look gray and brown and dry, how can you
tell whether they are dead or alive?" inquired Mary.

"Wait till th' spring gets at 'em--wait till th' sun shines on th' rain
an' th' rain falls on th' sunshine an' then tha'll find out."

"How--how?" cried Mary, forgetting to be careful.

"Look along th' twigs an' branches an' if tha' sees a bit of a brown
lump swelling here an' there, watch it after th' warm rain an' see what
happens." He stopped suddenly and looked curiously at her eager face.
"Why does tha' care so much about roses an' such, all of a sudden?" he
demanded.

Mistress Mary felt her face grow red. She was almost afraid to answer.

"I--I want to play that--that I have a garden of my own," she stammered.
"I--there is nothing for me to do. I have nothing--and no one."

"Well," said Ben Weatherstaff slowly, as he watched her, "that's true.
Tha' hasn't."

He said it in such an odd way that Mary wondered if he was actually a
little sorry for her. She had never felt sorry for herself; she had only
felt tired and cross, because she disliked people and things so much.
But now the world seemed to be changing and getting nicer. If no one
found out about the secret garden, she should enjoy herself always.

She stayed with him for ten or fifteen minutes longer and asked him as
many questions as she dared. He answered every one of them in his queer
grunting way and he did not seem really cross and did not pick up his
spade and leave her. He said something about roses just as she was
going away and it reminded her of the ones he had said he had been fond
of.

"Do you go and see those other roses now?" she asked.

"Not been this year. My rheumatics has made me too stiff in th' joints."

He said it in his grumbling voice, and then quite suddenly he seemed to
get angry with her, though she did not see why he should.

"Now look here!" he said sharply. "Don't tha' ask so many questions.
Tha'rt th' worst wench for askin' questions I've ever come across. Get
thee gone an' play thee. I've done talkin' for to-day."

And he said it so crossly that she knew there was not the least use in
staying another minute. She went skipping slowly down the outside walk,
thinking him over and saying to herself that, queer as it was, here was
another person whom she liked in spite of his crossness. She liked old
Ben Weatherstaff. Yes, she did like him. She always wanted to try to
make him talk to her. Also she began to believe that he kn