Page 43 - Secret Garden

Her scared little voice made Mr Craven more fretful than ever. “Don’t look so frightened, child! Dig wherever you want!” His eyes swerved away from her. “I’ll say goodbye now. I’m off travelling again – gone all summer.” As she reached the door, he murmured sadly, “You remind me of someone else who loved gardens.”
Mary pelted back to the garden. But when she got there, there was no Dickon – only the little robin redbreast.
“He’s gone, Mr Robin! I only dreamed him!” But no.
A scrap of paper fluttered on the rose-bush.
“I will cum bak”.
*
By midnight, a fierce storm was wuthering round the
Manor and bellowing down the chimney. It woke Mary, and she was instantly furious with the rain. It sounded like someone mad, out on the moor, wailing.
Suddenly she sat up in bed. That sobbing was not the wind. That wailing was in the house.
There was a lit candle by her bedside. The corridor outside was long and dark, but she and her candle defied the darkness. Her heart beat loud in
her ears.
A glimmer of light came under a door. Someone was crying in that room: a youngish Someone. She pushed open the door . . .