They were working industriously round one of the biggest standard roses when he caught sight of something which made him utter an exclamation of surprise.

“Why!” he cried, pointing to the grass a few feet away.  “Who did that there?”

It was one of Mary’s own little clearings round the pale green points.

“I did it,” said Mary.

“Why, I thought tha’ didn’t know nothin’ about gardenin’,” he exclaimed.

“I don’t,” she answered, “but they were so little, and the grass was so thick and strong, and they looked as if they had no room to breathe.  So I made a place for them.  I don’t even know what they are.”

Dickon went and knelt down by them, smiling his wide smile.

“Tha’ was right,” he said.  “A gardener couldn’t have told thee better.  They’ll grow now like Jack’s bean-stalk.  They’re crocuses an’ snowdrops, an’ these here is narcissuses,” turning to another patch, “an’ here’s daffydowndillys.  Eh! they will be a sight.”

He ran from one clearing to another.

“Tha’ has done a lot o’ work for such a little wench,” he said, looking her over.

“I’m growing fatter,” said Mary, “and I’m growing stronger.  I used always to be tired.  When I dig I’m not tired at all.  I like to smell the earth when it’s turned up.”

“It’s rare good for thee,” he said, nodding his head wisely.  “There’s naught as nice as th’ smell o’ good clean earth, except th’ smell o’ fresh growin’ things when th’ rain falls on ’em.  I get out on th’ moor many a day when it’s rainin’ an’ I lie under a bush an’ listen to th’ soft swish o’ drops on th’ heather an’ I just sniff an’ sniff.  My nose end fair quivers like a rabbit’s, mother says.”

“Do you never catch cold?” inquired Mary, gazing at him wonderingly.  She had never seen such a funny boy, or such a nice one.

“Not me,” he said, grinning.  “I never ketched cold since I was born.  I wasn’t brought up nesh enough.  I’ve chased about th’ moor in all weathers same as th’ rabbits does.  Mother says I’ve sniffed up too much fresh air for twelve year’ to ever get to sniffin’ with cold.  I’m as tough as a white-thorn knobstick.”

He was working all the time he was talking and Mary was following him and helping him with her fork or the trowel.

“There’s a lot of work to do here!” he said once, looking about quite exultantly.

“Will you come again and help me to do it?” Mary begged.  “I’m sure I can help, too.  I can dig and pull up weeds, and do whatever you tell me.  Oh! do come, Dickon!”

“I’ll come every day if tha’ wants me, rain or shine,” he answered stoutly.  “It’s th’ best fun I ever had in my life—­shut in here an’ wakenin’ up a garden.”

“If you will come,” said Mary, “if you will help me to make it alive I’ll—­I don’t know what I’ll do,” she ended helplessly.  What could you do for a boy like that?

“I’ll tell thee what tha’ll do,” said Dickon, with his happy grin.  “Tha’ll get fat an’ tha’ll get as hungry as a young fox an’ tha’ll learn how to talk to th’ robin same as I do.  Eh! we’ll have a lot o’ fun.”