“It’s a secret garden sure enough,” he said, “but seems like some one besides th’ robin must have been in it since it was shut up ten year’ ago.”
“But the door was locked and the key was buried,” said Mary. “No one could get in.”
“That’s true,” he answered. “It’s a queer place. Seems to me as if there’d been a bit o’ prunin’ done here an’ there, later than ten year’ ago.”
“But how could it have been done?” said Mary.
He was examining a branch of a standard rose and he shook his head.
“Aye! how could it!” he murmured. “With th’ door locked an’ th’ key buried.”
Mistress Mary always felt that however many years she lived she should never forget that first morning when her garden began to grow. Of course, it did seem to begin to grow for her that morning. When Dickon began to clear places to plant seeds, she remembered what Basil had sung at her when he wanted to tease her.
“Are there any flowers that look like bells?” she inquired.
“Lilies o’ th’ valley does,” he answered, digging away with the trowel, “an’ there’s Canterbury bells, an’ campanulas.”
“Let us plant some,” said Mary.
