Dickon grinned sweet-temperedly.

“It was just like her, what she said,” he answered.  “She give my head a bit of a rub an’ laughed an’ she says, ‘Eh, lad, tha’ can have all th’ secrets tha’ likes.  I’ve knowed thee twelve year’.’”

“How did you know about Colin?” asked Mary.

“Everybody as knowed about Mester Craven knowed there was a little lad as was like to be a cripple, an’ they knowed Mester Craven didn’t like him to be talked about.  Folks is sorry for Mester Craven because Mrs. Craven was such a pretty young lady an’ they was so fond of each other.  Mrs. Medlock stops in our cottage whenever she goes to Thwaite an’ she doesn’t mind talkin’ to mother before us children, because she knows us has been brought up to be trusty.  How did tha’ find out about him?  Martha was in fine trouble th’ last time she came home.  She said tha’d heard him frettin’ an’ tha’ was askin’ questions an’ she didn’t know what to say.”

Mary told him her story about the midnight wuthering of the wind which had wakened her and about the faint far-off sounds of the complaining voice which had led her down the dark corridors with her candle and had ended with her opening of the door of the dimly lighted room with the carven four-posted bed in the corner.  When she described the small ivory-white face and the strange black-rimmed eyes Dickon shook his head.

“Them’s just like his mother’s eyes, only hers was always laughin’, they say,” he said.  “They say as Mr. Craven can’t bear to see him when he’s awake an’ it’s because his eyes is so like his mother’s an’ yet looks so different in his miserable bit of a face.”

“Do you think he wants him to die?” whispered Mary.

“No, but he wishes he’d never been born.  Mother she says that’s th’ worst thing on earth for a child.  Them as is not wanted scarce ever thrives.  Mester Craven he’d buy anythin’ as money could buy for th’ poor lad but he’d like to forget as he’s on earth.  For one thing, he’s afraid he’ll look at him some day and find he’s growed hunchback.”

“Colin’s so afraid of it himself that he won’t sit up,” said Mary.  “He says he’s always thinking that if he should feel a lump coming he should go crazy and scream himself to death.”

“Eh! he oughtn’t to lie there thinkin’ things like that,” said Dickon.  “No lad could get well as thought them sort o’ things.”

The fox was lying on the grass close by him looking up to ask for a pat now and then, and Dickon bent down and rubbed his neck softly and thought a few minutes in silence.  Presently he lifted his head and looked round the garden.

“When first we got in here,” he said, “it seemed like everything was gray.  Look round now and tell me if tha’ doesn’t see a difference.”

Mary looked and caught her breath a little.

“Why!” she cried, “the gray wall is changing.  It is as if a green mist were creeping over it.  It’s almost like a green gauze veil.”