“We munnot stir,” he whispered in broad Yorkshire.  “We munnot scarce breathe.  I knowed he was mate-huntin’ when I seed him last.  It’s Ben Weatherstaff’s robin.  He’s buildin’ his nest.  He’ll stay here if us don’t flight him.”

They settled down softly upon the grass and sat there without moving.

“Us mustn’t seem as if us was watchin’ him too close,” said Dickon.  “He’d be out with us for good if he got th’ notion us was interferin’ now.  He’ll be a good bit different till all this is over.  He’s settin’ up housekeepin’.  He’ll be shyer an’ readier to take things ill.  He’s got no time for visitin’ an’ gossipin’.  Us must keep still a bit an’ try to look as if us was grass an’ trees an’ bushes.  Then when he’s got used to seein’ us I’ll chirp a bit an’ he’ll know us’ll not be in his way.”

Mistress Mary was not at all sure that she knew, as Dickon seemed to, how to try to look like grass and trees and bushes.  But he had said the queer thing as if it were the simplest and most natural thing in the world, and she felt it must be quite easy to him, and indeed she watched him for a few minutes carefully, wondering if it was possible for him to quietly turn green and put out branches and leaves.  But he only sat wonderfully still, and when he spoke dropped his voice to such a softness that it was curious that she could hear him, but she could.

“It’s part o’ th’ springtime, this nest-buildin’ is,” he said.  “I warrant it’s been goin’ on in th’ same way every year since th’ world was begun.  They’ve got their way o’ thinkin’ and doin’ things an’ a body had better not meddle.  You can lose a friend in springtime easier than any other season if you’re too curious.”

“If we talk about him I can’t help looking at him,” Mary said as softly as possible.  “We must talk of something else.  There is something I want to tell you.”

“He’ll like it better if us talks o’ somethin’ else,” said Dickon.  “What is it tha’s got to tell me?”

“Well—­do you know about Colin?” she whispered.

He turned his head to look at her.

“What does tha’ know about him?” he asked.

“I’ve seen him.  I have been to talk to him every day this week.  He wants me to come.  He says I’m making him forget about being ill and dying,” answered Mary.

Dickon looked actually relieved as soon as the surprise died away from his round face.

“I am glad o’ that,” he exclaimed.  “I’m right down glad.  It makes me easier.  I knowed I must say nothin’ about him an’ I don’t like havin’ to hide things.”

“Don’t you like hiding the garden?” said Mary.

“I’ll never tell about it,” he answered.  “But I says to mother, ‘Mother,’ I says, ’I got a secret to keep.  It’s not a bad ‘un, tha’ knows that.  It’s no worse than hidin’ where a bird’s nest is.  Tha’ doesn’t mind it, does tha’?’”

Mary always wanted to hear about mother.

“What did she say?” she asked, not at all afraid to hear.