if she should ever see him, but she knew that if she did she should not
like him, and he would not like her, and that she should only stand and
stare at him and say nothing, though she should be wanting dreadfully
to ask him why he had done such a queer thing.
People never like me and I never like people, she thought. And I
never can talk as the Crawford children could. They were always talking
and laughing and making noises.
She thought of the robin and of the way he seemed to sing his song at
her, and as she remembered the tree-top he perched on she stopped
rather suddenly on the path.
I believe that tree was in the secret garden I feel sure it was, she
said. There was a wall round the place and there was no door.
She walked back into the first kitchen-garden she had entered and found
the old man digging there. She went and stood beside him and watched
him a few moments in her cold little way. He took no notice of her and
so at last she spoke to him.
I have been into the other gardens, she said.
There was nothin to prevent thee, he answered crustily.
I went into the orchard.
There was no dog at th door to bite thee, he answered.
There was no door there into the other garden, said Mary.
What garden? he said in a rough voice, stopping his digging for a
moment.
The one on the other side of the wall, answered Mistress Mary. There
are trees there I saw the tops of them. A bird with a red breast was
sitting on one of them and he sang.
To her surprise the surly old weather-beaten face actually changed its
expression. A slow smile spread over it and the gardener looked quite
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