Then Mary knew Dickon had meant the picture to be a message.  He had meant that she might be sure he would keep her secret.  Her garden was her nest and she was like a missel thrush.  Oh, how she did like that queer, common boy!

She hoped he would come back the very next day and she fell asleep looking forward to the morning.

But you never know what the weather will do in Yorkshire, particularly in the springtime.  She was awakened in the night by the sound of rain beating with heavy drops against her window.  It was pouring down in torrents and the wind was “wuthering” round the corners and in the chimneys of the huge old house.  Mary sat up in bed and felt miserable and angry.

“The rain is as contrary as I ever was,” she said.  “It came because it knew I did not want it.”

She threw herself back on her pillow and buried her face.  She did not cry, but she lay and hated the sound of the heavily beating rain, she hated the wind and its “wuthering.”  She could not go to sleep again.  The mournful sound kept her awake because she felt mournful herself.  If she had felt happy it would probably have lulled her to sleep.  How it “wuthered” and how the big rain-drops poured down and beat against the pane!

“It sounds just like a person lost on the moor and wandering on and on crying,” she said.

* * * * *

She had been lying awake turning from side to side for about an hour, when suddenly something made her sit up in bed and turn her head toward the door listening.  She listened and she listened.

“It isn’t the wind now,” she said in a loud whisper.  “That isn’t the wind.  It is different.  It is that crying I heard before.”

The door of her room was ajar and the sound came down the corridor, a far-off faint sound of fretful crying.  She listened for a few minutes and each minute she became more and more sure.  She felt as if she must find out what it was.  It seemed even stranger than the secret garden and the buried key.  Perhaps the fact that she was in a rebellious mood made her bold.  She put her foot out of bed and stood on the floor.

“I am going to find out what it is,” she said.  “Everybody is in bed and I don’t care about Mrs. Medlock—­I don’t care!”

There was a candle by her bedside and she took it up and went softly out of the room.  The corridor looked very long and dark, but she was too excited to mind that.  She thought she remembered the corners she must turn to find the short corridor with the door covered with tapestry—­the one Mrs. Medlock had come through the day she lost herself.  The sound had come up that passage.  So she went on with her dim light, almost feeling her way, her heart beating so loud that she fancied she could hear it.  The far-off faint crying went on and led her.  Sometimes it stopped for a moment or so and then began again.  Was this the right corner to turn?  She stopped and thought.  Yes it was.  Down this passage and then to the left, and then up two broad steps, and then to the right again.  Yes, there was the tapestry door.