When she opened her eyes in the morning it was becausea young housemaid had come into her room to lightthe fire and was kneeling on the hearth-rug rakingout the cinders noisily. Mary lay and watched her fora few moments and then began to look about the room.

She had never seen a room at all like it and thought itcurious and gloomy. The walls were covered with tapestrywith a forest scene embroidered on it. There werefantastically dressed people under the trees and in thedistance there was a glimpse of the turrets of a castle.

There were hunters and horses and dogs and ladies.

Mary felt as if she were in the forest with them.

Out of a deep window she could see a great climbingstretch of land which seemed to have no trees on it,and to look rather like an endless, dull, purplish sea.

"What is that?" she said, pointing out of the window.

Martha, the young housemaid, who had just risen to her feet,looked and pointed also. "That there?" she said.

"Yes.""That's th' moor," with a good-natured grin. "Does tha'

like it?""No," answered Mary. "I hate it.""That's because tha'rt not used to it," Martha said,going back to her hearth. "Tha' thinks it's too big an'

bare now. But tha' will like it.""Do you?" inquired Mary.

"Aye, that I do," answered Martha, cheerfully polishingaway at the grate. "I just love it. It's none bare.

It's covered wi' growin' things as smells sweet.

It's fair lovely in spring an' summer when th' gorse an'

broom an' heather's in flower. It smells o' honey an'

there's such a lot o' fresh air--an' th' sky looksso high an' th' bees an' skylarks makes such a nicenoise hummin' an' singin'. Eh! I wouldn't live away from th'

moor for anythin'."Mary listened to her with a grave, puzzled expression.

The native servants she had been used to in Indiawere not in the least like this. They were obsequiousand servile and did not presume to talk to their mastersas if they were their equals. They made salaams and calledthem "protector of the poor" and names of that sort.

Indian servants were commanded to do things, not asked.

It was not the custom to say "please" and "thank you"and Mary had always slapped her Ayah in the face when shewas angry. She wondered a little what this girl woulddo if one slapped her in the face. She was a round,rosy, good-natured-looking creature, but she had a sturdyway which made Mistress Mary wonder if she might noteven slap back--if the person who slapped her was only alittle girl.

"You are a strange servant," she said from her pillows,rather haughtily.

Martha sat up on her heels, with her blackingbrush in her hand,and laughed, without seeming the least out of temper.

"Eh! I know that," she said. "If there was a grand Missusat Misselthwaite I should never have been even one of th'

under house-maids. I might have been let to be scullerymaidbut I'd never have been let upstairs. I'm too common an'

I talk too much Yorkshire. But this is a funny house forall it's so grand. Seems like there's neither Master norMistress except Mr. Pitcher an' Mrs. Medlock. Mr. Craven,he won't be troubled about anythin' when he's here, an'

he's nearly always away. Mrs. Medlock gave me th'

place out o' kindness. She told me she could never havedone it if Misselthwaite had been like other big houses.""Are you going to be my servant?" Mary asked, still in herimperious little Indian way.

Martha began to rub her grate again.

"I'm Mrs. Medlock's servant," she said stoutly.

"An' she's Mr. Craven's--but I'm to do the housemaid'swork up here an' wait on you a bit. But you won't needmuch waitin' on.""Who is going to dress me?" demanded Mary.

Martha sat up on her heels again and stared. She spokein broad Yorkshire in her amazement.

"Canna' tha' dress thysen!" she said.

"What do you mean? I don't understand your language,"said Mary.

"Eh! I forgot," Martha said. "Mrs. Medlock told me I'dhave to be careful or you wouldn't know what I was sayin'.

I mean can't you put on your own clothes?""No," answered Mary, quite indignantly. "I never didin my life. My Ayah dressed me, of course.""Well," said Martha, evidently not in the least awarethat she was impudent, "it's time tha' should learn.

Tha' cannot begin younger. It'll do thee good to waiton thysen a bit. My mother always said she couldn'tsee why grand people's children didn't turn out fairfools--what with nurses an' bein' washed an' dressed an'

took out to walk as if they was puppies!""It is different in India," said Mistress Mary disdainfully.

