Page 41 - Secret Garden

“It’s a Secret Garden, sure enough, but someone’s been in here since it were shut up – and I don’t mean Mr Robin there, a-watching us.”
But who, then? And how? The door had been locked, the key buried. “There’s a lot to do, still. Would you . . . maybe . . . help me sometimes?”
Mary begged.
“I’ll come every day, rain or shine! Best fun I ever had in my life. Eh!
Won’t we two have great times!”
“Dickon,” said Mary. “You’re as nice as Martha said you were. I really like
you, and that makes five! I never thought I’d like five people!”
Dickon tried to keep a straight face. “Who’s t’other four?”
Mary counted on her fingers. “Martha, your mother (because of what
Martha says about her), Mr Robin and Ben Weatherstaff.”
Dickon’s laugh came out so loud he had to smother it with his sleeve.
But Mary asked very earnestly, “Does tha’ like me?” (She just loved the way he talked.)
“Eh! I likes thee wonderful well. So does Mr Robin, look.” For the robin had flown down to perch on Mary’s shoulder!
They worked joyfully for the rest of the morning. Mary hated to leave there at lunchtime. What if she was just dreaming Dickon? What if she blinked and he disappeared? As she opened the gate, she whispered, “Whatever happens, Dickon, you won’t tell our secret?”
“Not me,” he said. “You’re safe as a baby thrush in its nest.” And she was quite sure she was.
“Back after lunch!” she said.