head.

“Our Dickon can only read printin’.  If tha’ could print we could write a letter to him an’ ask him to go an’ buy th’ garden tools an’ th’ seeds at th’ same time.”

“Oh! you’re a good girl!” Mary cried.  “You are, really!  I didn’t know you were so nice.  I know I can print letters if I try.  Let’s ask Mrs. Medlock for a pen and ink and some paper.”

“I’ve got some of my own,” said Martha.  “I bought ’em so I could print a bit of a letter to mother of a Sunday.  I’ll go and get it.”

She ran out of the room, and Mary stood by the fire and twisted her thin little hands together with sheer pleasure.

“If I have a spade,” she whispered, “I can make the earth nice and soft and dig up weeds.  If I have seeds and can make flowers grow the garden won’t be dead at all—­it will come alive.”

She did not go out again that afternoon because when Martha returned with her pen and ink and paper she was obliged to clear the table and carry the plates and dishes down-stairs and when she got into the kitchen Mrs. Medlock was there and told her to do something, so Mary waited for what seemed to her a long time before she came back.  Then it was a serious piece of work to write to Dickon.  Mary had been taught very little because her governesses had disliked her too much to stay with her.  She could not spell particularly well but she found that she could print letters when she tried.  This was the letter Martha dictated to her: 

          “My Dear Dickon:

This comes hoping to find you well as it leaves me at present.  Miss Mary has plenty of money and will you go to Thwaite and buy her some flower seeds and a set of garden tools to make a flower-bed.  Pick the prettiest ones and easy to grow because she has never done it before and lived in India which is different.  Give my love to mother and every one of you.  Miss Mary is going to tell me a lot more so that on my next day out you can hear about elephants and camels and gentlemen going hunting lions and tigers.

“Your loving sister,
“MARTHA PHOEBE SOWERBY.”

“We’ll put the money in th’ envelope an’ I’ll get th’ butcher’s boy to take it in his cart.  He’s a great friend o’ Dickon’s,” said Martha.

“How shall I get the things when Dickon buys them?” asked Mary.

“He’ll bring ’em to you himself.  He’ll like to walk over this way.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Mary, “then I shall see him!  I never thought I should see Dickon.”

“Does tha’ want to see him?” asked Martha suddenly, she had looked so pleased.

“Yes, I do.  I never saw a boy foxes and crows loved.  I want to see him very much.”

Martha gave a little start, as if she suddenly remembered something.

“Now to think,” she broke out, “to think o’ me forgettin’ that there; an’ I thought I was goin’ to tell you first thing this mornin’.  I asked mother—­and she said she’d ask Mrs. Medlock her own self.”