She could scarcely stand this.

But Martha was not at all crushed.

"Eh! I can see it's different," she answered almostsympathetically. "I dare say it's because there's sucha lot o' blacks there instead o' respectable white people.

When I heard you was comin' from India I thought you was a blacktoo."Mary sat up in bed furious.

"What!" she said. "What! You thought I was a native.

You--you daughter of a pig!"Martha stared and looked hot.

"Who are you callin' names?" she said. "You needn't beso vexed. That's not th' way for a young lady to talk.

I've nothin' against th' blacks. When you read about 'emin tracts they're always very religious. You always readas a black's a man an' a brother. I've never seen a black an'

I was fair pleased to think I was goin' to see one close.

When I come in to light your fire this mornin' I crep'

up to your bed an' pulled th' cover back careful to lookat you. An' there you was," disappointedly, "no more blackthan me--for all you're so yeller."Mary did not even try to control her rage and humiliation.

"You thought I was a native! You dared! You don't knowanything about natives! They are not people--they're servantswho must salaam to you. You know nothing about India.

You know nothing about anything!"She was in such a rage and felt so helpless before the girl'ssimple stare, and somehow she suddenly felt so horriblylonely and far away from everything she understoodand which understood her, that she threw herself facedownward on the pillows and burst into passionate sobbing.

She sobbed so unrestrainedly that good-natured YorkshireMartha was a little frightened and quite sorry for her.

She went to the bed and bent over her.

"Eh! you mustn't cry like that there!" she begged.

"You mustn't for sure. I didn't know you'd be vexed.

I don't know anythin' about anythin'--just like you said.

I beg your pardon, Miss. Do stop cryin'."There was something comforting and really friendly in herqueer Yorkshire speech and sturdy way which had a good effecton Mary. She gradually ceased crying and became quiet.

Martha looked relieved.

"It's time for thee to get up now," she said.

"Mrs. Medlock said I was to carry tha' breakfast an'

tea an' dinner into th' room next to this. It's beenmade into a nursery for thee. I'll help thee on with thyclothes if tha'll get out o' bed. If th' buttons are at th'

back tha' cannot button them up tha'self."When Mary at last decided to get up, the clothes Marthatook from the wardrobe were not the ones she had wornwhen she arrived the night before with Mrs. Medlock.

"Those are not mine," she said. "Mine are black."She looked the thick white wool coat and dress over,and added with cool approval:

"Those are nicer than mine.""These are th' ones tha' must put on," Martha answered.

"Mr. Craven ordered Mrs. Medlock to get 'em in London.

He said 'I won't have a child dressed in black wanderin'

about like a lost soul,' he said. 'It'd make the placesadder than it is. Put color on her.' Mother she said sheknew what he meant. Mother always knows what a body means.

She doesn't hold with black hersel'.""I hate black things," said Mary.

The dressing process was one which taught them both something.

Martha had "buttoned up" her little sisters and brothers but shehad never seen a child who stood still and waited for anotherperson to do things for her as if she had neither hands nor feetof her own.

"Why doesn't tha' put on tha' own shoes?" she saidwhen Mary quietly held out her foot.

"My Ayah did it," answered Mary, staring. "It was the custom."She said that very often--"It was the custom." The nativeservants were always saying it. If one told them to doa thing their ancestors had not done for a thousand yearsthey gazed at one mildly and said, "It is not the custom"and one knew that was the end of the matter.

It had not been the custom that Mistress Mary shoulddo anything but stand and allow herself to be dressedlike a doll, but before she was ready for breakfast shebegan to suspect that her life at Misselthwaite Manorwould end by teaching her a number of things quitenew to her--things such as putting on her own shoesand stockings, and picking up things she let fall.

If Martha had been a well-trained fine young lady's maidshe would have been more subservient and respectful andwould have known that it was her business to brush hair,and button boots, and pick things up and lay them away.

