They're bulbs," answered Martha. "Lots o' spring flowers grow from 'em.
Th' very little ones are snowdrops an' crocuses an' th' big ones are
narcissusis an' jonquils an' daffydowndillys. Th' biggest of all is
lilies an' purple flags. Eh! they are nice. Dickon's got a whole lot of
'em planted in our bit o' garden."

"Does Dickon know all about them?" asked Mary, a new idea taking
possession of her.

"Our Dickon can make a flower grow out of a brick walk. Mother says he
just whispers things out o' th' ground."

"Do bulbs live a long time? Would they live years and years if no one
helped them?" inquired Mary anxiously.

"They're things as helps themselves," said Martha. "That's why poor folk
can afford to have 'em. If you don't trouble 'em, most of 'em'll work
away underground for a lifetime an' spread out an' have little 'uns.
There's a place in th' park woods here where there's snowdrops by
thousands. They're the prettiest sight in Yorkshire when th' spring
comes. No one knows when they was first planted."

"I wish the spring was here now," said Mary. "I want to see all the
things that grow in England."

She had finished her dinner and gone to her favorite seat on the
hearth-rug.

"I wish--I wish I had a little spade," she said.

"Whatever does tha' want a spade for?" asked Martha, laughing. "Art tha'
goin' to take to diggin'? I must tell mother that, too."

Mary looked at the fire and pondered a little. She must be careful if
she meant to keep her secret kingdom. She wasn't doing any harm, but if
Mr. Craven found out about the open door he would be fearfully angry and
get a new key and lock it up forevermore. She really could not bear
that.

"This is such a big lonely place," she said slowly, as if she were
turning matters over in her mind. "The house is lonely, and the park is
lonely, and the gardens are lonely. So many places seem shut up. I never
did many things in India, but there were more people to look at--natives
and soldiers marching by--and sometimes bands playing, and my Ayah told
me stories. There is no one to talk to here except you and Ben
Weatherstaff. And you have to do your work and Ben Weatherstaff won't
speak to me often. I thought if I had a little spade I could dig
somewhere as he does, and I might make a little garden if he would give
me some seeds."

Martha's face quite lighted up.

"There now!" she exclaimed, "if that wasn't one of th' things mother
said. She says, 'There's such a