“Open the window!” he added, laughing half with joyful excitement and half at his own fancy.  “Perhaps we may hear golden trumpets!”

And though he laughed, Mary was at the window in a moment and in a moment more it was opened wide and freshness and softness and scents and birds’ songs were pouring through.

“That’s fresh air,” she said.  “Lie on your back and draw in long breaths of it.  That’s what Dickon does when he’s lying on the moor.  He says he feels it in his veins and it makes him strong and he feels as if he could live forever and ever.  Breathe it and breathe it.”

She was only repeating what Dickon had told her, but she caught Colin’s fancy.

“‘Forever and ever’!  Does it make him feel like that?” he said, and he did as she told him, drawing in long deep breaths over and over again until he felt that something quite new and delightful was happening to him.

Mary was at his bedside again.

“Things are crowding up out of the earth,” she ran on in a hurry.  “And there are flowers uncurling and buds on everything and the green veil has covered nearly all the gray and the birds are in such a hurry about their nests for fear they may be too late that some of them are even fighting for places in the secret garden.  And the rose-bushes look as wick as wick can be, and there are primroses in the lanes and woods, and the seeds we planted are up, and Dickon has brought the fox and the crow and the squirrels and a new-born lamb.”

And then she paused for breath.  The new-born lamb Dickon had found three days before lying by its dead mother among the gorse bushes on the moor.  It was not the first motherless lamb he had found and he knew what to do with it.  He had taken it to the cottage wrapped in his jacket and he had let it lie near the fire and had fed it with warm milk.  It was a soft thing with a darling silly baby face and legs rather long for its body.  Dickon had carried it over the moor in his arms and its feeding bottle was in his pocket with a squirrel, and when Mary had sat under a tree with its limp warmness huddled on her lap she had felt as if she were too full of strange joy to speak.  A lamb—­a lamb!  A living lamb who lay on your lap like a baby!

She was describing it with great joy and Colin was listening and drawing in long breaths of air when the nurse entered.  She started a little at the sight of the open window.  She had sat stifling in the room many a warm day because her patient was sure that open windows gave people cold.

“Are you sure you are not chilly, Master Colin?” she inquired.

“No,” was the answer.  “I am breathing long breaths of fresh air.  It makes you strong.  I am going to get up to the sofa for breakfast and my cousin will have breakfast with me.”

The nurse went away, concealing a smile, to give the order for two breakfasts.  She found the servants’ hall a more amusing place than the invalid’s chamber and just now everybody wanted to hear the news from up-stairs.  There was a great deal of joking about the unpopular young recluse who, as the cook said, “had found his master, and good for him.”  The servants’ hall had been very tired of the tantrums, and the butler, who was a man with a family, had more than once expressed his opinion that the invalid would be all the better “for a good hiding.”