She was, however, only an untrained Yorkshire rusticwho had been brought up in a moorland cottage with aswarm of little brothers and sisters who had neverdreamed of doing anything but waiting on themselvesand on the younger ones who were either babies in armsor just learning to totter about and tumble over things.

If Mary Lennox had been a child who was ready to be amusedshe would perhaps have laughed at Martha's readiness to talk,but Mary only listened to her coldly and wondered at herfreedom of manner. At first she was not at all interested,but gradually, as the girl rattled on in her good-tempered,homely way, Mary began to notice what she was saying.

"Eh! you should see 'em all," she said. "There's twelveof us an' my father only gets sixteen shilling a week. I cantell you my mother's put to it to get porridge for 'em all.

They tumble about on th' moor an' play there all day an'

mother says th' air of th' moor fattens 'em. She says shebelieves they eat th' grass same as th' wild ponies do.

Our Dickon, he's twelve years old and he's got a young ponyhe calls his own.""Where did he get it?" asked Mary.

"He found it on th' moor with its mother when it wasa little one an' he began to make friends with it an'

give it bits o' bread an' pluck young grass for it.

And it got to like him so it follows him about an'

it lets him get on its back. Dickon's a kind lad an'

animals likes him."Mary had never possessed an animal pet of her ownand had always thought she should like one. So shebegan to feel a slight interest in Dickon, and as shehad never before been interested in any one but herself,it was the dawning of a healthy sentiment. When she wentinto the room which had been made into a nursery for her,she found that it was rather like the one she had slept in.

It was not a child's room, but a grown-up person's room,with gloomy old pictures on the walls and heavy oldoak chairs. A table in the center was set with a goodsubstantial breakfast. But she had always had a verysmall appetite, and she looked with something more thanindifference at the first plate Martha set before her.

"I don't want it," she said.

"Tha' doesn't want thy porridge!" Martha exclaimed incredulously.

"No.""Tha' doesn't know how good it is. Put a bit o'

treacle on it or a bit o' sugar.""I don't want it," repeated Mary.

"Eh!" said Martha. "I can't abide to see good victualsgo to waste. If our children was at this table they'dclean it bare in five minutes.""Why?" said Mary coldly. "Why!" echoed Martha. "Because theyscarce ever had their stomachs full in their lives.

They're as hungry as young hawks an' foxes.""I don't know what it is to be hungry," said Mary,with the indifference of ignorance.

Martha looked indignant.

"Well, it would do thee good to try it. I can seethat plain enough," she said outspokenly. "I've nopatience with folk as sits an' just stares at goodbread an' meat. My word! don't I wish Dickon and Phil an'

Jane an' th' rest of 'em had what's here under their pinafores.""Why don't you take it to them?" suggested Mary.

"It's not mine," answered Martha stoutly. "An' thisisn't my day out. I get my day out once a month sameas th' rest. Then I go home an' clean up for mother an'

give her a day's rest."Mary drank some tea and ate a little toast and some marmalade.

"You wrap up warm an' run out an' play you," said Martha.

"It'll do you good and give you some stomach for your meat."Mary went to the window. There were gardens and pathsand big trees, but everything looked dull and wintry.

"Out? Why should I go out on a day like this?" "Well, if tha'

doesn't go out tha'lt have to stay in, an' what has tha'

got to do?"Mary glanced about her. There was nothing to do.

When Mrs. Medlock had prepared the nursery she had notthought of amusement. Perhaps it would be better to goand see what the gardens were like.

"Who will go with me?" she inquired.

Martha stared.

"You'll go by yourself," she answered. "You'll have tolearn to play like other children does when they haven'tgot sisters and brothers. Our Dickon goes off on th'

moor by himself an' plays for hours. That's how he madefriends with th' pony. He's got sheep on th' moor thatknows him, an' birds as comes an' eats out of his hand.

However little there is to eat, he always saves a bit o'

his bread to coax his pets."It was really this mention of Dickon which made Mary decideto go out, though she was not aware of it. There would be,birds outside though there would not be ponies or sheep.

