“Can he do that?” he asked eagerly.

“He played on his pipe and they listened,” Mary explained.  “But he doesn’t call it Magic.  He says it’s because he lives on the moor so much and he knows their ways.  He says he feels sometimes as if he was a bird or a rabbit himself, he likes them so.  I think he asked the robin questions.  It seemed as if they talked to each other in soft chirps.”

Colin lay back on his cushion and his eyes grew larger and larger and the spots on his cheeks burned.

“Tell me some more about him,” he said.

“He knows all about eggs and nests,” Mary went on.  “And he knows where foxes and badgers and otters live.  He keeps them secret so that other boys won’t find their holes and frighten them.  He knows about everything that grows or lives on the moor.”

“Does he like the moor?” said Colin.  “How can he when it’s such a great, bare, dreary place?”

“It’s the most beautiful place,” protested Mary.  “Thousands of lovely things grow on it and there are thousands of little creatures all busy building nests and making holes and burrows and chippering or singing or squeaking to each other.  They are so busy and having such fun under the earth or in the trees or heather.  It’s their world.”

“How do you know all that?” said Colin, turning on his elbow to look at her.

“I have never been there once, really,” said Mary suddenly remembering.  “I only drove over it in the dark.  I thought it was hideous.  Martha told me about it first and then Dickon.  When Dickon talks about it you feel as if you saw things and heard them and as if you were standing in the heather with the sun shining and the gorse smelling like honey—­and all full of bees and butterflies.”

“You never see anything if you are ill,” said Colin restlessly.  He looked like a person listening to a new sound in the distance and wondering what it was.

“You can’t if you stay in a room,” said Mary.

“I couldn’t go on the moor,” he said in a resentful tone.

Mary was silent for a minute and then she said something bold.

“You might—­sometime.”

He moved as if he were startled.

“Go on the moor!  How could I?  I am going to die.”

“How do you know?” said Mary unsympathetically.  She didn’t like the way he had of talking about dying.  She did not feel very sympathetic.  She felt rather as if he almost boasted about it.

“Oh, I’ve heard it ever since I remember,” he answered crossly.  “They are always whispering about it and thinking I don’t notice.  They wish I would, too.”

Mistress Mary felt quite contrary.  She pinched her lips together.

“If they wished I would,” she said, “I wouldn’t.  Who wishes you would?”

“The servants—­and of course Dr. Craven because he would get Misselthwaite and be rich instead of poor.  He daren’t say so, but he always looks cheerful when I am worse.  When I had typhoid fever his face got quite fat.  I think my father wishes it, too.”