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VI. The Key To The Garden
“Arealltheflowersdead,ordosomeofthemcomeagaininthesummer?Arethereeveranyroses?”
“Askhim,”saidBenWeatherstaff,hunchinghisshoulderstowardtherobin.“He’stheonlyoneasknows.Nooneelsehasseeninsideitfortenyear’.”
Tenyearswasalongtime,Marythought.Shehadbeenborntenyearsago.
Shewalkedaway,slowlythinking.ShehadbeguntolikethegardenjustasshehadbeguntoliketherobinandDickonandMartha’smother.ShewasbeginningtolikeMartha,too.Thatseemedagoodmanypeopletolike—whenyouwerenotusedtoliking.Shethoughtoftherobinasoneofthepeople.Shewenttoherwalkoutsidethelong,ivy-coveredwalloverwhichshecouldseethetree-tops;andthesecondtimeshewalkedupanddownthemostinterestingandexcitingthinghappenedtoher,anditwasallthroughBenWeatherstaff’srobin.
Sheheardachirpandatwitter,andwhenshelookedatthebareflower-bedatherleftsidetherehewashoppingaboutandpretendingtopeckthingsoutoftheearthtopersuadeherthathehadnotfollowedher.Butsheknewhehadfollowedherandthesurprisesofilledherwithdelightthatshealmosttrembledalittle.
“Youdorememberme!”shecriedout.“Youdo!Youareprettierthananythingelseintheworld!”
Shechirped,andtalked,andcoaxedandhehopped,andflirtedhistailandtwittered.Itwasasifheweretalking.Hisredwaistcoatwaslikesatinandhepuffedhistinybreastoutandwassofineandsograndandsoprettythatitwasreallyasifhewereshowingherhowimportantandlikeahumanpersonarobincouldbe