They would be different from the birds in India and itmight amuse her to look at them.

Martha found her coat and hat for her and a pair of stoutlittle boots and she showed her her way downstairs.

"If tha' goes round that way tha'll come to th' gardens,"she said, pointing to a gate in a wall of shrubbery.

"There's lots o' flowers in summer-time, but there'snothin' bloomin' now." She seemed to hesitate a secondbefore she added, "One of th' gardens is locked up.

No one has been in it for ten years.""Why?" asked Mary in spite of herself. Here was anotherlocked door added to the hundred in the strange house.

"Mr. Craven had it shut when his wife died so sudden.

He won't let no one go inside. It was her garden.

He locked th' door an' dug a hole and buried th' key.

There's Mrs. Medlock's bell ringing--I must run."After she was gone Mary turned down the walk which ledto the door in the shrubbery. She could not help thinkingabout the garden which no one had been into for ten years.

She wondered what it would look like and whether therewere any flowers still alive in it. When she had passedthrough the shrubbery gate she found herself in great gardens,with wide lawns and winding walks with clipped borders.

There were trees, and flower-beds, and evergreens clippedinto strange shapes, and a large pool with an old grayfountain in its midst. But the flower-beds were bareand wintry and the fountain was not playing. This was notthe garden which was shut up. How could a garden be shutup? You could always walk into a garden.

She was just thinking this when she saw that, at the endof the path she was following, there seemed to be along wall, with ivy growing over it. She was not familiarenough with England to know that she was coming upon thekitchen-gardens where the vegetables and fruit were growing.

She went toward the wall and found that there was a greendoor in the ivy, and that it stood open. This wasnot the closed garden, evidently, and she could go into it.

She went through the door and found that it was a gardenwith walls all round it and that it was only one of severalwalled gardens which seemed to open into one another.

She saw another open green door, revealing bushes andpathways between beds containing winter vegetables.

Fruit-trees were trained flat against the wall,and over some of the beds there were glass frames.

The place was bare and ugly enough, Mary thought, as shestood and stared about her. It might be nicer in summerwhen things were green, but there was nothing pretty aboutit now.

Presently an old man with a spade over his shoulder walkedthrough the door leading from the second garden. He lookedstartled when he saw Mary, and then touched his cap.

He had a surly old face, and did not seem at all pleasedto see her--but then she was displeased with his gardenand wore her "quite contrary" expression, and certainlydid not seem at all pleased to see him.

"What is this place?" she asked.

"One o' th' kitchen-gardens," he answered.

"What is that?" said Mary, pointing through the othergreen door.

"Another of 'em," shortly. "There's another on t'otherside o' th' wall an' there's th' orchard t'other side o' that.""Can I go in them?" asked Mary.

"If tha' likes. But there's nowt to see."Mary made no response. She went down the path and throughthe second green door. There, she found more wallsand winter vegetables and glass frames, but in the secondwall there was another green door and it was not open.

Perhaps it led into the garden which no one had seen forten years. As she was not at all a timid child and alwaysdid what she wanted to do, Mary went to the green doorand turned the handle. She hoped the door would not openbecause she wanted to be sure she had found the mysteriousgarden--but it did open quite easily and she walkedthrough it and found herself in an orchard. There werewalls all round it also and trees trained against them,and there were bare fruit-trees growing in the winter-brownedgrass--but there was no green door to be seen anywhere.

Mary looked for it, and yet when she had entered theupper end of the garden she had noticed that the walldid not seem to end with the orchard but to extendbeyond it as if it enclosed a place at the other side.

She could see the tops of trees above the wall,and when she stood still she saw a bird with a brightred breast sitting on the topmost branch of one of them,and suddenly he burst into his winter song--almostas if he had caught sight of her and was calling to her.

She stopped and listened to him and somehow his cheerful,friendly little whistle gave her a pleased feeling--evena disagreeable little girl may be lonely, and the big closedhouse and big bare moor and big bare gardens had made thisone feel as if there was no one left in the world but herself.

