X. Dickon

           Thesunshonedownfornearlyaweekonthesecretgarden.TheSecretGardenwaswhatMarycalleditwhenshewasthinkingofit.Shelikedthename,andshelikedstillmorethefeelingthatwhenitsbeautifuloldwallsshutherinnooneknewwhereshewas.Itseemedalmostlikebeingshutoutoftheworldinsomefairyplace.Thefewbooksshehadreadandlikedhadbeenfairy-storybooks,andshehadreadofsecretgardensinsomeofthestories.Sometimespeoplewenttosleepinthemforahundredyears,whichshehadthoughtmustberatherstupid.Shehadnointentionofgoingtosleep,and,infact,shewasbecomingwiderawakeeverydaywhichpassedatMisselthwaite.Shewasbeginningtoliketobeoutofdoors;shenolongerhatedthewind,butenjoyedit.Shecouldrunfaster,andlonger,andshecouldskipuptoahundred.Thebulbsinthesecretgardenmusthavebeenmuchastonished.Suchniceclearplacesweremaderoundthemthattheyhadallthebreathingspacetheywanted,andreally,ifMistressMaryhadknownit,theybegantocheerupunderthedarkearthandworktremendously.Thesuncouldgetatthemandwarmthem,andwhentheraincamedownitcouldreachthematonce,sotheybegantofeelverymuchalive.

           Marywasanodd,determinedlittleperson,andnowshehadsomethinginterestingtobedeterminedabout,shewasverymuchabsorbed,indeed.Sheworkedanddugandpulledupweedssteadily,onlybecomingmorepleasedwithherworkeveryhourinsteadoftiringofit.Itseemedtoherlikeafascinatingsortofplay.