If she had been an affectionate child, who had beenused to being loved, she would have broken her heart,but even though she was "Mistress Mary Quite Contrary"she was desolate, and the bright-breasted little birdbrought a look into her sour little face which was almosta smile. She listened to him until he flew away.

He was not like an Indian bird and she liked him andwondered if she should ever see him again. Perhaps helived in the mysterious garden and knew all about it.

Perhaps it was because she had nothing whatever to dothat she thought so much of the deserted garden. She wascurious about it and wanted to see what it was like.

Why had Mr. Archibald Craven buried the key? If hehad liked his wife so much why did he hate her garden?

She wondered if she should ever see him, but she knewthat if she did she should not like him, and he wouldnot like her, and that she should only stand and stareat him and say nothing, though she should be wantingdreadfully 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 singhis song at her, and as she remembered the tree-top heperched on she stopped rather suddenly on the path.

"I believe that tree was in the secret garden--I feel sureit was," she said. "There was a wall round the placeand there was no door."She walked back into the first kitchen-garden she had enteredand found the old man digging there. She went and stood besidehim 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 hisdigging 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 birdwith a red breast was sitting on one of them and he sang."To her surprise the surly old weather-beaten faceactually changed its expression. A slow smile spreadover it and the gardener looked quite different. It madeher think that it was curious how much nicer a personlooked when he smiled. She had not thought of it before.

He turned about to the orchard side of his garden and beganto whistle--a low soft whistle. She could not understandhow such a surly man could make such a coaxing sound.

Almost the next moment a wonderful thing happened.

She heard a soft little rushing flight through the air--andit was the bird with the red breast flying to them,and he actually alighted on the big clod of earth quite nearto the gardener's foot.

"Here he is," chuckled the old man, and then he spoketo the bird as if he were speaking to a child.

"Where has tha' been, tha' cheeky little beggar?"he said. "I've not seen thee before today. Has tha,begun tha' courtin' this early in th' season? Tha'rttoo forrad."The bird put his tiny head on one side and looked up at himwith his soft bright eye which was like a black dewdrop.

He seemed quite familiar and not the least afraid.

He hopped about and pecked the earth briskly, looking forseeds and insects. It actually gave Mary a queer feelingin her heart, because he was so pretty and cheerfuland seemed so like a person. He had a tiny plump bodyand a delicate beak, and slender delicate legs.

"Will he always come when you call him?" she asked almostin a whisper.

"Aye, that he will. I've knowed him ever since he wasa fledgling. He come out of th' nest in th' other garden an'

when first he flew over th' wall he was too weak to flyback for a few days an' we got friendly. When he wentover th' wall again th' rest of th' brood was gone an'

he was lonely an' he come back to me.""What kind of a bird is he?" Mary asked.

"Doesn't tha' know? He's a robin redbreast an'

they're th' friendliest, curiousest birds alive.

They're almost as friendly as dogs--if you know how to geton with 'em. Watch him peckin' about there an' lookin'

round at us now an' again. He knows we're talkin' about him."It was the queerest thing in the world to see the old fellow.

He looked at the plump little scarlet-waistcoated birdas if he were both proud and fond of him.

"He's a conceited one," he chuckled. "He likes to hearfolk talk about him. An' curious--bless me, there neverwas his like for curiosity an' meddlin'. He's always comin'

to see what I'm plantin'. He knows all th' things MesterCraven never troubles hissel' to find out. He's th'

head gardener, he is."The robin hopped about busily pecking the soil and nowand then stopped and looked at them a little. Mary thoughthis black dewdrop eyes gazed at her with great curiosity.

It really seemed as if he were finding out all about her.

The queer feeling in her heart increased. "Where did therest of the brood fly to?" she asked.

"There's no knowin'. The old ones turn 'em out o' their nest an'

make 'em fly an' they're scattered before you know it.

This one was a knowin' one an, he knew he was lonely."Mistress Mary went a step nearer to the robin and lookedat him very hard.

"I'm lonely," she said.

She had not known before that this was one of the thingswhich made her feel sour and cross. She seemed to findit out when the robin looked at her and she lookedat the robin.

The old gardener pushed his cap back on his bald headand stared at her a minute.

"Art tha' th' little wench from India?" he asked.

Mary nodded.

"Then no wonder tha'rt lonely. Tha'lt be lonlier beforetha's done," he said.

He began to dig again, driving his spade deep intothe rich black garden soil while the robin hoppedabout very busily employed.

"What is your name?" Mary inquired.

He stood up to answer her.

"Ben Weatherstaff," he answered, and then he added with asurly chuckle, "I'm lonely mysel' except when he's with me,"and he jerked his thumb toward the robin. "He's th'

only friend I've got.""I have no friends at all," said Mary. "I never had.

My Ayah didn't like me and I never played with any one."It is a Yorkshire habit to say what you think withblunt frankness, and old Ben Weatherstaff was a Yorkshiremoor man.

"Tha' an' me are a good bit alike," he said.

"We was wove out of th' same cloth. We're neither of usgood lookin' an' we're both of us as sour as we look.

We've got the same nasty tempers, both of us, I'll warrant."This was plain speaking, and Mary Lennox had never heardthe truth about herself in her life. Native servantsalways salaamed and submitted to you, whatever you did.

She had never thought much about her looks, but she wonderedif she was as unattractive as Ben Weatherstaff and shealso wondered if she looked as sour as he had lookedbefore the robin came. She actually began to wonderalso if she was "nasty tempered." She felt uncomfortable.

Suddenly a clear rippling little sound broke out nearher and she turned round. She was standing a few feetfrom a young apple-tree and the robin had flown on to oneof its branches and had burst out into a scrap of a song.

Ben Weatherstaff laughed outright.

"What did he do that for?" asked Mary.

"He's made up his mind to make friends with thee,"replied Ben. "Dang me if he hasn't took a fancy to thee.""To me?" said Mary, and she moved toward the little treesoftly and looked up.

"Would you make friends with me?" she said to the robinjust as if she was speaking to a person. "Would you?"And she did not say it either in her hard little voiceor in her imperious Indian voice, but in a tone so softand eager and coaxing that Ben Weatherstaff was as surprisedas she had been when she heard him whistle.

"Why," he cried out, "tha' said that as nice an' human asif tha' was a real child instead of a sharp old woman.

Tha' said it almost like Dickon talks to his wild things on th'

moor.""Do you know Dickon?" Mary asked, turning round ratherin a hurry.

"Everybody knows him. Dickon's wanderin' about everywhere.

Th' very blackberries an' heather-bells knows him.

I warrant th' foxes shows him where their cubslies an' th' skylarks doesn't hide their nests from him."Mary would have liked to ask some more questions.

She was almost as curious about Dickon as she was aboutthe deserted garden. But just that moment the robin,who had ended his song, gave a little shake of his wings,spread them and flew away. He had made his visit and hadother things to do.

"He has flown over the wall!" Mary cried out, watching him.

"He has flown into the orchard--he has flown across theother wall--into the garden where there is no door!""He lives there," said old Ben. "He came out o' th' egg there.

If he's courtin', he's makin' up to some young madamof a robin that lives among th' old rose-trees there.""Rose-trees," said Mary. "Are there rose-trees?"Ben Weatherstaff took up his spade again and began to dig.

"There was ten year' ago," he mumbled.

"I should like to see them," said Mary. "Where isthe green door? There must be a door somewhere."Ben drove his spade deep and looked as uncompanionableas he had looked when she first saw him.

"There was ten year' ago, but there isn't now," he said.

"No door!" cried Mary. "There must be." "None as anyone can find, an' none as is any one's business.

Don't you be a meddlesome wench an' poke your nose whereit's no cause to go. Here, I must go on with my work.

Get you gone an' play you. I've no more time."And he actually stopped digging, threw his spade overhis shoulder and walked off, without even glancingat her or saying good-by.